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Chapter 34: Volume 1, - 34: The Empty Seat

Chapter 34: Volume 1, Chapter 34: The Empty Seat

Karim sent his first voice note before Rayan had finished breakfast. "Tell your mother to save me a place beside her," he said, traffic and a car horn buzzing behind his voice. "Not three rows away. Beside her. Today we are a united family supporting Sporting’s future number ten."

Rayan lowered the phone before Sofia could hear the rest of it.

She stood at the kitchen counter packing fruit, sandwiches and two bottles of water into a small insulated bag while Leonor sat across from him, one leg folded beneath her, eating cereal and pretending not to watch the football clips on his screen.

"What did he say?" Sofia asked.

"He’s coming to the showcase."

"That wasn’t what I asked."

Rayan took another bite of toast to buy himself a second. "He wants us to keep him a seat."

"There will be seats."

"Beside you."

Sofia’s hands stilled on the bag’s zip. Across the table, Leonor’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth.

"It’s only a seat," Rayan said.

"Yes," Sofia said. "Which is why your father should be capable of finding one without arranging it through our son."

"He wants to watch with us."

"He wants to arrive after kickoff and find someone has already protected the best seat in the house for him."

"He said he’d be early."

"Then he won’t need you to save it," Leonor said, returning her spoon to the bowl.

Rayan frowned at her.

"What? That’s how arriving early works."

Sofia didn’t smile, though the corner of her mouth moved. She set the food bag beside Rayan’s academy backpack and checked the kitchen clock.

The showcase wasn’t a tournament or a league fixture with anything real riding on the result. Sporting had arranged a controlled match against another Lisbon academy and invited both squads’ families to watch, along with coaches from the older age groups, welfare staff and a handful of administrators. Coach Tavares had called it a chance for the club to show families how their sons were progressing. To Rayan, it felt like another exam.

He’d spent time turning over a coach’s overheard question about why he was still on the probable release list, waiting for it to become something more concrete. Nobody had mentioned it again. Tavares treated him exactly as before, correcting his positioning, criticising his decisions, offering nothing that could be mistaken for reassurance about retention.

The system had been just as unhelpful.

[SPORTING RETENTION REVIEW]

[Recent competitive involvement: Increasing.]

[Training response: Improvement recognised.]

[Coach assessment: Progressing, but not secure.]

[Retention status: Under active review.]

The review offered no guarantee that Sporting’s opinion of him had changed enough.

Today gave him another chance to provide evidence.

His phone buzzed again.

KARIM: I am serious. Two seats together. Your mother can pretend she does not enjoy my company.

A second message followed almost immediately.

KARIM: Three seats. Leonor too.

Leonor leaned across the table. "Why are you smiling?"

"I’m not."

"You are."

He turned the phone face-down. Sofia picked up her keys. "Boots?"

"In the bag."

"Shin guards?"

"Yes."

"Homework for Monday?"

He hesitated.

"It’s nearly finished."

"That means no."

"I’ll finish it tonight."

"You said that yesterday."

"I had training."

"You knew you had training when the work was assigned."

Rayan pushed away from the table and grabbed his bag before the conversation could grow any further. Leonor carried the food, muttering that she’d somehow become responsible for feeding an athlete who gained followers every week and still couldn’t remember his own lunch.

The drive to the academy passed in near silence except for the radio. Rayan watched Lisbon slide past the window and checked his phone every few minutes. Karim hadn’t sent anything else, which shouldn’t have mattered. The match was still an hour off, but he sent him the pitch number anyway, and got a thumbs-up back.

At the academy, families gathered around the small covered stand beside the showcase pitch. The mood was looser than a league day. Younger siblings wove between the rows, parents greeted one another, staff handed out programmes listing names and shirt numbers.

Sofia chose three seats near the halfway line. Rayan noticed but said nothing. Leonor draped her jacket over the empty one beside Sofia. "There. His royal chair is protected."

"Don’t start," Sofia said.

"I’m helping."

Rayan glanced toward the entrance.

"Go," Sofia told him. "Your warm-up starts soon."

"He is coming."

"I heard you the first six times."

He adjusted his bag strap. "Don’t let anyone take it."

Sofia looked at the empty seat, then at him. "Your father knows where the match is." It wasn’t a promise, but it was enough to send him toward the changing room.

Sporting had been given the home side, green-and-white shirts hanging above each spot with shorts and socks folded beneath. Rayan’s name was already chalked into the left side of the attack on the tactical board. Duarte had the right.

Coach Tavares waited until everyone had changed before he spoke. "This is still a football match. Families, staff, older coaches. None of that changes what’s required. You play with the structure we trained. Don’t start performing for the stand." His gaze passed over Rayan for half a second too long, and the warning felt uncomfortably specific.

He ran through the rest of the plan quickly. The opposition liked to defend narrow and invite the wide men forward before pinning them against the touchline, so Sporting’s full-backs would provide the width while Rayan and Duarte worked the half-spaces. "Move the ball before pressure becomes a duel. We’ve already covered this."

During the warm-up, Rayan checked the stand twice. Sofia and Leonor were visible near the middle, Leonor’s jacket now folded across her lap instead of the chair beside her. The seat itself stayed empty. Karim was probably still parking.

The whistle sounded, and Sporting opened with calm, patient possession. Rayan held his width until the left-back pushed forward, then drifted inside to offer a lane. The first pass reached him in the third minute. He checked over his shoulder a beat too late, took it awkwardly on the outside of his right foot and tried to spin away from the nearest midfielder, who closed him down before he could protect the ball. It was poked away, and the opposition broke into the space he’d just vacated.

Sporting recovered near the halfway line, but Tavares’s voice carried across the pitch anyway. "Earlier, Rayan!"

He raised a hand in acknowledgement. He’d known the pass back was there.

At the next stoppage, he looked toward the stand again. Still empty.

The next time he got the ball, he forced an early cross from too far out, and it sailed past the striker to drop harmlessly beyond the far post. Duarte turned to him with both palms raised. "Who was that for?"

Rayan ignored him and jogged back into shape.

[Attention fluctuation detected.]

[External focus is affecting decision speed.]

[Recommendation: Reset attention to immediate match information.]

’I’m focused,’ he told it, and didn’t believe himself.

A minute later, while the left-back chased a ball into touch, he glanced toward the entrance again. Nothing. The throw came back to him sooner than expected, and he let it strike his thigh instead of controlling it, spilling it into an opponent’s path.

Tavares clapped once, sharp. "Wake up!"

The opposing midfielder drove forward. Rayan chased, overcommitted trying to win the ball back in one challenge, and watched him slip past. He slowed, chest tight, and understood the truth of it clearly for the first time: the football wasn’t moving too fast, and the opponent wasn’t overpowering him. His head simply wasn’t on the pitch.

Karim had promised. Not vaguely. He’d asked for the seat by name, three times, that morning.

Sporting won the ball back, and Rayan demanded it, determined to force something useful. He picked it up near the left touchline, accelerated at the right-back and tried to cut inside. The defender read it and shut the route. Rayan shifted it down the line instead, but his touch was heavy, and it rolled out for a goal kick.

He looked at the stand once more. Still empty.

[Attention Control Warning]

[Repeated non-match scanning detected.]

[Decision-making efficiency reduced.]

[Current match focus: Compromised.]

The assessment embarrassed him worse than Tavares’s shouting had.

He forced his attention back onto the pitch and made himself read it deliberately. The right-back’s position, the distance to the nearest midfielder, the overlapping full-back, the striker drifting toward the near post. For a few minutes it worked. He played two simple passes inside, pressed the opposing right-back into a rushed clearance, combined under pressure to keep possession. Then a whistle went up near the family stand. A child had dropped something between the rows, people leaning over to help, and he turned instinctively. Karim’s seat remained untouched.

Half-time arrived with the score still goalless. Rayan followed his teammates to the bench without looking up, aware the whole way that Sofia was watching him, which somehow made the empty chair beside her feel louder than if she hadn’t been.

Tavares let them drink before he spoke. "Our circulation is too slow. They’re comfortable shifting across because we’re holding the ball until the next option closes." He slid the magnets across the board. "Midfielders, support quicker. Wingers, receive between the lines when the full-back steps up." His finger stopped on the marker for the left. "El Mansouri. How many players are on this pitch?"

"Twenty-two."

"Good. Because you appear to be watching several who aren’t."

A few teammates found their water bottles very interesting. Rayan’s jaw tightened. "I’m fine."

"No, you’re distracted. Your first touch is late because you’re watching the stand. Your decisions are rushed." Tavares didn’t ask who he was looking for. "You can’t control who shows up," he said. "You can control whether the ten players next to you regret that you did." He moved the marker deeper. "Stop waiting high next to the full-back. Drop toward the midfielder, drag him with you. Our left-back goes outside. When the defender commits, release it. Simple."

Rayan nodded.

"Simple," Tavares repeated.

He didn’t look at the stand again once the second half began. He held his position a few metres deeper, and the opposing right-back. Reluctant to follow him that far hung back too. He received, passed inside, moved again. Nothing dramatic. A little later he controlled with his back foot near the touchline, felt the defender closing and returned the ball to his midfielder before the pressure arrived. Again, nothing happened, except that Sporting kept the ball, and the simple, unremarkable actions began to settle his breathing. He stopped thinking about what Karim might have seen and started thinking about what the defender in front of him could.

In the fifty-second minute, the left-back carried it beyond halfway. Rayan drifted inside, pulling the right-back a few steps out of position, and the pass into the space was intercepted, but he pressed the man from behind, forced him to turn straight into Sporting’s midfielder, and the ball came back. Tavares clapped from the technical area.

Rayan received it near the corner of the box, the right-back closing from his left, a second defender screening the middle, his striker curling between the centre-backs for a cross that wasn’t coming. He shaped to shoot. The right-back bit, stepping toward his favoured foot. Rayan took one touch inside instead, dragging the second man half a step with him, and found a teammate arriving at the edge of the area with the harder option. The dribble, sitting right there and refused.

He passed.

The midfielder struck it first time, low through a tangle of legs, and it went in off the far post before the keeper could move.

For a second Rayan just stood there. Then the scorer spun and pointed straight at him, and his teammates swarmed in, Duarte arriving from the far side to slap the back of his head. "Finally passed before losing it."

"Just celebrate."

"I am celebrating."

[Official assist confirmed.]

[Sporting review evidence updated.]

[Attacking contribution: Confirmed.]

[Decision quality under pressure: Improved.]

A small, familiar thrill went through him as the system recognised the action.

He almost looked toward the stand. He made himself not.

Sporting grew more confident after that, and Rayan stayed on for sixty-five minutes total, stringing together simple combinations and helping contain the opposite winger before Tavares pulled him off. Crossing the touchline, he finally let himself look. Sofia was on her feet applauding. Leonor gave him two thumbs-up. The seat beside them was still empty.

He pulled a training top over his shoulders and watched the rest of the match from the bench without checking the entrance again. Sporting added a second goal late and won comfortably.

Afterward, families crowded the barrier while staff tried to keep the walkway clear. Rayan shook hands with the opposition, sat through Tavares’s brief praise for the second-half improvement and his reminder that showcases weren’t won for parents, and finally made his way to the stand, where Sofia hugged him briefly.

"That pass was very good," she said.

"It was obvious."

"Apparently not in the first half."

Leonor handed him a water bottle. "You looked like you were trying to spot an aircraft."

"I was checking the shape."

"The tactical shape in row four?"

Sofia gave her a look, and Rayan drank without answering.

Karim still hadn’t arrived by the time Rayan collected his bag. His phone showed nothing new beyond the old thumbs-up. Outside, the afternoon had warmed, and while Sofia unlocked the car and Leonor loaded the empty containers into the boot, his phone finally buzzed.

Karim.

"Hello?"

"Champion." He sounded breathless, an engine rumbling somewhere behind him. "How did it go?"

"We won."

"I knew it. Did you score?"

"No. Assist."

"That’s still beautiful. I told you today was your day."

Rayan pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek and said nothing.

"Listen, I’m sorry I missed it," Karim went on quickly. "Youssef called this morning. A driver didn’t show, they needed someone right away, cash today, not next week. I thought I’d finish in time, but there were extra stops, then traffic, and my phone was on the map so the battery—"

"You could have called."

"I know. I really thought I’d make it. I really meant to be there, Rayan."

Rayan looked over at Sofia, who’d left her door open and stood a little apart to give him room. Leonor watched from the back seat.

Karim’s voice dropped, softer. "I needed the work."

Some of the anger he’d been carrying all afternoon lost its shape. He knew what Karim needed the money for the unpaid bills, the groceries that vanished from the apartment before the next job came in. This hadn’t been a party or another meeting that never existed. It had been work. That didn’t make the seat any less empty, but it blunted the edge of it.

"Okay," Rayan said.

"I’ll watch the video. Your mother filmed it?"

"Probably."

"There’ll be other matches. Bigger ones."

Rayan looked down at the line dividing the parking spaces. "Yeah."

"I’m proud of you."

"Thanks."

A pause. "You understand, right?"

He wanted to say yes. What came out instead was, "I have to go."

Sofia didn’t ask about the call until they were on the road. "He got work," Rayan said. "A delivery thing. He thought he’d be back in time."

"I see."

"It was unexpected."

"I heard you."

"He needed the money."

"I didn’t say otherwise."

"It’s not like he just forgot."

Nobody answered that.

At home, he left his bag in the hallway, changed, and pulled up the review.

[EXTENDED SPORTING REVIEW]

[Competitive involvement: Increasing.]

[Official attacking contribution: Confirmed.]

[First-half attention control: Poor.]

[Second-half response to coaching: Positive.]

[Decision-making under pressure: Improved.]

[Coach assessment: Improvement recognised, but selection is not secure.]

[Retention status: Under active review.]

The assist should have felt bigger than it did. His phone was already full of messages. Joca wanting the clip, Rafa congratulating him on the pass, Idris reminding him the Monday assignment hadn’t gone anywhere just because he’d played well. He answered all of them without mentioning Karim.

At dinner, Leonor got there first. "Are you going to keep pretending you weren’t bothered?"

"I’m not pretending anything."

"You checked that seat every time the ball went out."

"No, I didn’t."

"During the warm-up. First half. When that kid dropped his drink. After the goal."

"I was looking at you and Mum."

"Leave it," Sofia said.

"He’s acting like he didn’t care."

"I didn’t."

Sofia set down her fork. She didn’t look angry, which was somehow worse than if she had. "Your father had a reason for missing the match. It may even have been a good one. That doesn’t mean you weren’t disappointed."

Rayan pushed food around his plate. "He needed the job."

"Yes."

"So what was he supposed to do?"

"I’m not asking you to judge his choice."

"It sounds like you are."

"No." Her voice stayed level. "I’m telling you that you don’t have to protect him from your own feelings. You’re allowed to love your father. You’re allowed to understand why he made the choice he made. You’re also allowed to admit it hurt."

Leonor’s earlier sharpness faded, her eyes dropping to her plate.

Rayan thought about the jacket over the empty seat, the mistakes in the first half, the half-second after his assist when he’d nearly turned to look for a face that wasn’t there. "He said there’ll be other matches," he muttered.

Dinner finished without anyone returning to it. Afterward Rayan finished the assignment Idris had warned him about, packed his bag for Monday, and watched the clip Joca had sent. The camera catching him drawing the defender before the pass, the family stand visible behind him for less than a second, the empty chair in it just as briefly.