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Chapter 33: Volume 1, - 33: The Second Start Is Harder

Chapter 33: Volume 1, Chapter 33: The Second Start Is Harder

The first sign that everything had changed was not a word of praise from Coach Tavares, nor was it a text message confirming Rayan’s place in the starting eleven.

It was Duarte trying to drive a boot through the back of his calves.

Rayan had barely cushioned the pass when Duarte arrived from behind, slamming a shoulder between his shoulder blades while trying to stab a foot around his legs. A week earlier, the winger would have given him space to turn before letting him fall apart under his own poor choices. Now, Duarte pressed as though Rayan were a genuine threat.

The ball spilled away toward the touchline.

Stumbling after it, Rayan managed to hook his foot around the ball just before it went out, throwing his weight back to shield it. Duarte leaned in hard, using his lower-body strength to crowd Rayan off the line. When Rayan tried to roll inside, Duarte anticipated the move, cleanly hooking possession away toward a midfielder.

"Too slow," Duarte muttered, accelerating away.

Rayan clenched his jaw and gave chase.

The small-sided match continued without a pause. Coach Tavares stood outside the grid with his arms folded, watching every exchange while an assistant took notes beside him. Rayan had learned enough over the last month to know that Tavares’s silence was not approval. It meant he was gathering evidence.

Duarte received the return pass and attacked down the left. Rayan tracked him, expecting the usual cut inside, but Duarte stopped dead and slipped the ball straight between Rayan’s feet instead.

A few players on the sideline shouted in amusement.

Heat rushed into Rayan’s face.

He spun on his heel to follow, but Duarte had already laid the ball off into the centre before Rayan could even think about making a tackle.

[Defensive sequence reviewed.]

[Primary error: Emotional response delayed recovery movement by 0.8 seconds.]

’Not now,’ Rayan thought, forcing the interface out of his mind.

He repositioned himself as the opposition circulated the ball. He could feel Duarte glancing over at him, waiting to see if the embarrassment would pull him out of shape.

It nearly did.

For most of the week, training had followed this exact pattern. His improved first touch was still there, but nobody was surprised by it anymore. Teammates closed him down faster. Defenders blocked his inside routes before the pass even reached his feet. Even the players who used to treat his presence on the pitch as a chance to rest were now pressing him aggressively, eager to see if his newfound composure was just a fluke.

During Tuesday’s session, Rayan had controlled three difficult passes cleanly, only to lose possession twice because his next decision took too long. On Wednesday, he had beaten his first man, only to run straight into a second. By Thursday, his legs felt like lead, his confidence was wearing thin, and the system’s match reviews seemed determined to catalogue every single mistake he made.

The progress had not disappeared. The space to use it had.

"Rayan!"

Coach Tavares’s bark snapped him back to the drill.

The central midfielder on Rayan’s team had the ball, but Rayan was standing far too close to the other forward, offering neither width nor a passing lane.

He bolted toward the left touchline immediately. The pass followed, driven hard along the grass. Rayan checked over his shoulder, opened his hips, and brought it down with his right foot.

Duarte charged again.

This time, Rayan did not try to turn. He laid the ball off with a single touch, stepped past Duarte, and received the return pass the moment the defender’s momentum carried him out of the play.

It was a simple, almost boring exchange. But it worked.

Rayan advanced several metres before passing inside, opting against a forced dribble into the covering defender. Tavares said nothing, but the assistant beside him made a brief mark on his notepad.

The session ended twenty minutes later. Rayan sat on the grass, sweat cooling beneath his training shirt while the rest of the squad stretched. He had not dominated. Duarte had dispossessed him four times. On the flip side, Rayan had escaped the press twice, created one decent chance, and completed almost all his simple passes.

A month ago, that would have felt like a triumph. Now, it felt barely acceptable.

Coach Tavares walked into the centre of the group, holding a folded team sheet.

"Recovery tomorrow morning. The match squad meets here at nine on Saturday." He looked down at the paper and began reading the starting eleven.

Rayan tried to keep his face completely neutral when his name came up right after the defensive line.

Starting again.

Duarte was in too, lining up on the opposite wing.

A quick pulse of satisfaction hit Rayan, but it vanished the moment Tavares looked up.

"El Mansouri, stay behind."

The rest of the squad gathered their bottles and jackets. Duarte passed close enough for their shoulders to brush, though this time he kept his mouth shut. Rayan waited beside the touchline until the rest of the team had cleared off, leaving only Tavares and one assistant by the bench.

"You played sixty-two minutes last weekend," the coach said. "You were acceptable."

Rayan waited, expecting him to elaborate. Nothing came.

"Acceptable is good?" Rayan offered.

"It is better than poor."

It was not quite the reassurance he was hoping for.

Tavares tucked the folded paper under his arm. "You are starting because you have trained well enough to deserve another opportunity. That does not mean you own the position. One adequate performance does not erase months of dead weight."

"I know."

"Do you?" Tavares stepped closer. "You spent half of today’s session trying to prove you could beat Duarte every time he came near you."

"He was trying to embarrass me."

"He was trying to win the ball."

Rayan opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

"Players are starting to think you might be a threat," Tavares said. "Which means they are going to treat you like someone worth stopping. Improvement does not make football easier, Rayan. It just changes the difficulty of the game."

Those words stayed with Rayan all through Friday.

They followed him through school, where Joca would not stop asking if he could bring a camera to film the match. They lingered through lunch while Rafa debated the opposing academy’s tactics and Idris reminded him about an overdue assignment. At home, they echoed while Sofia cooked dinner and Leonor complained about his boots blocking the hallway again.

Improvement changes the game.

Rayan had spent weeks believing that if he could just control the ball properly, everything else would fall into place. But the cleaner his first touch became, the less time opponents were willing to give him.

Before bed, he pulled up the system profile.

[Next Appearance Objective]

[Complete three defensive recoveries.]

[Prevent one opposition overlap from producing a cross or shot.]

[Reward: Defensive-awareness proficiency.]

The objective was still active. Simple enough to understand, but demanding enough to weigh on his mind. He spent the next half-hour reviewing video footage of their opponents. Their right-back was aggressive, constantly overlapping whenever their winger cut inside. Rayan studied those movements until the system advised him to sleep.

He followed the prompt and closed his eyes.

The match kicked off beneath a pale sky, a cold breeze cutting across the academy pitch and blowing the voices of spectators back and forth across the touchline.

Sofia stood near the halfway line alongside Leonor. Karim had sent a text twenty minutes earlier saying he was on his way, though Rayan had tried not to look toward the entrance since warm-ups ended.

Sporting took the kickoff, cycling possession through the backline. Rayan stayed wide on the left, positioning himself between the opposition right-back and their central midfielder. The right-back looked older than fifteen, built with thick legs and a heavy chest.

The first pass toward Rayan arrived inside sixty seconds. He brought it down cleanly, but before he could turn, the right-back slammed directly into his side.

Rayan was knocked off balance, his boot skidding across the damp grass as the defender snatched the ball and charged forward.

No whistle.

The right-back possessed a sudden turn of speed that contradicted his heavy frame, taking the ball past Rayan before laying it off to his winger. Rayan turned and sprinted after him, but by the time he reached his own defensive third, Sporting’s left-back had already cut out the attack.

"Quicker!" the left-back yelled, glaring over at Rayan.

Rayan raised a hand in acknowledgment, his chest heaving far harder than it should have been just a minute into the game.

The next sequence went even worse.

Rayan took the ball near the touchline and attempted to shift it inside. The defender read it effortlessly, using his body to force Rayan outward before poking the ball clear. When Rayan tried to hunt it down, the right-back easily outpaced him again.

’He’s faster than he looks,’ Rayan thought.

A few minutes later, Rayan tried pushing down the outside. The defender ran shoulder-to-shoulder with him, leaning hard into his flank. Rayan’s lighter frame gave way completely; he stumbled off the pitch while the right-back launched a clearance up toward midfield.

Duarte shouted from the far wing. "Move it earlier!"

Rayan glared across the grass. Duarte was right, which only made it cut deeper.

Sporting kept trying to build down the left because Rayan was finding space to receive. The problem was what happened next. Every touch felt like a personal contest. Every time the right-back closed him down, Rayan felt compelled to win the duel single-handedly.

In the eighteenth minute, he controlled a diagonal pass with enough space to set up an easy pass inside. Instead, he waited for the defender to approach, stepping over the ball to bait him. The right-back didn’t bite. He simply tracked the ball and cut off Rayan’s path.

Rayan tried to force another touch, but the central midfielder arrived to clean up the loose ball.

"Release the ball!" Tavares’s voice roared from the technical area.

Rayan chased after the counterattack, anger tight in his chest. The opposition played the ball down Sporting’s right, keeping his error from leading to an immediate chance, but the damage was done. He was forcing it again.

Five minutes later, Sporting’s left-back made an overlapping run. Rayan saw it, but held onto the ball just a moment too long, wanting to draw the defender closer. By the time he released the pass, the left-back had drifted offside.

The referee blew the whistle.

The left-back threw his hands up in frustration. "Earlier, Rayan!"

"Sorry!"

The frustration carried right into the next play. When the ball came back to him, Rayan rushed his decision, whipping in a deep cross that the right-back blocked with ease.

The rebound dropped near Rayan’s feet, giving him a second chance. He tried to cut inside, lost his footing under pressure, and heard a collective groan from the parents as the opposition launched another quick counter.

His head was spinning. The defender wasn’t making impossible tackles; he was just stronger, faster, and far sharper than Rayan had anticipated.

Near the end of the half, Rayan finally managed to slip past him using a sharp one-two. For the first time, open grass stretched out before him. He drove toward the penalty area, ignored an open teammate in the middle, and tried to take on the covering centre-back himself.

The defender stripped the ball without breaking stride.

Sporting entered the break at 0–0.

Rayan walked toward the bench, pulling at the collar of his shirt. He was breathing harder than he ever had in his first start. He sank down onto the bench beside the left-back and reached for his water bottle.

Coach Tavares waited until the group went quiet before stepping up to the tactical board.

"We are taking far too many touches wide," he said, shifting two magnetic markers. "Move the ball before they trap us against the line. Midfield, get closer to support. Fullbacks, time your runs. They want us stretched so they can hit us on the break."

His eyes shifted over to Rayan.

"El Mansouri. What are you trying to achieve out there?"

"Beat him."

"I can see that."

A couple of players lowered their heads, hiding subtle smiles.

Rayan squeezed his bottle. "He’s on top of me the second I touch it."

"Then use it against him."

"He’s faster than me."

"Not with the ball at his feet. Not when he has to turn. And certainly not after you’ve already passed it." Tavares crouched down in front of the board. "You’re trying to win the entire match every time you get the ball. Stop. You don’t need to destroy the right-back by yourself. Drop five metres. Let our left-back push past you. Combine with him. Make the defender choose between sticking to you or covering the space behind."

Rayan looked at the marker representing his position. "If I drop, I’m further from the goal."

"And if you keep giving the ball away here, you’ll spend the second half sitting next to me."

That was the end of the conversation.

The referee’s whistle summoned them back out shortly after. Rayan walked out onto the pitch still feeling the sting of the critique, but the threat of being taken off outweighed his desire to prove a point.

The next time Sporting won possession, Rayan pulled inside toward the midfield instead of hugging the touchline. The right-back tracked him for a few steps, then hesitated as Sporting’s left-back began sprinting into the space behind him.

A passing lane opened.

Rayan took the pass from the central midfielder and laid it back with a single touch. The right-back took a step toward him, but Sporting’s left-back was already exploiting the vacant flank. Rayan turned and played a swift pass into his path.

The attack didn’t result in a shot. The eventual cross was cleared from the box, but it felt infinitely easier than anything Rayan had tried in the first half.

The next attack was even smoother. Rayan dropped deep, collected the ball without immediate pressure, and played it inside before making a run around the defender. The midfielder returned it to him in stride, forcing the right-back to turn toward his own goal.

Rayan drove forward and sent a low cross into the box. A centre-back headed it clear, but Sporting gathered the second ball.

Coach Tavares clapped loudly from the sideline.

Rayan noticed. So did the right-back.

The defender started playing tighter whenever Rayan dropped, which only freed up more space for Sporting’s left-back. Their combinations weren’t seamless. One pass was overhit, and another got cut out because Rayan telegraphed his intent. But the duel was no longer a one-sided defeat.

In the fifty-third minute, Sporting turned the ball over near the opponent’s penalty area. The opposing winger cut inside, drawing Sporting’s left-back with him. Rayan immediately spotted the right-back sprinting down the touchline on an overlap.

His legs were heavy, and the defender had a head start.

[Defensive objective opportunity detected.]

Rayan sprinted.

The right-back collected the pass on the move and knocked it ahead. Rayan closed him down from behind, unable to beat him for pure speed, but steadily erasing the gap as they closed in on the box.

Sporting’s left-back was occupied in the middle. If that cross got through, two attackers were waiting free at the back post.

Rayan threw himself into a recovery run, throwing his frame into the passing lane between the right-back and the penalty area. The defender tried to chop back inside, but Rayan matched the movement, forcing him toward the touchline.

Desperate to get the delivery off, the right-back struck the ball.

Rayan threw out a leg and blocked it with his shin.

The ball bounced out for a throw-in.

Rayan stayed bent over for a moment, hands on his knees, pulling cold air deep into his lungs. The left-back slapped him hard on the shoulder. "Great work, Rayan!"

[Dangerous overlap prevented.]

[Defensive objective complete.]

[Defensive-awareness proficiency increased.]

The notifications dissolved as Rayan straightened up. That small stat boost felt just as rewarding as a clean dribble.

Sporting’s breakthrough came nine minutes later.

Rayan collected the ball deep again, combining with the left-back. The right-back trailed him inside, leaving the wide lane open. Sporting moved possession through the midfield before finding Rayan again near the corner of the box.

He had half a second before the defender closed the gap. In the first half, he would have tried a stepover to shoot. This time, Rayan opened his hips and whipped a low, curling cross with his left foot.

The ball sliced through the gap between the right-back and centre-back, skidding across the damp grass toward the near post. Sporting’s striker lunged forward, extending a boot.

The keeper reacted well, parrying the initial shot, but the rebound bounced free into the centre of the box. A midfielder charged in and smashed it straight into the back of the net.

Rayan threw both arms in the air as his teammates rushed the goalscorer. He joined the pile-up near the corner flag, laughing as the striker grabbed his shirt and yelled that the goal was all down to his cross.

For a few golden seconds, Rayan forgot entirely about the system.

Then the floating text materialized.

[SPORTING ACTION REVIEW]

[Low cross created the initial shot.]

[Goalkeeper save prevented an official assist.]

[Rebound converted by Sporting.]

[Qualitative assessment: Direct contribution to the winning goal.]

[Statistical credit: None.]

Rayan’s smile tightened.

’No assist.’

The system gave no further explanation, but it had still recognised the value of the action. The official record would not place an assist beside his name. Everyone who watched the move, however, knew where the goal had begun.

Sporting held on to defend the 1–0 lead until the final whistle. Rayan played seventy-five minutes before Tavares brought him off. This time, he walked off exhausted, but with his head held high.

Sofia clapped proudly from behind the barrier. Leonor waved both hands when he caught her eye, while Karim stood a few yards away recording him on his phone, having arrived sometime during the first half.

In the changing room, the team celebrated the win with music blasting from a portable speaker. Rayan sat in his stall and opened the system review.

[EXTENDED SPORTING REVIEW]

[Selection Context: Second consecutive start completed.]

[First-Half Assessment: Poor.]

[Repeatedly forced individual duels against a stronger and faster defender.]

[Delayed passes reduced the effectiveness of overlapping runs.]

[Ignored a central option after escaping pressure.]

[Emotional frustration negatively affected decision-making.]

[Half-Time Instruction: Drop deeper, combine with the left-back and force the opposing right-back to choose between following the ball and protecting the space behind him.]

[Second-Half Assessment: Useful.]

[Adjusted positioning after direct coaching.]

[Used one-touch combinations to escape pressure.]

[Helped create repeated space for the overlapping left-back.]

[Prevented a dangerous opposition overlap through a full recovery sprint.]

[Created the winning goal sequence with a low cross.]

[Official assist not awarded.]

[Qualitative attacking contribution recognised.]

[Coach Trust Assessment: Improved, but not secure.]

[Squad Response: Teammates are beginning to treat the user as a useful competitive option.]

[Sporting Retention Status: Under active review.]

[Potential Release Status: Unresolved.]

Rayan stared at the line confirming that the assist had not been awarded.

Coach Tavares stopped right in front of him. "Why the long face?"

"The goal."

"We won the match."

"I know," Rayan said softly. "It’s just... the cross didn’t count as an official assist."

Tavares looked at him for a quiet moment before taking a seat on the bench opposite. "Did the cross create the chance?"

"Yes."

"Did your teammate score from it?"

"After the keeper saved it, yeah."

"Then you created the goal."

"It won’t show up in the stats, though."

"No, it won’t." Tavares leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Football careers are built on useful actions that never show up on a stat sheet. A press that forces a bad pass. A run that drags a defender away. A fifty-yard recovery sprint. The pass before the assist. If you only care about what gets recorded next to your name, you’ll turn into the kind of player your teammates learn not to trust."

Rayan thought back to the recovery sprint, the blocked cross, and the left-back’s hand on his shoulder. None of it was going to make a highlight reel.

Tavares stood up. "Your first half was poor. Your second half was useful. Learn the difference."

He turned and walked away before Rayan could respond.

Later, after most of the squad had showered and headed out, Rayan walked down the corridor toward the exit. As he passed the coaches’ room, he heard voices through the cracked door.

"He’s put together a few solid weeks now," an unfamiliar academy coach was saying. "Not world-class, but the improvement is steady."

Tavares replied, his voice too low for Rayan to pick up the exact words.

The other coach spoke again. "Then why is El Mansouri still flagged on the potential release list?"

Rayan froze in the hallway, his fingers tightening around the strap of his gear bag.

Someone inside Sporting was questioning whether he belonged on that list at all.