Chapter 166: Volume 2, - 166: When the Friendlies End

Chapter 166: Volume 2, Chapter 166: When the Friendlies End

The Friday morning breeze off the Tagus River carried the crisp, salty tang of the Atlantic inland toward Alcochete, cutting through the late-summer heat as the under-seventeen squad gathered on Pitch Three. Friday before a matchday always possessed a distinct rhythm, sharper than a recovery day, yet stripped of the heavy tactical exhaustion that preceded a weekend fixture.

For Rayan, the morning began with ordinary developmental work under Nuno Marques, leaving no room for lingering thoughts about the senior matchday squad.

"Movement and release!" Nuno barked, clapping his hands as the squad split into three-touch passing grids. "Preseason is in the ground, gentlemen. Tomorrow is points. Everything we do today builds habits for the whistle."

Rayan checked his shoulder, received a crisp pass from Salvador Almeida, and immediately redistributed the ball into the path of Bernardo Rocha.

During a small-sided transition drill midway through the session, Rayan decided to test the step-over project he had been drilling in the week. Receiving the ball on the half-turn near the right flank, he spotted Bernardo sliding across to close down the space. Rayan dipped his shoulder, whipped his right foot over the ball in a compact arc, and tried to explode past.

Bernardo didn’t bite. Staying low on his insteps, the versatile wide player maintained his balance, read the timing of the exit touch, and easily swept the ball away before Rayan could turn the corner.

"Still telegraphing it, El Mansouri," Bernardo called out cheerfully as he recycled possession to the midfield.

Nuno waved everyone back into place. On the next move, Salvador intercepted a square pass and drove forward, drawing two defenders toward him. Tiago darted across the nearest centre-back and called for the ball. Salvador threaded it into his path, but the goalkeeper rushed out and smothered Tiago’s first touch.

"Good run," Nuno called. "Make him commit before you play it, Salvador."

Rayan jogged back into position, already watching where Tiago would move next.

Around them, the conversation during a hydration break quickly drifted toward the weekend. Tiago Silva wiped his face with a training bib, leaning against the goalpost.

"Vizela at home on Saturday night," Tiago muttered, taking a long drink from his water bottle. "Different atmosphere now. Preseason was all about fitness and trying things out. Now every tackle counts for the table."

"Points are real," Salvador agreed, adjusting his shinguards. "If you drop silly points in August, you’re chasing the league leaders by Christmas. The seniors can’t afford a slow start."

"And nobody gets to say ’it’s only preparation’ anymore," Bernardo added, tying his boot lace. "The manager’s head is on the line every weekend."

Even though he wasn’t playing, Rayan felt the shift acutely. Preseason had been a playground of opportunity where mistakes were swallowed by experimental lineups and friendlies; league football was cold, clinical, and unforgiving.

After training concluded, the players walked off the pitch toward the showers, discussing how they planned to watch the match the following evening. Through standard academy family access, Rayan had secured a ticket to sit in the lower tier of the Estádio José Alvalade alongside other youth players and staff relatives, observing the fixture from the stands rather than the bench. ⅇℯ𝚕.

Later that afternoon, after the club transport dropped him near Oriente station, Rayan met Joca and Idris before heading home to Olivais.

"So," Joca grinned, slinging an arm around Rayan’s shoulders as they walked toward the underground passage. "Heard you’ve been demoted to a paying customer for Saturday night."

"I didn’t pay anything," Rayan retorted, rolling his eyes.

"That makes the joke worse, mate," Idris laughed, adjusting his backpack strap. "Free ticket and you still have to sit with the tourists."

"At least I’ll actually get to watch the game instead of freezing on the bench," Rayan shot back, sidestepping a puddle near the curb.

"Yeah, true," Joca muttered, kicking an empty plastic bottle across the pavement. "You bringing your new FIFA controller settings to yours later? Idris reckons he’s finally figured out how to defend crosses."

"He hasn’t," Rayan said. "Nobody figures that out."

"Hey, my custom tactics are solid," Idris protested, pointing a finger. "You just abuse cutbacks."

"It’s called meta, mate," Joca laughed. "Anyway, what time are we jumping on tonight? Eight? My cousin’s bringing over some pastries from his mum’s shop."

"Make it eight-thirty," Rayan replied. "Dad’s coming by the flat first to drop off some paperwork for mum."

"Done. And don’t pick Bayern again like a coward," Idris added.

"Choose whoever you want, I’ll still score three with Coman," Rayan fired back, a genuine smile breaking through his earlier mood.

When Rayan returned to the apartment in Olivais, he found Dad at the kitchen table, sorting receipts from a delivery job. Karim had stopped by after work to discuss Saturday’s arrangements.

Karim looked up as Rayan dropped his kit bag by the door.

"Training good?" Karim asked, standing up to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Hard session," Rayan said, sinking into a chair. "Nuno put us through a full tactical block."

"Well, you’ll be fresh for next week," Karim said encouragingly. "Are you ready for tomorrow? We’ll leave early enough to beat the traffic around Alvalade."

"Yeah, I’ve got my ticket sorted." Karim paused, leaning against the counter. "You know, I think Viktor is going to score a couple tomorrow. Vizela’s backline is vulnerable on the counter."

Rayan raised an eyebrow. "How many?"

"Four," Karim said deadpan.

Rayan stared at his father for a second before letting out a dry breath. "Dad."

Karim just laughed, walking over to clap a warm, reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. "A striker has to dream big, Rayan. Enjoy the match. You’ll be back out there soon enough."

Sofia was tied up with a mandatory Saturday clinic shift and Leonor was occupied with end-of-summer school project prep, keeping the family logistics simple and grounded without turning the match into an extended reunion.

Upstairs in his bedroom later that night, Rayan scrolled through his phone before bed. On X, formerly Twitter, the official Sporting CP accounts were pushing promotional graphics for the upcoming Vizela clash. The sleek, high-definition matchday posters looked entirely different from the experimental preseason graphics, featuring the core senior starters under the Alvalade floodlights.

Amidst the thousands of posts analysing tactical setups and predicted XIs, only a tiny fan account posted a passing question:

@SportingYouth_8: Is Rayan from the friendlies in the matchday squad tomorrow or back with the U17s?

There were no replies, no national media speculation, and no headlines. His brief preseason exposure was already fading into the background noise of a club chasing a league title.

Rayan locked his phone screen and placed it on the bedside table.

Instead of laying out his green-and-white Sporting playing kit, shin guards, and match boots for a senior fixture, he reached into the wardrobe and pulled out an ordinary cotton hoodie and dark jeans for the stands.

He closed the laptop and reached for his phone.