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Chapter 17: Volume 1, - 17: Rayan Versus Duarte

Chapter 17: Volume 1, Chapter 17: Rayan Versus Duarte

The damp air inside Pitch 2’s perimeter fence smelled of cold iron, wet rubber granules and compressed earth.

At 10:30 on Monday morning, Coach João Tavares gathered the under-16 squad at the edge of a fifteen-metre corridor marked by bright neon-orange cones. At the far end of the narrow grid stood a regulation goal guarded by the second-choice goalkeeper, Diogo.

"One-against-one duels," Tavares called, his voice sharp and unyielding as he tapped his clipboard against his thigh. "The attacker starts on the whistle. The defender enters from the boundary line. Maximum of three touches before the shot. If the attacker turns back towards his own half, the attempt is over. Real match intensity. Choose your partner."

Before Rayan could shift his weight and look towards Joca or Rafa, a heavy shadow stepped directly into his line of sight.

Duarte Faria stood two paces away, his yellow bib pulled tightly across his chest and his boots crunching against the wet turf. His face was set in a wide, mocking grin, his eyes cold and competitive.

"You and me, El Mansouri," Duarte said loudly enough for the surrounding players to hear. "Unless you need to check with your mathematics tutor first."

A few of the substitutes released low, muffled laughs.

Rayan’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists inside his long sleeves. He felt a hot spike of adrenaline strike his chest, that old volatile instinct urging him to step forwards, shove Duarte back and accept the challenge with a shout.

Beside them, Tavares’s dark eyes moved across the pair. The coach didn’t intervene. He simply made a small mark on his tracking sheet and raised the whistle to his lips. "Faria defending first. Rayan attacking. Take your positions."

The whistle shrieked.

Rayan received the feeder pass from the assistant coach, taking his first touch into the narrow orange corridor. Duarte didn’t hesitate. He charged forwards in three powerful strides, using his broad frame to close the central lane completely.

Rayan’s mind froze for a fraction of a second. The pressure felt suffocating inside the confined space. Desperate to create separation, Rayan dropped his left shoulder and pretended to drive inside before attempting to push the ball down the touchline.

Duarte didn’t believe the movement for a second. He planted his right foot, drove his shoulder into Rayan’s chest and swept the ball away cleanly with the inside of his boot, sending Rayan stumbling onto the damp turf.

"Weak!" Duarte barked as he knocked the ball out of the corridor. "Too soft! Next!"

Rayan pushed himself up from the wet rubber granules, his face burning and his chest rising through hot, ragged breaths.

"Switch roles," Tavares called, his expression unreadable. "Faria attacks. Rayan defends."

As Duarte walked towards the starting cone, spinning the ball between his hands, Rayan settled into his defensive stance, his thoughts spiralling with frustration.

’Interface,’ Rayan commanded silently, keeping his eyes on the turf. ’Replay the first duel. Show me where I lost him.’

The indigo display appeared across his vision, reconstructing the previous exchange through simplified, transparent figures.

[TACTICAL REPLAY — DUEL ONE]

[Primary Error: Gaze remained fixed on the ball.]

[Opponent’s centre of gravity was not monitored.]

[Body Feint Effectiveness: Low.]

[Cause: The user’s weight remained static throughout the deceptive movement.]

[Opponent anticipated the intended direction before the second touch.]

[Correction: During close defensive engagements, observe the opponent’s hips and centre of gravity rather than following every movement of the ball.]

[Feet and shoulders may deceive. A committed change of direction requires the hips to move.]

Rayan swallowed the bitter taste of embarrassment and wiped a streak of mud from his chin. He lowered his stance, widened his feet and focused on the centre of Duarte’s body rather than the leather between his boots.

The whistle sounded for the second duel.

Duarte attacked with power, driving directly through the middle of the corridor and performing a sharp stepover to force Rayan backwards.

This time, Rayan didn’t react to the circling foot. His eyes remained on Duarte’s hips. When Duarte shifted his weight to burst inside, Rayan saw the angle change a fraction of a second before the ball moved.

Rayan threw his left leg across the lane and planted his body directly in Duarte’s path.

The collision was violent shoulder against shoulder, the impact travelling through Rayan’s bones. Duarte’s superior mass knocked him backwards by two steps, but Rayan didn’t fall. He forced Duarte towards the touchline, narrowing the available shooting angle.

Duarte dragged the ball onto his left foot and managed to release a hurried strike, but it rattled harmlessly against the outside netting.

"Better," Tavares noted aloud as he wrote another line on his clipboard. "You held the position. Reset."

"Final duel," Tavares announced. "Rayan attacks."

Rayan stood over the ball at the entrance to the corridor. His lungs burned, his knees were stained by the turf and his hamstrings remained tight after the physical impact of the previous attempt.

Duarte crouched ten metres away, bouncing on his toes, his face twisted into a confident sneer. "Come on, YouTube. Show me another safe pass. You can’t get past me, and you know it."

Rayan drew a slow breath, allowing the freezing air to fill his chest. He studied Duarte’s defensive posture and remembered what had happened during their first duel.

The system displayed a brief summary of the data it had already recorded.

[CURRENT DUEL OBSERVATION]

[Opponent Tendency: Aggressive commitment towards the central lane.]

[Previous Response: Opponent anticipated an inside movement.]

[Recommendation: The final decision remains the responsibility of the user.]

’He expects me to come inside again,’ Rayan realised. ’He’s waiting for my body to turn.’

The whistle blew.

Rayan drove forwards, taking his first touch with his right instep. He exaggerated his approach, lowering his shoulder and angling his torso towards the central channel as though committing his entire weight to an inside run.

Duarte’s eyes lit up. He shifted his body towards the centre and lunged to block the lane.

The moment Duarte committed his balance, Rayan didn’t perform a stepover or decorative flick. He planted his left foot, slowed his upper body for a fraction of a second and used the outside of his right boot to push the ball cleanly into the open corridor beside the touchline.

Duarte was caught completely off balance. His studs slipped against the wet turf as his momentum carried him sideways into empty space.

For the first time in two seasons, Rayan accelerated beyond Duarte’s shoulder and left him behind.

Rayan reached the ball near the edge of the penalty area and drove a low strike towards the far corner. Diogo reacted brilliantly, diving across his goal and tipping the ball around the post with his fingertips, but Rayan had already achieved the separation.

The surrounding players released a collective, sharp sound of surprise.

Before Rayan could turn and jog back towards the starting point, a violent blow struck him from behind.

Consumed by embarrassment and unable to control his frustration, Duarte had sprinted after him and driven his forearm into the back of Rayan’s shoulders after the ball had already gone out of play.

Rayan was sent forwards, striking the wet turf face-first and sliding through the mud.

The whistle screamed.

"Faria!" Tavares roared from the touchline.

"That was filthy!" Joca shouted, stepping onto the edge of the pitch before the assistant coach raised an arm to hold him back.

A hot, blinding wave of rage exploded behind Rayan’s eyes. The impact had jarred his teeth, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth where his lip had split against them. He pushed himself off the ground and turned with his fists clenched, his chest surging forwards and his face twisted with fury.

Duarte was already stepping towards him, his chest raised and a malicious grin spread across his face. "Get up, then! What are you going to do about it, El Mansouri? Do something!"

Rayan raised his hands, his right fist drawing backwards, ready to drive his knuckles into Duarte’s jaw. Every violent instinct developed in the concrete courts of Amadora screamed at him to strike. To prove he wasn’t a coward and force everyone to respect him.

Then a massive red system warning appeared inches in front of Duarte’s sneering face, shattering the haze of Rayan’s anger.

[CRITICAL DISCIPLINARY WARNING]

[Physical altercation imminent.]

[Any additional school or academy suspension will result in immediate failure of the Thirty-Day Foundation Challenge.]

[Failure Penalty: Foundation functions locked for ninety days.]

[Current Challenge Progress: Day 12 of 30.]

[Status: Critical Risk.]

The warning pulsed with a sharp internal hum.

Rayan froze. His fist remained pulled back, trembling violently in the cold air.

’If I hit him, I get suspended. If I get suspended, the challenge ends. If the challenge ends, I lose everything for ninety days.’

Duarte stepped closer, his forehead nearly touching Rayan’s, his breath sour with energy drink. "Hit me," he whispered, his voice low and provoking. "Go on. Show everyone how tough you are."

The pitch fell silent. The under-16 players held their breath. Coach Tavares was already moving towards them, his whistle still clenched in one hand, but his dark eyes remained fixed on Rayan’s raised fist.

For five excruciating seconds, Rayan stood there, his entire body shaking with the effort required to contain the eruption inside him. He looked at Duarte’s face, then towards Tavares, and finally down at his own mud-stained hands.

Slowly and painfully, Rayan uncurled his fingers. He lowered his arms, wiped the mud from his palms against his shorts and took two steps backwards, breaking eye contact.

He turned away from Duarte and walked towards the edge of the cones without saying a word.

Duarte’s grin faltered, replaced by bewildered anger. "Yeah, that’s what I thought," he called, though his voice sounded weak against the silence. "Walk away, El Mansouri!"

"Faria, off the pitch," Tavares said, stepping between them. His tone was quiet, which made the command more severe. "Your session is over. Report to the welfare office after training."

Duarte’s expression changed instantly. "Coach, I barely touched—"

"Off the pitch. Now."

Duarte ripped off his yellow bib and marched towards the bench, his face burning with humiliation.

Tavares watched him leave before turning towards Rayan. He studied him for three long seconds, then placed a heavy check mark beside Rayan’s name on the evaluation sheet.

"Drill finished," Tavares announced. "Gym block in ten minutes. Move."

The changing room smelled of damp towels, hot water and deep-heat spray.

The benches were crowded with boys removing their muddy kits and pulling on clean training trousers. The atmosphere was unusually subdued, the normal post-session shouting replaced by hushed conversations.

Rayan sat alone on the bench closest to the showers, pulling off his socks. His upper back throbbed where Duarte’s forearm had struck him, and his lip was slightly swollen, but he kept his head lowered and concentrated on untying the double knot in his laces.

"I’m just saying, if someone hits you from behind like that, you have to respond," a midfielder named Bernardo whispered to Rafa near the lockers. "Rayan just stood there. He looked scared."

"He didn’t look scared," Rafa replied firmly as he pulled his shirt over his head. "He looked like he understood that Duarte was trying to get him suspended."

"Still," Bernardo muttered, shaking his head. "You can’t let someone put you into the mud and do nothing. That looks weak."

Rayan heard every word. Each sentence struck his pride like a dull needle. He wanted to stand, shout at them and explain the thin wire he walked every day between school eligibility, academy discipline and the release list.

Instead, he remained seated, his knuckles white as he pulled a clean shirt over his shoulders.

The door to the coaches’ office opened, and Tavares stepped out carrying a stack of GPS vests. The room immediately went quiet.

Tavares walked through the central aisle between the benches. He stopped briefly beside Rayan’s locker and placed a fresh roll of athletic tape on the wooden surface beside his bag.

He didn’t address the squad, but as he continued towards the main door, he spoke quietly enough that only Rayan could hear him.

"An idiot reacts to every provocation," Tavares said without stopping. "A professional chooses which battles are worth fighting. Good discipline today, Rayan."

Rayan looked at the roll of tape resting beside him. He didn’t answer, but the knot of shame inside his chest loosened slightly.

At 14:15, the secondary-school courtyard was bathed in pale winter sunlight.

Rayan walked towards the cafeteria doors with his heavy bag slung over one shoulder, his head throbbing from the morning’s impact.

Vasco stood beside the water fountain near the entrance, flanked by two older students from the vocational track. He wore his leather jacket and held a can of soft drink, his eyes following Rayan from the moment he crossed the pavement.

"Look who it is," Vasco called loudly, stepping into the walkway to block his path. "The academy benchwarmer. I heard someone put you into the mud at training this morning. Did you cry for your mother, or did you just lie there?"

The two older students chuckled and crossed their arms.

Rayan stopped three paces away. His body was exhausted, his muscles ached after the brutal duels, and his patience had been worn down to a microscopic thread.

Everything inside him. The instincts from the street court, the anger left by Duarte’s foul and the stress of his upcoming mathematics assessment screamed at him to swing his heavy school bag directly into Vasco’s smug face.

It would be easy. One clean strike, and Vasco would be on the concrete.

Vasco stepped closer and tapped a finger against Rayan’s shoulder. "What’s wrong? Lost your voice? Or are you afraid your suspension will be extended if you look at me the wrong way?"

Rayan stared into Vasco’s eyes. He recognised the hollow desire for a reaction. The same need for control that had driven Duarte on the pitch. Vasco wanted a fight because a fight would give him attention.

Rayan drew a long breath through his nose and forced his shoulder to relax beneath Vasco’s finger.

Without speaking, without offering Vasco the satisfaction of an angry glare or defensive response, Rayan stepped sideways, walked around the group and pushed through the heavy glass doors of the cafeteria.

Vasco remained beside the fountain, his mouth slightly open in sudden, awkward silence.

Rayan walked towards an empty table at the back of the room, sat down and removed his history workbook from his bag. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the yellow highlighter, his teeth grinding together until his jaw muscles throbbed.

Restraint didn’t feel like victory. It felt like swallowing broken glass. It left him cold, bitter and furious at his own apparent powerlessness.

As he opened the textbook to page forty-two, a quiet blue notification appeared across the printed text.

[HIDDEN DEVELOPMENT CONDITION VERIFIED]

[Trigger: Repeated restraint under severe provocation.]

[Domains Verified: Athletic and Institutional.]

[Emotional Regulation Threshold Surpassed.]

[HIDDEN TRAIT NODE UNLOCKED]

[Competitive Composure — Developing.]

[Current Proficiency: 8.4%.]

[Current Effect: Slightly reduces performance loss caused by anger, panic and external provocation during competitive situations.]

Rayan stared at the message floating above the historical dates.

He didn’t feel composed. He felt like an engine approaching the point of explosion. But as he studied the words, he understood that the system wasn’t measuring what he felt inside.

It was measuring what he chose to do.

He hadn’t thrown the punch. He hadn’t accepted the bait. He had survived another day of the countdown, and the cold architecture of his future had shifted one small step forwards.

Rayan capped his highlighter, pulled the notebook closer and began writing his summary notes, his jaw still tight beneath the quiet cafeteria lights.