Chapter 162: Volume 2, - 162: Senior Tempo, Youth Pitch

Chapter 162: Volume 2, Chapter 162: Senior Tempo, Youth Pitch

The midday heat over Pitch Three at Alcochete grew heavy, baking the synthetic rubber crumb into the pitch and carrying the sharp scent of sweat and liniment across the touchlines. The morning session had progressed into an eleven-a-side tactical conditioning block, designed to test how quickly the under-seventeen squad could transition from compact defensive blocks into fluid attacking shapes.

During a central phase of possession twenty minutes into the block, the changes in Rayan’s habits were immediately visible. Rayan checked his shoulder twice before receiving a bouncing clearance from Salvador Almeida. In the past, he might have taken an extra touch to settle the ball, but the memory of senior-level closing speeds made his reaction instinctive. One clean touch off his instep, an immediate sideways release into space, and he was already moving forward to demand the return.

"Runner!" Salvador barked, spraying the ball back into Rayan’s path.

The rhythm clicked, sharp and efficient. Rayan took the return in stride, using the half-second advantage he had carved out to bypass the initial midfield press.

Yet, youth football presented entirely different hazards.

Moments later, as Rayan drifted into the right half-space, an under-seventeen B-team central defender stepped out to engage him. Remembering how Premier League centre-backs maintained positional discipline and held their shape against a turn, Rayan braced for a controlled, stand-up tackle.

Instead, the teenage defender lunged forward recklessly, throwing himself into a sliding challenge. The defender hooked the ball away with his leading foot, but his trailing leg clipped Rayan’s ankle, sending him stumbling as the ball rolled into midfield.

"Hey! Foul!" Rayan snapped, pushing himself up off the grass.

"Play on!" Nuno Marques called from the touchline, waving his arm for the phase to continue. "He got the ball first! And you, stay on your feet next time!" he added, pointing a finger at the young defender. "Move the ball faster if you don’t want to get caught, El Mansouri!"

Rayan bit back his reply, forcing himself to turn and sprint back into position.

Minutes later, physical reality struck again. Trying to shield an aerial ball against a towering under-seventeen central defender, Rayan attempted to lean his weight into the challenge. The opponent dropped his shoulder, gained leverage, and shoved him cleanly off balance, sending Rayan crashing onto his side, the impact jarring his still-sore ribs.

Air hissed out of Rayan’s lungs. A surge of irritation flared in his chest, and he slapped both palms against the pitch before scrambling up to glare towards Nuno.

"You alright?" Nuno called, blowing his whistle to pause the sequence.

Rayan pushed himself upright, testing his torso. "Yeah. But he’s all over my back!"

"Then get across him earlier," Nuno instructed, stepping toward the circle. "Don’t wait until he’s already set his shoulder. And keep your arms down," he added, turning to the defender. "We’re training, not wrestling. Set up again!"

Rayan nodded sharply, slapped his hands together, and jogged back into position to take the next throw-in.

Across the central channel, Duarte Faria collected a sharp pass under pressure, turned smoothly past Salvador, and lofted a diagonal ball toward the right wing. Rayan tracked the flight of the ball, noticing Duarte lingering near the circle afterward, staring vacantly toward the academy main building until Nuno called out his name to reset the defensive block. Duarte blinked, straightened up, and jogged back into line without a word.

On the next phase, Bernardo Rocha demonstrated why he remained a fixture in Nuno’s starting lineup. Tracking back fifty yards to cover an over-committed full-back, Bernardo slid across to break up a dangerous counter-attack, scrambled to his feet instantly, and took one touch before clipping a long diagonal pass directly to the opposite wing.

"Good ball," Rayan called out as he jogged across.

Bernardo lifted a hand in brief acknowledgment, already directing the defensive line behind him.

Nuno restarted the drill with a long ball into the central channel. Tiago rose between two defenders, but the centre-back reached it first and headed the ball away. Rayan had already glanced towards the space behind Salvador. He saw where the clearance was dropping and moved before the nearest midfielder reacted.

"Second!" Salvador shouted.

Rayan reached the bouncing ball first, cushioned it with his thigh, and knocked it back to Salvador. The midfielder switched play immediately.

"Good!" Nuno called, his voice cutting across the pitch. "That’s what I want. Don’t wait for the ball to land!"

Rayan turned and accelerated towards the far channel, offering another passing option as Sporting’s attacking unit shifted across.

A moment later, Tiago Silva threw his hands up in frustration from the box. He had made a sharp, curling run between the centre-backs that Rayan had missed, preferring a safer lateral touch to Salvador.

"Look up, Rayan! I’m bending it across the cover!" Tiago shouted.

"My fault! Saw you too late!" Rayan called back, raising a hand.

On the very next sequence, Salvador intercepted a loose clearance, scanned the pitch instantly, and barked, "Switch!"

Before the opposition block could adjust, Salvador lofted a precise ball toward Rayan on the left touchline. Rayan cushioned it on his chest, drew the right-back in, and slipped a low pass along the pitch into the six-yard box. Tiago arrived ahead of his marker and swept a first-time finish into the roof of the net.

"Yes! That’s the ball!" Tiago yelled, pointing back at Rayan as they jogged to the centre circle.

The session concluded ten minutes later with a sharp double-whistle from Nuno. The squad trudged off Pitch Three towards the dressing-room corridor, sweat running down their faces as they headed for the shade.

Inside the locker room, steam drifted from the showers as players pulled off their sweat-soaked training shirts.

"Are you going to the commissary later?" Bernardo asked, dropping onto the bench beside Rayan. "They’re serving chicken and rice again, but Tiago swears the chef made actual dessert today."

"Better be proper dessert, not that dry sponge cake from last month," Tiago called over from his locker, scrolling through his phone. "If it’s sponge cake, I’m buying a sandwich from the vending machine."

"Anyone heard when the academy classes start again?" Rayan asked.

"Too soon," Tiago said.

"That’s not a date," Salvador replied, tossing his shin guards into his bag.

"It’s the correct answer."

Bernardo laughed. "Wait until you’re back doing maths."

"Don’t remind me," Rayan said, reaching for his clean socks. "I’ve only just survived England."

"You buy three vending machine sandwiches a week anyway," Salvador chimed in, turning back to Tiago. "You’re going to spend your whole allowance before the season even starts."

"At least I don’t spend three hours on FIFA trying to fix my manager rating," Tiago retorted with a grin. "Did you finish that tournament last night?"

"Lost in the semis," Salvador admitted, shaking his head. "My centre-back got sent off in the first half."

"Classic," Bernardo laughed. "Always blaming the virtual referee."

Rayan sat on his bench, unstrapping his shin guards and setting them inside his locker. He pulled a dry cotton shirt over his head, listening to Tiago and Salvador argue over controller settings while Bernardo offered unsolicited tactical advice.

"Hey, Rayan," Bernardo said, turning back to him. "You coming down to the gaming room before afternoon video analysis?"

Rayan zipped up his bag, looked at his teammates, and nodded. "Yeah. Give me two minutes."