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Chapter 1: Volume 1, - 1: The Player Nobody Expects to Keep

Chapter 1: Volume 1, Chapter 1: The Player Nobody Expects to Keep

The winter air in Alcochete always smelled faintly of salt and freshly cut grass, blowing in from the Tagus River to bite at the exposed skin of the substitutes sitting on the bench.

Fifteen-year-old Rayan Duarte El Mansouri pulled his green-and-white Sporting CP training jacket higher around his neck, tucking his chin into the fleece fabric. He bounced his heels against the turf, a rhythmic, anxious thudding that did absolutely nothing to warm his frozen toes. Next to him, three other boys sat in identical positions. Arms crossed, legs tucked close, eyes locked onto the green expanse of pitch number three.

On the far touchline, Duarte Faria was putting on a clinic.

The under-16 league match against Belenenses was already well in hand at 2–0, but Duarte was playing as though a scout from the senior squad was watching from the main academy building. He picked up the ball deep on the left flank, dropped his shoulder to completely unbalance the opposition right-back, and executed a flawless, crisp stepover that sent the defender stumbling. With a casual flick of his boot, Duarte whipped a low, dangerous cross into the six-yard box. The keeper pushed it away for a corner, and the small crowd of parents and scouts wrapped in heavy coats clapped politely.

’It looks so easy for him,’ Rayan thought, his chest tightening with a familiar, bitter knot of jealousy. ’He doesn’t even look like he’s trying.’

Duarte had everything Rayan lacked: the explosive first yard of pace, effortless balance and, most importantly, the absolute confidence of a boy who knew he belonged. Rayan looked down at his own boots, then at the clipboard held by Coach João Tavares, who stood a few yards away near the technical area. Tavares was making quick, sharp notes, his dark eyes never leaving the structure of the team.

Rayan knew exactly where he stood on that clipboard. He was at the very bottom of the winger hierarchy. When the squad list was pinned to the dressing-room wall on Friday mornings, his name was always among the last three, hovering dangerously close to the dreaded line separating the matchday squad from the boys told to stay home and train with the fitness coaches. Every weekend was a trial. Every minute on this pitch felt like an audition to keep his locker for another six months.

Around the pitch, the atmosphere was suffocatingly professional for a youth game. A dozen parents stood behind the metal barriers, their breath blooming into white clouds as they shouted encouragement that sounded more like instructions. Two men in dark scouting coats from the Portuguese Football Federation stood near the corner flag, their faces entirely blank as they watched the academy prospects. Every boy on the bench knew what those men represented: a potential place in a national youth camp, or another reminder of how replaceable they all were.

"Rayan. On your feet."

The voice made him jump. Coach Tavares didn’t look back as he spoke, his eyes still fixed on the corner kick being taken.

Rayan was up in an instant, unzipping his training jacket and tugging it off before his brain could fully process the command. He dropped his bib onto the bench, his heart instantly shifting into a frantic, erratic gallop.

"You’re going on for Duarte on the left," Tavares said, finally turning to face him as the game paused for a goal kick. He gripped Rayan’s shoulder, his hand heavy and solid. "Keep the width. When we lose the ball, track their fullback. Don’t let him overlap. And keep it simple, Rayan. Two touches. Move the ball."

"Yes, Coach," Rayan said, nodding rapidly and barely hearing the words over the roaring in his ears.

Duarte Faria walked off the pitch with the slow, arrogant stride of a player who had earned his rest. As he crossed the touchline, he gave Rayan a half-hearted high-five that barely grazed his fingers. "Don’t mess up the clean sheet," Duarte muttered under his breath, not even looking Rayan in the eye before wrapping himself in a heavy winter jacket.

Rayan didn’t reply. He sprinted onto the turf, his studs sinking into the perfectly manicured grass. Eight minutes. The referee’s digital watch probably showed eighty-two minutes played. Eight minutes to prove he was worth keeping.

His first opportunity came less than two minutes later.

The Sporting central midfielder, a towering boy named Tomás, won a header in the centre circle and knocked it cleanly out to the left flank. The ball bounced twice on the frosty grass, rolling perfectly into Rayan’s path. He had space. If he looked up, he would see Afonso, the centre-forward, making a diagonal run behind the Belenenses centre-back, begging for a simple first-time pass into the channel.

’Show them what you can do,’ a desperate voice inside Rayan’s head screamed. ’The pass is too safe. They want to see flair.’

Instead of playing the simple ball, Rayan tried to take it on the bounce, intending to flick it over the approaching fullback’s head. But his ankle was too stiff, his nerves completely overriding his technique. His first touch was heavy, the ball striking the upper part of his shin and bouncing three yards ahead of him.

"Ah, Rayan!" came from the sidelines.

Panicking, Rayan lunged forward to recover, attempting an unnecessary, frantic stepover to shield the ball. The Belenenses defender didn’t buy the feint for a second. He simply planted his foot, used his body to knock Rayan cleanly off the ball, and cleared it up the line. Rayan hit the turf hard, his shoulder slamming into the cold ground. He scrambled up immediately, his face burning hotter than his scraped skin, and tried to sprint back to defend, but the phase of play had already moved beyond him.

"Two touches, Rayan! Keep it simple!" Tavares yelled from the technical area, his hands cutting through the air in a sharp, frustrated motion.

Rayan’s throat felt completely dry. His hands were sweating despite the freezing temperature. ’One more chance,’ he prayed inwardly, tracking the ball as it was kicked back and forth across the midfield. ’Just give me one more.’

With less than a minute left in stoppage time, he got it. A stray clearance from the opposition defence dropped right at his feet near the corner of the penalty area. He was at a difficult, narrow angle, at least twenty-five yards out. To his right, two Sporting shirts were flooding into the box, completely unmarked at the back post. A low, driven cross across the face of goal should have produced an easy third goal for the team.

But Rayan didn’t look up. The frame of the goal was the only thing in his field of vision. He wanted the headline. He wanted his name on the scoresheet so his dad could see it on the academy portal.

He shifted the ball onto his right foot and swung his leg with everything he had.

His body shape was completely wrong; he leaned back too far, his weight trailing behind his hips. The connection was hollow. The ball skyrocketed off his laces, sailing completely over the crossbar, clearing the protective netting behind the goal and disappearing into the darkness towards the training centre’s parking lot.

The referee blew the final whistle seconds later. The match ended 2–0, but for Rayan, it felt like a crushing defeat. He stood in the penalty area for a long moment, his hands on his hips, staring up at the empty sky where his shot had disappeared, his chest heaving.

The post-match dressing room was a chaotic mix of muddy boots, steaming showers and the loud, boisterous laughter of teenage boys who had won three points. Rayan sat quietly in the corner, slowly unlacing his boots and trying to make himself as invisible as possible.

Coach Tavares walked through the centre of the room, clapping his hands together. "Good work today, boys. Solid defensive shape. Duarte, excellent work down the wing. Let’s keep this intensity for next week’s training." He paused, his eyes scanning the benches until they found Rayan. He walked over, stepping around a pile of dirty kit bags.

Rayan stiffened, expecting the hammer to drop.

"Rayan," Tavares said, his voice quiet enough that only the surrounding boys could hear. It wasn’t angry, which somehow made it worse. It was disappointed. "When you come on for eight minutes, you need to be a reliable outlet for the team. You chose the hardest option twice. Football is a game of percentages. Work on your decision-making this week. Understand?"

"Yes, Coach. I’m sorry," Rayan whispered, looking down at his socks.

"Don’t be sorry. Be better on Tuesday," Tavares said, patting his shoulder before turning away to speak with the captain.

As soon as the coach was out of earshot, Duarte Faria, who was already dressed in an immaculate black tracksuit, chuckled as he threw a wet towel into the laundry bin. "Hey, Rayan, nice shot, man. I think you almost broke a window in the main office. You should be grateful Tavares even gives you those eight minutes, honestly. Some of us actually have to carry the workload here."

A few boys laughed. Rayan didn’t look up. He felt a sharp prickle of tears behind his eyes and fought them down with everything he had. He stuffed his boots into his bag, pulled his hood over his head and hurried out of the dressing room before anyone could see his face turning red.

---

The journey back towards the city centre was quiet. Because his father had picked up a late delivery shift in Setúbal, Rayan had to take the metropolitan bus back towards Lisbon, where he met his mother and younger sister near Oriente station.

He climbed into the passenger seat of their battered silver Renault Clio, the engine idling with a loud, rattling vibration that echoed through the chassis. His mother, Sofia, immediately turned up the heater, sending a blast of lukewarm air towards his frozen hands.

"There’s my star," Sofia said, smiling warmly as she pulled the car into the evening traffic. Her face looked tired, the faint lines around her eyes deepened by a long week working in administration at a private medical clinic, but her smile was entirely genuine. "How was the match? Did you win?"

"Yeah, we won 2–0," Rayan muttered, staring out the side window at the passing streetlights.

"And how did you play?" Sofia asked, her voice filled with the hopeful maternal pride that always made Rayan feel incredibly guilty. "Did you get much time on the pitch today?"

Rayan swallowed hard. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. "Yeah. I came on and changed the rhythm of the game. I was really driving at their defence. I almost scored at the end, too. Had a shot that just missed the top corner. The keeper was completely beaten."

From the back seat, a sharp, unamused snort cut through the warmth of the car.

Leonor, his twelve-year-old sister, didn’t look up from her phone screen, where she was rapidly scrolling through TikTok videos. "That’s funny, Rayan, because I watched the last ten minutes on the academy stream while we were waiting for you in the café. Your shot didn’t almost go into the top corner. It almost hit a delivery van in the parking lot."

Rayan’s face burned. "You weren’t even watching properly! The camera angle was completely different."

"I have eyes, big brother. You fell over your own feet within two minutes," Leonor said, her tone dripping with classic younger-sibling sarcasm, though she didn’t say it with real malice. She kicked the back of his seat lightly. "You looked like a panicked chicken out there."

"Leonor, leave your brother alone," Sofia warned, though she glanced at Rayan with a softer, more discerning expression. She knew her son well enough to read the tight line of his shoulders. "It’s difficult at that level. Every minute counts."

"He’s just lucky they don’t charge him for lost balls," Leonor muttered, finally putting her phone away and staring out her own window.

By the time they reached their small apartment in the working-class neighbourhood of Olivais, the winter darkness had completely set in. The apartment smelled of roasted cod and garlic. A comforting, familiar scent that usually lifted Rayan’s spirits, but tonight it felt heavy.

While Leonor went to her room to finish her homework, Sofia stood by the kitchen counter, sorting through a small stack of mail. She pulled out a white envelope bearing the official stamp of Rayan’s secondary school and laid it flat on the table.

"Rayan, sit down for a minute," she said quietly.

Rayan paused at the entrance of the kitchen, his kit bag still slung over his shoulder. He knew exactly what was inside that envelope. "Mom, I know. The term reports."

"Your maths grade dropped to a seven, Rayan," Sofia said, her voice settling into the measured, grounded tone that always made him feel as though he were shrinking. "And your history teacher says you are completely distracted during lessons. You missed two assignment deadlines last month."

"I was recovering from the ankle sprain last month, Mom. I had to spend extra hours in the physiotherapy room after school," Rayan defended himself, his voice rising slightly with defensive panic. "I’ll bring them back up this term. I promise. I just need to focus on getting into the starting lineup. If I can earn a regular place, everything changes."

Sofia sighed, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms. She looked at him with immense affection, but her eyes were steady and uncompromising. "Rayan, look at me."

He looked up, meeting her gaze.

"We love your dedication. I work these extra hours so you can have the proper boots and make the trip to Alcochete four times a week. Your father encourages your dream, and I do everything I can to make it possible," she said softly. "We both want you to succeed. But you have to be realistic. You are fifteen. Only a tiny fraction of boys in that academy receive professional contracts. What happens if Sporting releases you at the end of the season? What is the plan then?"

The word released felt like a physical blow to his stomach. It was the phantom that haunted every corridor of the academy, the word no boy wanted to utter aloud.

"They won’t release me," Rayan insisted, his voice cracking slightly beneath a sudden wave of teenage insecurity. "I’m working harder than anyone else. I just need a proper chance. Football is going to work out, Mom. It has to. I don’t want to do anything else."

Sofia walked over, reaching up to gently brush a strand of dark hair away from his forehead. "Then prove it by working just as hard in the classroom, my love. We cannot risk your entire future on a bouncing ball. Go wash your hands for dinner."

Later that night, the apartment was completely silent. The only sound was the distant rumble of the late-night metro line running beneath the avenue outside.

Rayan lay on his bed in the dark, his phone held inches from his face. He opened his Instagram profile.

Rayan Duarte

@rayan_duarte7

612 followers

He checked his notification tab. Three new followers had added him after the match. Likely younger kids from the local neighbourhood who had seen his name on the academy roster.

615 followers.

He stared at the number, feeling a profound sense of emptiness. Duarte Faria already had over ten thousand followers, a verified badge and local clothing brands tagging him in posts. Rayan had a collection of low-resolution match photographs and a handful of friends from school.

He closed the app and opened YouTube, typing a familiar name into the search bar: Cristiano Ronaldo — Sporting CP Days.

He watched the grainy old footage from the early 2000s. A skinny boy with unruly curls and teeth that needed straightening, wearing the same green-and-white jersey Rayan wore today. But that boy on the screen didn’t look hesitant. He didn’t look afraid of making a mistake. He ran at senior defenders with absolute, unshakeable arrogance, stepover after stepover, leaving international players frozen in their tracks.

’How did he have that much confidence at my age?’ Rayan thought, his chest aching with a mixture of intense admiration and deep self-doubt. ’He wasn’t afraid of looking stupid. He just did it.’

Rayan turned off the video, locked his phone and threw his arm over his eyes, staring into the darkness above him.

In the quiet of his room, the mistakes from the match began to replay in an endless, agonising loop behind his eyelids. He saw the ball rolling towards him from Tomás’s header. He saw his stiff ankle. He felt the heavy, awkward impact of the ball striking his shin. He saw it flying over the crossbar into the dark parking lot, followed by the mocking sound of Duarte’s laughter in the dressing room.

’I’m not good enough,’ the thought slipped into his mind, cold and terrifying. ’If I don’t change something soon, they’re going to cut me.’

A sharp buzz in his hand cut through his spiralling thoughts. The phone screen lit up, illuminating the small room with a harsh white glare. It was an email notification from the Sporting CP Youth Academy Administration portal.

Rayan unlocked the phone, his heart instantly leaping back into his throat.

To: All Under-16 Academy Players

Subject: Individual Development & Squad Assessment Meetings. January 2023

Please be advised that the technical staff will be conducting individual performance review and development meetings over the next three weeks. Each player will meet with Coach Tavares and the Academy Director to review their progress, technical metrics and squad status for the remainder of the competitive season.

Your specific time slot will be assigned on Monday morning. Attendance is mandatory.

Rayan stared at the text until the words blurred together. The mid-season reviews. The meetings where contracts were discussed and the first decisions about each player’s future began to take shape.

He turned the phone off and placed it face down on his bedside table. He pulled his blanket tightly up to his chin, his feet cold and his mind racing towards a dark, uncertain future, completely unaware that something inside him was waiting for the exact right moment to wake up.

End-of-Chapter Tracker

Followers: 615

Senior Appearances: 0

Academy Status: Reserve winger

System Status: Dormant