New Novel
Chapter 2: Volume 1, - 2: Weekends with Karim

Chapter 2: Volume 1, Chapter 2: Weekends with Karim

The plastic tray slammed onto the linoleum table, sending a small wave of vegetable soup sloshing over the rim of Rayan’s bowl.

"I’m telling you, the raw footage is salvageable," Joca said, sliding into the plastic chair across from Rayan with a manic grin. He shook a dark curl from his eyes, unlocked his phone and began tapping the screen aggressively. "With the right colour grading, a dramatic slow-motion filter and some bass-boosted phonk in the background, I can make those eight minutes look like a Nike commercial. We’ll call it: Rayan El Mansouri — Sporting’s Forgotten Winger — Insane Skills 2023."

"Please don’t," Rayan groaned, rubbing his temples. "The only insane thing about it was the ball’s trajectory. I practically cleared the stadium."

"Hey, a shot is a shot," Joca said, grinning as the rest of the group gathered around the crowded corner table in the school cafeteria. "It shows intent. It shows courage. It shows you aren’t afraid of the car park."

"It shows he didn’t look up and see Afonso completely unmarked at the back post," Rafa said smoothly, setting down his lunchbox. Unlike the rest of them, who looked thoroughly rumpled in their school uniforms, Rafa remained immaculate. His collar was perfectly straight, and his dark-blond hair was combed back with the same precision he displayed on the pitch. Rafa played central midfield for Benfica’s under-sixteen squad, Sporting’s bitter cross-city rivals, and carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who believed his next academy promotion was inevitable. "Tavares loves a low-driven cross, Rayan. You’re lucky he didn’t make you run until sunset after the final whistle."

Rayan swallowed a dry piece of bread as the knot in his stomach tightened. Rafa was not trying to be malicious. He was merely stating the facts through the cold, objective lens of an academy footballer. That was what made it worse. Rafa was right.

"Oh, leave him alone," Inês said, leaning across the table to steal a chip from Joca’s tray. She adjusted her glasses and studied Rayan with a sharp, knowing squint. "Although, let’s be honest, Rayan. You told your mother you nearly scored a bicycle kick, didn’t you?"

"I said I almost scored," Rayan corrected quickly, his ears warming. "And it wasn’t a bicycle kick."

"A complete exaggeration, then," Inês concluded with a triumphant nod. "I know that look. It’s the same one you give the history teacher when you pretend you never saw the homework deadline on the online portal."

"Speaking of homework," Idris muttered from the end of the table, his fingers moving rapidly across his calculator as he attempted to finish a mathematics worksheet before the bell rang. "Did you submit the geography portfolio, Rayan? Senhora Santos was looking for you before first period. She looked ready to relegate you to the seventh grade."

Rayan stared blankly into his soup. The portfolio was sitting on the desk in his bedroom, entirely empty except for his name and a badly drawn football pitch on the cover. "I’ll finish it tonight," he lied.

"Of course you will," Mateus said with a laugh, shaking his head. Mateus was the only boy in their circle who did not play competitive football. He preferred his gaming setup and the school’s music club, where he was already trying to convince teachers to let him DJ every event. "Just like you were supposed to carry me through our ranked matches last night. You were online at midnight watching old football compilations again, weren’t you?"

Before Rayan could defend his sleeping habits, a shadow fell across the table.

"Hey, guys," a soft voice said.

Rayan looked up. It was Bia, a girl from his English class who usually sat beside the windows. Her long, wavy brown hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and her green eyes moved across the group before settling briefly on him. She smiled warmly. "Good luck with training this weekend, Rayan. I saw the academy newsletter."

"Thanks, Bia," Rayan said. His voice came out slightly stiffer than he intended, his thoughts immediately returning to the email he had received the previous evening. The individual evaluation meetings. The looming technical review.

She gave the group a small wave before walking toward the cafeteria exit with her friends. Joca immediately began making faint clicking noises with his tongue, but Rayan barely noticed. Romance, school and unfinished assignments all felt like distant background noise compared with the sharp, terrifying reality of his fading football career.

"She’s out of your league anyway," Rafa said casually, snapping his lunchbox shut. "Besides, if you’re going to survive the mid-season cuts at Sporting, you don’t have time for distractions. I heard they’re looking at two wingers from Porto’s academy who want to move south. You need to stay focused."

The mention of the Porto wingers made the cafeteria feel several degrees colder. Rayan tightened his grip around the plastic spoon and looked across at Rafa. Rafa was not worried about being cut. He was one of Benfica’s most highly rated midfielders in their age group and was already being monitored for Portugal’s youth teams. There was a quiet, unshakable certainty in his eyes that he was simply more talented, more secure and more destined for the bright stadium lights than anyone else at the table.

The worst part was that Rayan could not think of a single argument that proved him wrong.

---

The yellow-and-grey carriage of the Linha de Sintra train rattled as it pulled away from the station, the shriek of steel wheels slicing through the damp evening air. Rayan leaned his forehead against the scratched window, his large kit bag wedged securely between his knees.

Fridays meant leaving the strict, organised routine of his mother’s home in Olivais and travelling to the older, more chaotic neighbourhood where his father lived. It was a physical shift, but more than that, it was an emotional one.

By the time Rayan climbed the narrow concrete stairwell of the apartment building, the smell of damp brick and old tobacco had given way to the sharp, savoury aroma of fried onions and cumin. Before he could knock, the door swung open.

"There he is! The pride of the family!"

Karim El Mansouri stood in the doorway with his arms spread wide and a massive grin cutting through his short beard. Looking at him was almost like staring into a distorted mirror twenty-five years into the future. They shared the same intense dark eyes and sharp jawline, although Karim’s had softened beneath a few extra kilograms and the permanent shadow of neglected stubble. He pulled Rayan into a crushing embrace and lifted his feet clean off the ground.

"Dad, the bag," Rayan laughed, feeling the tension leave his chest for the first time all week. "You’re crushing the kit."

"Let it be crushed! A strong man doesn’t worry about a wrinkled shirt," Karim declared, pulling him inside and kicking the door shut behind them. The apartment was small, the linoleum peeling near the kitchen counter, while a mountain of unopened cardboard boxes from Karim’s latest sales venture occupied one corner of the living room. "Look at you! You’ve grown another centimetre. I swear they must be feeding you horse meat at that academy."

Rayan dropped his bag beside the sofa and surveyed the familiar, untidy room. A half-empty carton of milk stood on the counter beside a stack of unpaid utility bills, and the little refrigerator groaned loudly as it struggled to stay cold.

"Did you buy the groceries I texted you about?" Rayan asked, opening the fridge to discover three eggs, a jar of pickled peppers and a single bottle of hot sauce. "The nutrition coach said I need a proper high-protein meal before tomorrow’s tactical session."

"Ah, the nutrition coach." Karim waved one hand dismissively as he searched a drawer for his wallet. "Those people are philosophers, Rayan. They think with clipboards instead of their stomachs. Don’t worry. Your father has everything under control. Tonight, we celebrate. I just secured a new contract with a major electronics distributor in Amadora. Next month, we’ll be moving out of this place. A larger apartment, a modern kitchen, maybe even a garage for a proper car."

Rayan felt the familiar, cautious ache in his chest. He loved his father’s limitless optimism. It was an infectious, beautiful energy that could make almost anything sound possible. But Rayan had heard about the Amadora distributor before. He had also heard about the shipment of phone cases that was supposed to make them rich and the imported sports drinks that had expired inside the hallway cupboard. Karim always lived three months in the future, forever one deal away from luxury, while the fridge in the present remained almost empty.

"Come on," Karim said, wrapping an arm around Rayan’s shoulders. "We’ll order from Youssef down the street. Proper Moroccan lamb tagine. Protein? It has enough protein to make you run through a brick wall. My treat."

An hour later, the small living room was filled with the rich scent of spiced lamb and warm flatbread. They sat on the floor with their backs against the sofa while the television’s glow illuminated the room. An old PlayStation console buzzed loudly beneath the screen.

"Watch this," Karim said, pointing a torn piece of flatbread at the television, where a grainy clip showed Cristiano Ronaldo playing for Manchester United against Arsenal in 2009. The famous long-range free kick flew into the net. "Look at the stance, Rayan. Look at the chest. He didn’t care that the whole stadium was whistling at him. He knew he was the king. I remember watching him at Sporting. He trained harder than everyone. That is what you have inside you. The same fire."

"I don’t think it’s the same fire, Dad," Rayan muttered, turning his controller over in his hands. They had just finished a match of EA Sports FC that Rayan had won four–one, although Karim insisted the game’s mechanics were biased against his defensive system. "He’s Cristiano."

"And you are Rayan," Karim said firmly, his usual theatrical energy sharpening into something more intense. "Do you remember when you were three years old in the park near our old house? The ball was almost larger than your head. The other children kept falling over, but you touched it with the inside of your foot and then the outside. Natural. Nobody with a whistle taught you that. I saw it then, and I still see it now."

Rayan lowered his gaze to his hands. The warmth of the food and his father’s pride formed a powerful shield against Coach Tavares’s cold criticism and Duarte Faria’s dismissive comments. Yet as the evening continued, the weight of the academy email returned, pressing against his chest until he could no longer keep it inside.

"Dad," Rayan said quietly, keeping his eyes on the television as Ronaldo wheeled away in celebration. "The mid-season reviews begin next week."

"Good," Karim replied, taking a drink of soda. "It’s time to show them you’re ready for the starting eleven."

"No, Dad, you don’t understand." Rayan’s voice cracked, exposing the raw vulnerability beneath his attempts to appear composed. "I’m not close to the starting eleven. I’m near the bottom of the list. I only played eight minutes last weekend, and I ruined both opportunities. I didn’t pass, I lost the ball and I missed the target by metres. If the review goes badly, they might not renew my registration. They might release me."

The room fell silent, leaving only the muted sound of television commentary.

Karim set his cup on the floor. He did not look angry. He looked deeply, personally offended on his son’s behalf. He reached forward and gripped the back of Rayan’s neck, pulling him closer until their foreheads almost touched.

"Listen to me," Karim said, his voice filled with absolute certainty. "Those coaches are blind men searching for robots. They want boys who pass backwards and smile politely while doing it. You have magic in your feet, Rayan. You have courage. They don’t know how to use you because they are afraid of players who are different. One match. One great performance where you score twice, and every note on those clipboards will become worthless. They’ll be begging you to sign another contract."

Rayan stared into his father’s eyes. He wanted desperately to believe him. He wanted football to work like a film, where one perfect moment could repair every structural weakness, where passion and destiny aligned to fix his poor decisions and heavy first touch. It was an incredibly comforting thought. A warm blanket that pushed the fear away.

But deep inside the quiet part of his mind shaped by Alcochete’s relentless professionalism, Rayan knew Karim did not understand the academy’s machinery. Karim did not know about the GPS vests recording every high-intensity sprint. He did not know about the tactical reports proving Rayan reacted several seconds more slowly than Duarte Faria during transitions. Karim could offer an endless supply of hope, but he did not have a single practical answer for how Rayan was supposed to improve his first touch or recognise the correct passing lane.

"Yeah," Rayan whispered, forcing a small smile as he pulled back. "One match."

"Exactly!" Karim clapped him on the shoulder, his booming energy returning instantly. "Now turn off this rubbish television. We need to rest. Tomorrow morning, I’ll drive you to the training centre myself. We arrive early. We show them El Mansouri discipline!"

---

The discipline of the El Mansouri family, however, was currently at the mercy of a nineteen-year-old starter motor.

"Come on, you piece of rubbish," Karim muttered, twisting the key in the ignition of his faded blue Opel Corsa.

The engine responded with a pathetic click-click-click, followed by a low, dying whine that sounded almost like a mechanical sigh. The dashboard lights flickered twice before fading completely. The radio clock read 08:14.

"Dad, it isn’t going to start," Rayan said, his pulse accelerating into a frantic rhythm. He was already wearing his training gear beneath his jacket, his boots clutched against his chest like a lifeline. "The battery’s dead. I told you we should have checked it last night."

"The battery is fine! It’s only the cold morning air," Karim insisted, striking the steering wheel with the heel of his hand before turning toward Rayan. Genuine panic entered his expression, although he quickly attempted to bury it beneath a confident smile. "Okay. Fine. No problem. The universe is testing us, Rayan. We take the train. Run to the station. Go!"

Rayan did not wait for another word. He threw open the car door and sprinted down the residential street, his heavy kit bag striking his thigh with every step. The sharp morning air burned his lungs as he raced down the concrete station stairs and swiped his transport card across the barrier moments before the train arrived.

The journey became a nightmare of delays, hurried connections and agonising stretches where the train seemed to crawl. Every minute on his phone’s digital clock felt like another drop escaping from a leaking bucket.

08:28. The train slowed between stations.

08:41. Rayan sprinted across the platform at Oriente, his lungs screaming as he raced toward the academy shuttle.

08:52. The shuttle turned onto the long road leading toward Sporting’s training complex in Alcochete.

When the bus finally stopped outside the main academy building, Rayan did not walk. He flew. He charged through the glass doors, his trainers squeaking across the polished floor and his breath tearing from his chest in ragged gasps. He rushed down the corridor toward the under-sixteen dressing room, one hand already reaching for the metal handle.

He pulled the door open at exactly 08:56.

The room was silent. Twenty-two boys were already seated on the wooden benches, their boots immaculate and black tactical folders open across their laps. At the front stood Coach João Tavares beside a large magnetic board covered with red and blue markers.

Every head in the room turned toward Rayan.

Duarte Faria, sitting comfortably near the centre of the bench, released a quiet, mocking cough into his fist. Two defenders beside him smirked.

Rayan remained in the doorway, his hair dishevelled from the sprint and his chest heaving. His face burned with equal parts shame and exhaustion. Training technically began in four minutes, but he was already eleven minutes late for the tactical briefing.

Coach Tavares did not shout. He did not throw the marker in his hand. He simply stopped speaking halfway through a sentence and fixed Rayan with a cold, analytical stare that felt far worse than anger. Slowly, he lowered the marker and let his gaze travel from Rayan’s frantic eyes to the dirty trainers he had not had time to change.

"Nice of you to join us, El Mansouri," Tavares said, his voice dangerously quiet in the still room. "I assume Lisbon’s public transport network does not operate according to the schedule of a professional football academy."

"I’m sorry, Coach," Rayan panted, lowering his head. "My father’s car wouldn’t start, and I had to—"

"I am not interested in the mechanical history of your father’s vehicle," Tavares interrupted, his voice as sharp as a blade. Without looking away, he reached toward the small desk behind him and picked up a black leather binder containing the squad’s evaluation records.

With slow, deliberate movements, Tavares opened the binder to the section bearing Rayan’s name. He picked up his pen and wrote a short note near the top of the page, the scratch of the nib sounding unnaturally loud in the silent room.

Rayan watched the pen move and imagined the words being added. ’Unreliable. Poor preparation. Questionable discipline.’ All of it recorded days before the individual evaluation meeting.

"Take your seat," Tavares said, closing the binder with a dull thud. "Change your boots. You have two minutes before we go onto the pitch. If you are not standing on the grass when the whistle blows, you can spend the rest of the morning completing conditioning runs with the fitness coach."

Rayan hurried toward the corner of the room, his hands trembling so badly that he could barely untie his trainers. He felt twenty-one pairs of eyes following his movements, but none weighed as heavily as the black binder resting on the coach’s desk. A record that seemed to grow longer and darker with every passing day.