New Novel
Chapter 20: Volume 1, - 20: The House Is Still the House

Chapter 20: Volume 1, Chapter 20: The House Is Still the House

The heavy wooden door of the Olivais apartment slammed shut at 14:00 on Saturday, transforming the quiet hallway into a wave of muddy trainers, plastic shopping bags and overlapping voices.

"Take your shoes off at the door," Rayan shouted as he kicked off his own slides. "If my mother finds black marks on the rug, she’ll throw all of us down the stairs before dinner."

Joca placed a greasy paper bag from the local chicken shop on the dining table beside two wireless controllers and a crumpled mathematics folder that looked as though it had been dragged behind a bus.

"Relax, El Mansouri," he said, pulling out a chair. "We brought food, academic materials and entertainment. This is an official high-performance study summit."

Within ten minutes, six teenagers had occupied almost every available space in the small living room. Mateus claimed the corner beside the window and connected his phone to Rayan’s cheap Bluetooth speaker, filling the room with a low instrumental beat. Idris sat on the rug with his back against the sofa, his laptop open and several colour-coded formula cards arranged beside him. Rafa took the edge of the armchair, while Inês sat cross-legged near the coffee table and opened a packet of corn chips.

Joca remained standing in the middle of the room, holding his phone as though he were presenting evidence in court.

"Look at this," he announced. "The left-foot video passed fourteen hundred views overnight. And read the top comment."

Rayan leaned over from the dining table, where he had been unpacking his history workbook.

"Is this the Rayan El Mansouri from Sporting’s under-16s? Saw him come on against Sacavenense. Kept it simple and played well."

"That is a real supporter," Joca declared, waving the phone. "Not someone from school. Not one of Karim’s cousins using five different accounts. An actual person watched you play and then searched for the video."

"It’s one comment," Rayan said, although a quiet warmth spread through his chest. "And he called my football simple."

"Simple is good," Idris replied without looking away from his screen. "Simple kept Sporting from giving away the lead yesterday."

Joca pointed at him triumphantly. "Exactly. The brand is evolving. First, he was the academy winger who fell over while juggling. Now, he is the intelligent substitute who makes reverse passes."

"Fourteen hundred views is not a brand," Idris said. "It is one successful video. You need consistent uploads before you start speaking like a media executive."

Mateus stopped adjusting the volume and leaned back against the wall. "Why do you turn every joke into a business lesson? We came here to play FC, eat chicken and help Rayan avoid failing mathematics."

"Because Joca keeps claiming he is building a production company with a phone that only works when the screen is tilted sideways."

"The screen works perfectly at forty-five degrees," Joca protested. "And the company structure is obvious. I handle filming and editing, Mateus produces the music, and Idris handles the tax evasion."

"I handle the accounts," Idris corrected. "Legally."

Laughter rolled through the room. Mateus began tapping a rhythm against the wooden arm of his chair, humming a bassline over the instrumental playing from the speaker.

"I’m uploading a new mix next Friday," he said. "I sampled one of my grandfather’s old fado records and put a drill beat beneath it. When I finally get proper decks, I’m playing the school party."

While Mateus and Joca argued about whether a school party counted as a professional booking, Rayan’s attention drifted towards Rafa.

He had barely spoken since they arrived. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, pulling slowly at a loose thread on his tracksuit trousers while the others discussed the video.

Perhaps now would be a good time to mention that Rafa had transferred (poached) from Benfica to Sporting.

Rayan suspected he understood why. Rafa had played almost the entire match against Sacavenense and had struck the post from Rayan’s pass, yet the comments beneath Joca’s video focused almost entirely on Rayan’s fifteen-minute appearance. Rafa was more technically gifted, a better passer and far more secure with either foot, but social media did not reward the invisible work that allowed someone else’s moment to shine.

The tension wasn’t open jealousy. Rafa had congratulated him after the match and joked about the pass. Even so, it was difficult to sit inside someone else’s house while everyone discussed how quickly that person’s name was beginning to spread.

Inês noticed the change before anyone could make it awkward. She pulled a deck of cards from her bag and shuffled it with a sharp snap that cut through the music.

"Enough discussion about Joca’s imaginary empire," she announced, placing several cards face down on the rug. "Memory challenge. Five seconds per turn. Whoever finishes last cleans the grease off the coffee table."

"I’m in," Mateus said immediately, sliding down from his chair.

Inês flicked one card towards the armchair. It landed near Rafa’s trainer.

"Rafa, you’re first. Let’s see whether all that supposed football vision works when the ball isn’t involved."

Rafa looked up. A small competitive spark returned to his expression. "Supposed?"

"You hit the post yesterday," Inês reminded him. "A player with perfect vision would have seen the six centimetres between the ball and the inside of the goal."

Rayan covered his mouth to hide a laugh.

Rafa stood and lowered himself onto the rug opposite her. "Deal the cards."

For the next twenty minutes, the living room became an arena of memory patterns, accusations and arguments over whether Mateus had moved one of the cards while nobody was looking. Inês played quickly but deliberately, creating combinations that rewarded concentration rather than luck.

Rafa adapted within two rounds. His quiet mood disappeared as he tracked every card that had been turned, calling out patterns before the others recognised them. He won the final three rounds comfortably, leaving Idris staring at the cards with genuine irritation.

"The distribution should not have favoured you that consistently," Idris muttered.

"It’s not distribution," Rafa said, gathering the deck with a relaxed grin. "It’s vision."

Rayan caught Inês’s eye across the rug. She responded with a tiny nod before reaching into the chicken bag and stealing the largest piece.

At 16:30, a sharp double knock sounded from the front door.

Rayan climbed over Mateus’s legs and opened it. Bia stood in the corridor with a canvas school bag over one shoulder, dressed in a plain denim jacket and black jeans.

"I’m not staying," she said before Rayan could invite her inside. She removed a neatly organised plastic folder from her bag and held it towards him. "These are the history and Portuguese summaries for the work you missed. Senhor Costa said the portfolio section needs to be submitted on Monday."

Rayan accepted the folder, feeling the weight of two weeks of neatly written notes inside it. "Thanks, Bia. Seriously. I’m almost caught up, and Idris is helping me with the mathematics assessment."

Bia glanced beyond his shoulder.

Inside the living room, Joca was attempting to balance a plastic bottle against his forehead while Mateus filmed him. Rafa and Inês were arguing over the card game, and Idris had placed his laptop safely on a chair to protect it from a possible spill.

"Clearly, this is a very serious study session," Bia said, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly.

"We studied for almost twenty minutes."

"Impressive." She adjusted the strap of her bag. "Don’t mix up the dates in the industrial-development section. If you fail after I organised all of that, I’m never lending you notes again."

"I won’t," Rayan promised. "I’ll see you on Monday."

"Monday."

Bia turned and walked towards the concrete stairwell, her steps quick and purposeful. Rayan closed the door and turned around.

The living room had gone completely silent.

Five pairs of eyes stared directly at him.

Joca slowly lowered his phone, a terrible grin spreading across his face. "’I’m not staying,’" he repeated in a high voice. "’I just happened to carry two weeks of beautifully organised notes across Olivais because I care deeply about your education, Rayan.’"

"Shut up," Rayan said, holding the folder against his chest.

"Look at his face!" Mateus shouted. "Sporting’s fearless winger is terrified of a girl carrying a library bag."

"She is helping me with school."

"She didn’t bring notes for the rest of us," Rafa observed, his earlier mood completely gone.

Even Idris looked up from his laptop. "From a purely evidential perspective, the delivery was unusually personalised."

Rayan grabbed a sofa cushion and threw it towards Joca. Joca ducked, causing it to strike Mateus instead, and within seconds the entire room descended into shouting, laughter and accusations.

By 19:00, the apartment was quiet again.

The others had collected their bags and left for the metro station, leaving behind empty cans, chicken wrappers and several crumpled napkins. Rayan had considered abandoning the mess until the following morning, but one look at the time reminded him that Sofia would return soon.

When she entered after completing a grocery run, she removed her coat, stepped into the living room and stopped.

Rayan was already sweeping the floor. The grease had been wiped from the coffee table, the sofa cushions were arranged properly, the cans had been separated for recycling and his textbooks were stacked on the corner of the dining table.

Sofia rested both hands on her hips. "Who are you, and what have you done with my son?"

Rayan laughed and emptied the dustpan into the rubbish bag. "I’m cleaning before my evening study block."

She walked to the table and lowered herself into a chair. She looked tired, her shoulders sloping forwards after a long week at the clinic, but there was a calmness in her expression that had been absent for months.

"Rayan," she said.

He looked over his shoulder. "Yeah, Mum?"

"Sit down for a moment."

Rayan placed the broom against the wall and sat across from her.

Sofia studied his face: the healing cut on his lip from Duarte’s foul, the tiredness beneath his eyes and the way he now sat upright rather than collapsing into the chair.

"I’ve been watching you," she began. "Not only today or during the Sacavenense match. I hear your alarm before six every morning. I see you complete your exercises outside when it is freezing. I see you sitting at this table every evening without forcing me to argue with you first."

Rayan remained silent.

"You know how frightened football makes me," Sofia continued, placing both hands flat on the table. "You are building your future around something that can disappear because of one injury, one coach or one bad season. That will never stop worrying me. Seeing you pass mathematics will always make me feel more secure than seeing you score a goal."

She paused before reaching across the table and covering his hand with hers.

"But I am not blind. You were suspended, warned by the academy and falling behind at school. The old Rayan would have hidden the assignments, blamed everyone else and waited until the consequences arrived. This time, you got up and worked."

Her fingers tightened gently around his hand.

"You are still making mistakes. You still complain, and this apartment still turns into a disaster whenever your friends visit. But you are trying to become responsible for your own life. I am proud of you, Rayan. Truly."

A heavy lump formed inside his throat.

For weeks, he had carried the pressure of the system, the thirty-day deadline and the fear that every mistake might destroy his future. Praise from Tavares had mattered, but hearing Sofia acknowledge his effort touched something deeper.

"Thanks, Mum," Rayan whispered, squeezing her hand. "I’m not going to waste this chance."

Sofia smiled, the expression softening the tired lines around her eyes. "Good. Now finish cleaning. You still have ninety minutes of history before bed."

Rayan laughed quietly. "There it is."

"Pride does not complete assignments."

At 21:30, Rayan lay beneath the thin duvet in his bedroom. The apartment had become completely still, and the exhaustion of the week had settled into a strange sense of clarity.

’Interface.’

The indigo display appeared above him.

[THIRTY-DAY FOUNDATION CHALLENGE]

[Day 17 of 30 Complete.]

[Progress: 56.7%.]

[Halfway Threshold Surpassed.]

The information shifted into a limited development summary.

[FOUNDATION MIDPOINT REVIEW]

[Overall Ability: 42/100.]

[Technical Security Proficiency: +2.8% cumulative.]

[Weak-Foot Proficiency: 1.6 Stars.]

[Scanning Proficiency: +1.8% cumulative.]

[Competitive Composure — Developing: 8.4%.]

[Training Discipline — Developing: 15%.]

[Pure Touch — Tier One: 10%.]

[Academic Objective: Pending formal assessment.]

[Disciplinary Objective: Compliant.]

[Full Player Profile: Locked.]

A golden notification appeared beneath the summary.

[FOUNDATION CHALLENGE — SECOND HALF]

[Initial adaptation period complete.]

[Thirteen days remain.]

[Upcoming High-Pressure Events:]

[— Formal mathematics assessment.]

[— Lisbon Derby: Sporting CP U16 vs SL Benfica U16.]

[Notice: The remaining period will test whether current behavioural and technical improvements remain stable under increased pressure.]

Rayan stared at the message.

Seventeen days earlier, he had been reckless, frightened and waiting for someone else to rescue him. He was still nowhere near becoming a complete player. His attributes remained low, his left foot was unreliable and his place at Sporting was not secure.

The apartment was still small. Karim was still unreliable. Sofia was still exhausted. His schoolwork was still waiting every evening.

The house was still the house.

But Rayan was no longer moving through it in exactly the same way.

He closed his eyes and released a long breath as the interface dissolved into the darkness.

Thirteen days remained.

And the Derby was coming.