Chapter 167: Volume 2, - 167: The Games That Count

Chapter 167: Volume 2, Chapter 167: The Games That Count

The highlights on the television screen in the Olivais living room flickered against the darkened walls as the clock neared midnight on Saturday.

Sporting CP 3, FC Vizela 2.

Rayan sat on the edge of the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees, watching Viktor Gyoker score twice inside the opening fifteen minutes. The replay jumped ahead to Vizela’s two second-half goals, then to Paulino Vieira bundling home the winner deep into stoppage time. Alvalade erupted.

Two goals. Two official, recorded, undisputed senior goals.

Rayan stared at the bottom ticker. His own summer had contained four senior friendly appearances, three goals, and three assists against Premier League and La Liga opposition. Preseason goals were memorable, but official statistics were carved in stone.

"They made hard work of that backline," Karim said from the kitchen counter, having stayed over after they returned from watching the match together. He walked over, leaning against the doorway with a mug of mint tea. "If you were on that bench, you would have given them another option when Vizela sat deep."

Rayan didn’t look out from the screen. "Dad. I wasn’t in the squad. Nobody knows what would’ve happened."

"I know what I saw in Everton," Karim replied warmly, tapping his fingers against his mug. "You belong at that level."

"It doesn’t count until it’s real," Rayan muttered, pulling his eyes away from the screen and standing up. "I’m going to bed. Kickoff is at eleven."

"Get your sleep," Karim said softly, reaching out to pat his shoulder as he passed. "Tomorrow is your game."

By seven on Sunday morning, the frustration of non-selection had transformed into a cold, restless energy.

Rayan moved through the Olivais apartment with quiet, hurried efficiency. He checked his boots twice, ensuring the studs were clean and the laces unfrayed, before packing his navy Sporting kit bag. He drained a full glass of water, swallowed a bowl of oats, and plugged his phone into his portable power bank.

"What time are you leaving?" Sofia asked, walking into the kitchen dressed in her smart administrative clothing for the private medical clinic.

"Bus leaves Oriente at eight-fifteen," Rayan said, zipping his bag with a sharp, single pull.

Leonor shuffled in wearing oversized pyjamas, rubbing her eyes while holding an unfinished art assignment. "Bring back a proper goal today, Rayan."

"Yeah," Rayan said, pulling his hood over his curls. "Working on it."

When the mini-bus dropped him off at the complex forty minutes later, the atmosphere was stripped of senior glamour. Instead, the morning sun lit up the pristine turf of the Estádio Aurélio Pereira, where staff were setting up corner flags, checking ball pressure, and taping down water crates near the dugouts. A small crowd of academy parents, scouts, and local supporters gathered along the low metal fence.

Sporting U17 versus CD Cova da Piedade. The opening weekend of the Nacional Juniores B.

In the changing room, the air smelled of Deep Heat, leather polish, and damp grass. Rayan pulled his green-and-white striped jersey over his head, smoothing down the crest.

"Look at him," Tiago Silva grinned from the bench opposite, pulling on his white match socks. "First-team superstar back to play with the peasants."

"Shut up, Tiago," Rayan said, a small smirk breaking through his tight expression. "I was on the wing against Everton while you were playing against local academy kids."

"And yet," Duarte Faria chimed in from the locker across the aisle, lacing his boots with deliberate precision, "you’re wearing the exact same U17 shirt as the rest of us today, El Mansouri. Don’t trip over your own feet tracking back."

"Worry about your own passing range, Duarte," Rayan shot back, though a grin broke through. "Just put the ball where I’m running."

"I’ll put it on a plate if you promise to actually finish," Duarte replied smoothly, leaning back against his locker.

"Leave him alone," Bernardo Rocha chimed in from the end of the row with a deadpan stare. "We need his legs today. Cova da Piedade aren’t going to sit back and watch us dance."

Salvador Almeida laughed softly as he taped his ankles near the treatment table. "Match him stride for stride, Bernardo. We start fast."

Nuno Marques entered a few minutes later, holding a magnetic tactical board. The room fell silent instantly.

"Listen up," Nuno said, his voice level and commanding. "Preseason’s over. The first team got their three points last night. Today we start earning ours. Cova da Piedade operate in a compact 4–4–2. They want us to force central traffic so they can trigger their press and hit us on the counter."

He tapped the board, pointing directly at the left channel.

"Width is non-negotiable. Rayan, you start on the left. Duarte, find the pockets between their midfield and defensive lines. Salvador, dictate the tempo early and switch the play when they overcommit. Tiago, pin their centre-backs, make those near-post runs to open the space behind. Bernardo, cover the rest defence on the right. We move them side to side, we break their structure, and we take three points. Clear?"

"Clear, Coach!" the room echoed.

Outside, the squad ran through one last passing circuit. Duarte received with his back to a cone, glanced towards Bernardo, and slipped a left-footed pass into Rayan’s path. Rayan was already accelerating towards the touchline and had to stretch to keep it in.

"Was that meant for me?" Rayan called.

"It reached you, didn’t it?" Duarte replied.

"Barely."

"Then stop running away from the ball."

Tiago jogged between them. "Can you two argue after somebody gives me a cross?"

Bernardo called for the next repetition. Salvador collected a loose ball and fed Duarte again, this time demanding it back before turning play towards the left.

"Rayan," Nuno shouted, "don’t stand beside their right-back waiting for a race. Draw him towards you first."

Rayan checked towards the ball, then spun behind the cone as Duarte released it. The pass rolled into space ahead of him. This time he reached it comfortably.

There was no motivational speech directed at Rayan, no special mention of his summer with the first team. He was simply the left winger in an eleven-man collective expected to deliver a performance.

The squad lined up in the narrow concrete tunnel leading out toward the pitch. Rayan stood behind Bernardo, his hands resting on his hips, his heart beating a steady, rhythmic thud against his ribs. Outside, a handful of academy supporters clapped as the two teams emerged into the bright August sunshine.

The referee called the captains forward for the toss. Rayan jogged out onto the lush green turf of the Estádio Aurélio Pereira, taking his position on the left flank. He took two steps back, bounced twice on his heels, and stared down the touchline toward Cova da Piedade’s right-back.

The ball was placed on the centre spot, the referee lifted his whistle to his lips, and Rayan dug his studs into the grass, ready for the games that actually counted.