Chapter 164: Volume 2, - 164: Bernardo Doesn’t Bite

Chapter 164: Volume 2, Chapter 164: Bernardo Doesn’t Bite

The Wednesday morning tactical session under the Lisbon sun brought a high-tempo internal trial game on Pitch Three, pitting the under-seventeen starters against a structured B-team opposition. For Rayan, the pitch offered an immediate testing ground for the step-over technique he had begun practising seriously the day before.

Learning the isolated mechanics of a weight shift against a static cone was one thing; trying to execute it against a disciplined, intelligent academy peer who watched you train every single day was an entirely different challenge.

Midway through the first half, Rayan received a crisp, switching pass from Salvador Almeida out on the left wing. As he took a touch to settle the ball, he spotted the familiar defensive stance of Bernardo Rocha sliding across to close down the corridor.

Bernardo didn’t rush in. He stayed low on his insteps, his posture balanced and patient, arms tucked behind his frame. He had watched Rayan drill the step-over throughout Tuesday’s session. He knew the exit angle was coming.

Deciding to test it immediately, Rayan dipped his shoulder and whipped his right foot in a sharp arc over the ball.

Bernardo didn’t bite. He tracked the motion with his eyes, held his ground, and maintained his defensive cushion without shifting his hips a fraction of an inch.

Realizing too late that the deception had failed completely, Rayan tried to force the exit touch anyway, trying to squeeze past on raw speed. Bernardo read the desperation instantly, stepped firmly across his line, and poked the ball cleanly away down the touchline.

"You telegraph it like a telegram, El Mansouri," Bernardo called out over his shoulder as he jogged away with possession. "Everyone in Alcochete knows which way you’re going before your foot even leaves the grass."

"Shut up, I slipped," Rayan muttered, turning sharply to chase the defensive transition.

"Didn’t look like a slip," Tiago Silva yelled from the central channel, shaking his head. "Looked like you were tripping over your own boots."

On their next attacking phase, Rayan tried a more disguised approach. Receiving the ball on the half-turn, he delayed his movement, dropped his weight lower, and snapped a much tighter, more compact step-over. For a fleeting micro-second, Bernardo’s weight shifted toward his back heel, giving Rayan a half-yard of separation. But Bernardo’s recovery speed was relentless; he threw his weight back, lunged sideways, and managed to block the resulting cross out for a throw-in. No clean victory, no highlight-reel breakthrough.

Meanwhile, Nuno Marques was keeping a sharp eye on the broader structure of the pitch, barking instructions across the tactical block to ensure the team maintained shape.

"Salvador! Cover that space early!" Nuno shouted, pointing toward the central zone. "Don’t let them turn you!"

Salvador Almeida acknowledged the instruction instantly, shifting his weight and narrowing the passing lane before the B-team central midfielder could orchestrate a vertical ball. Operating with quiet, understated efficiency, Salvador scanned continuously, swept up a loose second ball ahead of the onrushing press, and recycled possession safely.

A moment later, Bernardo made his presence felt on the opposing flank. Intercepting a loose pass from the starters’ midfield, Bernardo exchanged a quick one-two with the B-team central midfielder and accelerated into the space behind Sporting’s left-back. He drove a dangerous, curling cross toward the six-yard box that forced the starting goalkeeper to dive out and palm the ball to safety.

"Good delivery, Bernardo! Keep that width!" Nuno called out, acknowledging the sequence.

Down the other end, the match continued to test the team’s tactical patience.

A few minutes later, Tiago Silva demonstrated the value of intelligent striker movement. Making a sharp, near-post run that pinned the central defender, Tiago peeled off toward the back post on a delayed cutback run. Rayan, tunnel-visioned on trying to manufacture space for his own move, completely missed the initial window.

"Look up, Rayan! The space is open early!" Tiago shouted, throwing his arms up in frustration as the attack broke down.

"My fault! My head was down," Rayan acknowledged immediately, lifting a hand.

When the pattern repeated moments later, Rayan corrected himself. Instead of attempting any flashy skills, he used a simple body feint, bypassed his marker with a clean one-touch pass into the channel, and rewarded Tiago’s delayed diagonal run. Tiago took it in stride, checked away from his marker, and drove a low, fierce shot toward the bottom corner that forced a sharp diving save from the goalkeeper.

"That’s it! Delivery on time!" Nuno Marques barked from the centre circle, blowing his whistle to reset the drill. "Good shape from the front three. Salvador, pick up the second ball!"

As the intensive session wound down, a quiet, modest notification flickered in the System boundary:

When training concluded, the players walked off the pitch toward the dressing rooms, the Portuguese sun still baking the turf. Rayan and Bernardo immediately picked up right where their on-pitch duel had left off.

"You totally bit on the second one, you just recovered because your legs are too long," Rayan argued, unlacing his boots as they sat side by side on the bench.

"Bit?" Bernardo scoffed, tossing his shin guards into his locker with a loud clatter. "I watched you wind up for three seconds. You looked like you were starting a lawnmower."

"A lawnmower?" Tiago chimed in, leaning over from the next bench with a grin. "Mate, it looked like he was trying to hurdle an invisible fence."

"Shut up, Tiago, your run was late anyway," Rayan retorted, though a smile broke through his frustration.

"My run was early, your brain was late," Tiago fired back, before the conversation effortlessly derailed into a loud debate over the upcoming EA FC ratings leaks and the music playlist blasting through the gym speakers.

Yet, as the dressing room noise washed over him, Rayan remained slightly distracted. He replayed Bernardo’s voice in his head, echoing over the clatter of kit bags and running showers: Everyone in Alcochete knows which way you’re going before your foot even leaves the grass.

Later that afternoon, after the main squad had cleared out, Rayan stayed behind on a quiet corner of Pitch Four for a few staff-approved extra minutes, working under the watchful eye of the technical staff.

He placed a fresh ball down on the grass for another staff-approved technical repetition.

He took a slow, deep breath, squared his shoulders, and this time, he looked somewhere else entirely.