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Chapter 23: Volume 1, - 23: The Promise Karim Cannot Keep

Chapter 23: Volume 1, Chapter 23: The Promise Karim Cannot Keep

The smell of black coffee and fried sardines filled Karim’s small apartment in Amadora.

It was Thursday evening. Two days before the Lisbon Derby. Karim El Mansouri paced across the worn laminate floor with a grin that transformed his tired face. His clothes carried the faint smell of petrol and outside air, and his shoulders sagged from another day spent chasing delivery work, but his eyes held a bright, youthful excitement Rayan had not seen in months.

"Listen to me, Rayan," Karim said, gesturing with both hands. "It’s done. I spoke to Eduardo this afternoon. He knows someone managing a construction site near Parque das Nações. They need another labourer starting Monday. Full days, overtime when they have deadlines and proper weekly wages."

Rayan sat on the edge of the frayed brown sofa, his hands clasped between his knees. He had learned not to ask too many questions when Karim announced a new opportunity. The jobs were always close to becoming permanent until a manager stopped answering, a delivery company changed contractors or Karim found some reason the arrangement had never been fair to begin with.

Even so, the hope on his father’s face made it difficult to remain sceptical.

"That’s great, Dad," Rayan said. "I hope it works out."

"It will work out." Karim pointed towards the doorway, where Rayan’s current boots rested beside his academy bag. The faded black Mercurials had carried him through nearly an entire season. The material near the left toe had begun separating from the sole, and strips of black tape covered a split near the heel. "And those things are finished. A Sporting player cannot enter a Derby wearing boots held together by tape and prayer."

"They’ll survive one more match."

"They shouldn’t have to." Karim dropped into the armchair opposite him, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees. "Tomorrow, after I confirm everything with Eduardo, I’m going to Vasco da Gama. You remember the white-and-gold boots you showed me?"

Rayan’s breath caught.

He remembered them. They were the highest-level model in the shop window, far beyond what either of his parents could reasonably afford. He had shown Karim a photograph weeks earlier without expecting anything more than an exaggerated promise.

Karim slapped one palm against his knee. "I’m buying them. Your first Derby after the suspension deserves proper boots."

Rayan knew Sofia had already set aside money for a new pair. She had taken additional clinic shifts and reduced several household expenses so she could afford a durable lower-tier model on Friday afternoon. She had calculated every euro in front of him and made him promise to choose something practical rather than fashionable.

He considered telling Karim. It would prevent him from wasting money he did not have.

Then Rayan looked at his father’s face.

Karim looked proud. More than that, he looked relieved. As though buying the boots might prove that all his missed support payments, cancelled weekends and uncertain jobs had not made him irrelevant.

"Thanks, Dad," Rayan said quietly. "That would mean a lot."

He did not mention Sofia’s plan.

He could not bring himself to take the moment away from him.

An hour later, father and son walked towards the uneven public field behind Karim’s apartment block. The grass had grown long around the edges, while the central area had been reduced to dry earth and scattered stones. Karim carried a scuffed football beneath one arm as though they were walking onto a professional training pitch.

"Show me the turn," Karim called after rolling his sleeves above his forearms. "The one your coaches keep teaching. Receive, protect and go."

Rayan took a short pass, cushioned it with the inside of his right foot and completed a controlled drag-back before changing direction.

Karim clapped once. "Too gentle. You have to make the defender feel you. Plant your standing foot and throw the shoulder in."

He demonstrated with a heavy, exaggerated movement that sent a clump of earth into the air. His balance wobbled when his foot struck an uneven patch, but he recovered with a laugh.

A small assessment appeared in Rayan’s vision.

[TECHNICAL OBSERVATION]

[Demonstrated Movement: Heavy drag-back with excessive standing-leg force.]

[Efficiency: Low.]

[Injury Risk: Elevated on unstable ground.]

[Instructional Accuracy: Limited.]

Rayan dismissed the message.

Karim was not an academy coach, and nothing about his demonstration would improve Rayan’s football. Correcting him would only turn an evening together into another reminder of the gap between his father’s memories and reality.

Rayan placed the ball down and copied a safer version of the movement, adding enough force to satisfy him.

"That’s it!" Karim shouted. "Now you look strong."

The ball caught a stone and bounced away from both of them. Karim chased it, slipped slightly and windmilled his arms before regaining his balance. Rayan laughed so hard that he had to bend over.

"You think that’s funny?" Karim demanded, although he was laughing too. "Wait until your legs reach forty. The ground starts moving before you touch it."

For the next hour, they passed the ball across the fading light. Karim told stories about amateur matches in Setúbal, most of which became less believable with every retelling. Rayan practised simple first touches and allowed his father to celebrate each clean turn as though he had personally designed it.

There were no tactical boards, retention meetings or system objectives. It was only a father and son playing football on poor grass until the light disappeared.

It was the happiest Rayan had felt all week.

By Friday evening, the warmth of the previous night had vanished.

At 19:30, Rayan stood inside the narrow hallway of the Olivais apartment with his phone in one hand. He had sent Karim four messages since early afternoon.

Dad, did you confirm the work?

Are you still going to Vasco da Gama?

Let me know when you’re coming.

Dad?

None had been read. Two calls had gone directly to voicemail.

The front door opened, and Sofia entered carrying a red cardboard shoebox beneath one arm. Dark circles marked the skin beneath her eyes after another long clinic shift, but she still removed her shoes carefully before stepping onto the rug.

She placed the box on the hallway table and lifted the lid.

Inside sat a pair of dark-blue Adidas Copa boots. They were not the expensive professional model Karim had promised. They were sturdy, properly fitted and built to survive repeated sessions on wet artificial turf.

"Try them before dinner," Sofia said as she unbuttoned her coat. "Your old pair cannot be trusted through another full match."

Rayan looked from the boots to his phone.

"Mum... Dad said he was buying some today. He said he got construction work through Eduardo."

Sofia stopped moving.

The exhaustion in her face deepened into something flatter and more painful than anger. "Rayan, there is no construction job."

"He told me—"

"I called Eduardo after Karim mentioned the same site to Leonor last week. The project has been delayed, and Eduardo has no authority to hire anyone." Sofia stepped closer, keeping her voice low. "Your father heard about possible work and turned it into a job before anyone offered it to him."

Rayan’s jaw tightened. "Maybe he still found something else."

"Maybe he is trying." Sofia rested one hand on the shoebox. "But trying and doing are not the same thing."

"He wanted to buy them for me."

"I know he did."

"He wasn’t lying just to hurt me."

"I know that too." Sofia’s tone softened, but the firmness remained. "He tells you what he wishes were true. He wants to be the father who buys the expensive boots and arrives with good news. But wanting to provide does not pay at the register."

A hot, defensive pressure rose inside Rayan’s chest. "You always make him sound useless."

"I did not say he was useless." Sofia looked directly at him. "I said you cannot build tomorrow around promises he has not fulfilled. These boots are here. They fit. Pack them."

Rayan stared at the dark-blue boots. He wanted to argue, but every unread message on his phone weakened the words before they reached his mouth.

Sofia touched his shoulder once and walked towards the kitchen.

"The Derby begins at eleven tomorrow," she said. "Your father’s intentions cannot play it for you."

Rayan remained alone in the hallway, looking at the screen.

Still no answer.

At 21:00, Rayan sat on the edge of his bed packing his matchday bag. Sofia’s boots rested beside the opening, their laces loosened and ready for the morning.

His phone vibrated.

For one hopeful second, he expected Karim’s name.

The message came from Leonor.

Did Dad speak to you today?

Rayan frowned and replied.

Not since yesterday. Why?

Three dots appeared, disappeared and returned.

He promised he would come to my school showcase at six.

He didn’t come.

One of the teachers stayed with me until Mum finished work.

Rayan stared at the messages.

Leonor was twelve. Old enough to understand when adults made excuses and young enough to keep hoping they would eventually stop.

He tried to construct a defence for Karim. Perhaps his phone had died. Perhaps he had spent the evening searching for money. Perhaps he had believed the work would come through until the final moment.

None of those possibilities changed the fact that Leonor had sat in a school corridor waiting for him.

Rayan typed several responses and deleted each one.

He probably tried.

Something must have happened.

Don’t be angry with him.

The words felt useless. They were the same explanations he had repeated to himself for years.

Eventually, he sent only one message.

I’m sorry, Leo. You shouldn’t have had to wait alone.

Her reply arrived a minute later.

It’s fine. Good luck tomorrow.

Rayan placed the phone face-down on the bed.

The family tension settled heavily across his chest, draining the focus he had spent the entire week building. He packed Sofia’s boots, checked his shin guards twice and zipped the bag shut.

Karim still had not replied.

---

At 07:40 on Saturday morning. The academy complex at Alcochete remained wrapped in darkness and freezing fog.

Rayan stood near the main glass entrance with his sports bag over one shoulder. The under-16 squad was reporting early for breakfast, medical checks and the final tactical meeting before the 11:00 Lisbon Derby against Benfica on Pitch 1.

Players arrived in small groups, their breath steaming beneath the yellow security lights. Rayan had just greeted Rafa when a rattling blue hatchback turned into the drop-off area and stopped abruptly beside the pavement.

The driver’s door opened.

Karim climbed out wearing a faded green jumper without a coat. His hair was untidy, his eyes were bloodshot and his face carried the frantic energy of someone who had not slept.

"Rayan!" he called, hurrying across the asphalt. "Wait."

Several players turned. Duarte glanced over before returning to his conversation with Bernardo.

Rayan stepped away from the group. "Dad? What are you doing here?"

"I got them." Karim thrust a crumpled plastic shopping bag into his hands. His breathing came heavily, as though he had run from the academy gate. "The proper shops were closed when I finally had the money, but the market opened early. I found these."

Rayan looked inside.

The boots were white with cheap gold-coloured detailing, clearly designed to resemble the expensive model Karim had promised. The material was rigid, the studs were hard plastic and the label displayed EU 41.

Rayan wore a size forty-three.

Karim had not noticed.

"White and gold," he said, smiling with exhausted triumph. "Exactly like I promised. Your father delivers."

Rayan looked at the undersized boots and then at Karim’s hands. His fingers were red from the cold, and a fresh scrape crossed one knuckle. He had probably spent the night borrowing money, travelling across Lisbon or searching market stalls because arriving empty-handed felt worse to him than missing everything else.

Karim’s gaze dropped towards Rayan’s open academy bag.

Sofia’s dark-blue Copas rested inside.

His smile disappeared.

The change was not anger. It was quieter and more painful. His shoulders sagged as the truth caught up with him.

"Oh," he said. "Your mother already bought some."

Rayan said nothing.

Karim stared at the plastic bag. "These might be a little stiff. They’ll soften after a few sessions."

Rayan removed one boot and examined the size label again. Wearing them would be impossible, and pretending otherwise would only extend the lie.

"Dad," he said gently, "they’re too small."

Karim looked at the tag.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

"I thought you were still a forty-one," Karim whispered.

"I haven’t been a forty-one since last season."

The remaining pride drained from his face. "Right. Of course."

Rayan could have lied and claimed he would wear them later. He could have protected Karim in the same way he always had. Instead, he returned the boot to the bag and held it towards him.

"Keep the receipt if they gave you one. We can exchange them."

Karim swallowed. "I bought them from a stall."

"Then we’ll figure something out after the match."

A trembling breath escaped Karim. "I tried, Rayan."

"I know." Rayan looked directly at him. "But Leonor waited for you yesterday."

Karim’s eyes lowered.

"I lost track of everything. I was trying to find the money, and then my phone died. I thought I could still—"

"You should call her."

"I will."

"Today, Dad. Not when you find the perfect explanation."

Karim nodded slowly. For once, he did not hide behind a joke or grand promise.

Rayan placed the bag in the side compartment of his duffel. He would not wear the boots, but he would not leave them on the cold pavement either.

"Thank you for trying to get them," he said. "But Mum’s pair fits, so I’m using those."

Karim’s expression tightened, though he managed a small nod. "Of course. Use the proper pair."

The academy doors opened behind them as staff began calling players inside.

Karim touched Rayan’s shoulder. His hand was rough and cold. "Play well today."

"I’ll do my best."

"Show them what an El Mansouri can do."

Rayan almost smiled. "I’ll show them what Sporting needs me to do."

Karim watched him for a moment before releasing his shoulder. He returned to the hatchback with his head bowed against the wind.

Rayan stood beneath the academy lights until the car disappeared into the fog.

Then he entered the building.

At 10:20, the Sporting under-16 changing room was quiet except for the scrape of studs and the low hum of the ventilation system.

Coach Tavares stood beside the tactical board, writing the starting line-up in black marker. Duarte Faria would start on the left wing. Rayan’s name remained in the substitute column beside the number eleven.

There was no guaranteed playing time. Tavares had promised him nothing beyond a place in the matchday squad.

Rayan sat at his locker and opened his bag. He removed Sofia’s dark-blue boots and slid his feet inside them. The fit was firm and comfortable, the heel secure and the studs appropriate for the damp artificial surface outside.

Karim’s white boots remained inside the side compartment.

He did not place them beside his match equipment or pretend they were a usable alternative. They were not.

They were simply something his father had brought him.

One pair represented Sofia’s planning, overtime and refusal to let hope replace preparation. The other represented Karim’s affection, shame and inability to understand that love could not repair every broken promise after the deadline had already passed.

Rayan tightened the laces and rested his forearms on his thighs.

A quiet system assessment appeared.

[MATCH READINESS ASSESSMENT]

[Physical Condition: 92%.]

[Tactical Preparation: Stable.]

[Psychological Load: Elevated.]

[Primary Cause: Unresolved family stress.]

[Estimated Match Readiness: 79%.]

[Advisory: Emotional conflict cannot be removed before kick-off.]

[Recommended Response: Maintain task-based focus and execute the next required action.]

Rayan dismissed the display.

Around him, the starters rose to complete their final activation. The noise from the gathering crowd travelled faintly through the walls.

Tavares capped his marker and turned towards the squad.

"Five minutes until we go out."