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Chapter 40: Volume 1, - 40: Karim’s Version

Chapter 40: Volume 1, Chapter 40: Karim’s Version

The blackboard in third-period Geography was covered in population density charts for the Tagus Valley, but Rayan could not keep the numbers from blurring. Every few minutes, his mind slipped backward, replaying his mother’s flat, rhythmic voice against the tinny static of Karim’s phone: ’I gave him Rayan’s full name... I gave him his birthday... I gave him your number.’

Rayan forced his head down and scribbled three lines into his exercise book. His academic recovery plan was still active, and after weeks of catch-up work, his teachers were checking every assignment. If football ended, if Sporting decided at the end of the season that his progression had stalled he needed his 10th-year marks to keep him afloat. The thought was uncomfortable, but after yesterday’s call, losing football felt less like a fear and more like something that could actually happen.

Beside him, Joca was staring out the window towards the school courtyard, his pen tapping an uneven rhythm against his pencil case.

When the bell rang for lunch, the group moved out to the concrete benches near the sports court. The May sun had turned warm enough to draw crowds into the yard, but they picked a shaded table near the back fence where the noise of the casual basketball game carried over in dull thuds.

Joca unwrapped a ham sandwich, looked at it, and set it back down on his paper napkin.

"I made the full video unlisted," Joca said without looking up. "Only people with the link can watch it now."

Inês looked up from her apple. "You couldn’t know some stranger would use the video to find Rayan’s family, Joca."

"It’s still my edit," Joca muttered, resting his chin on his palm. "My channel."

"Did anyone check whether a club actually sent him?" Idris asked, leaning back against the chain-link fence. "Tax number, agent licence, anything?"

"My mother checked what she could," Rayan said, keeping his voice quiet. "She couldn’t verify an agency or any club connection."

Beside Rayan, Bia had been quiet. She looked at Rayan, her green eyes steady, before turning back to the table. "At least your mother stopped the payment. The rest still needs sorting."

"Yeah," Rayan said, staring down at his untouched juice box.

"Once people hear what they want, good luck changing their mind," Inês added quietly.

The train out to Amadora was crowded with commuters heading towards the western suburbs. Rayan stood near the doors, holding the overhead loop as the carriage rattled past pastel apartment blocks and industrial yards. It took twenty minutes on foot from the station to reach Karim’s building.

Rayan climbed the narrow concrete staircase to the third floor. Before he could knock, the door pulled open. Karim stood there wearing an oversized red tracksuit top, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, and a faint smear of flour on his forearm.

"Ah, Rayan!" Karim’s face lit up instantly. He stepped forward and pulled Rayan into a quick, firm hug, squeezing his shoulder before pulling him inside. "Look at you. School killing you today?"

"Just geography," Rayan said, stepping into the hallway.

The apartment smelled of strong lavender cologne, sweet mint tea, and fried onions. It was a small space, cluttered with a red-and-green Sporting CP scarf pinned crookedly above the television alongside a framed poster of a young Cristiano Ronaldo. On the glass coffee table, two game controllers sat next to shipping manifests and an unpaid electricity bill held down by an empty tea glass.

"Sit, sit," Karim said, waving his hand towards the worn sofa. "I made tagine. Mutton and plum."

Karim hurried into the tiny kitchen. A moment later, he returned carrying a heavy clay dish and a basket of crusty white bread. He poured two glasses of hot mint tea from a dented stainless-steel pot, letting the stream fall from high above to create a thick layer of foam.

"Eat first," Karim commanded, pushing a piece of bread into Rayan’s hand. "How’s training? Any trouble from the calf?"

"No," Rayan said. "It’s been fine."

Karim sat back on the sofa, picking up his glass of tea. He took a cautious sip, his eyes darting to Rayan’s face. "Your mother was still angry when she called. I’m guessing I wasn’t the only one who got questioned."

Rayan dipped the bread into the sauce, chewed slowly, and looked across the table. "Why did you meet him, dad?"

Karim’s posture shifted slightly. "Because he offered to talk. I thought one coffee couldn’t hurt. I wasn’t planning to sign anything."

"Mom said Carlos from the shipping office gave you his number," Rayan said. "You didn’t check who Bento was."

Karim set his tea glass down with a sharp tap. "Carlos is a good man. When he tells me there’s a guy who represents young players who aren’t getting a fair look, why should I call him a liar?"

"Because we couldn’t verify who he worked for," Rayan said.

Karim’s eyes flashed with heat, but looking at Rayan’s flat expression, the tension drained out of him. He tore off a piece of bread and dropped it back into the bowl.

"You start twice, make two assists, and they still tell you to wait," Karim said softly. "Duarte plays every week because they trust him. You’re always the one being tested again."

Rayan looked down. Karim had put words to thoughts he had never said aloud.

"He sat there in the cafe," Karim continued, leaning forward, "and he said Sporting weren’t seeing your improvement. He claimed other clubs might listen if we moved before the retention decision. Then he said a fee would get your footage in front of the right people before the season ends. He talked like other clubs already wanted you. For a moment, I thought someone else finally saw what I see in you."

Karim tapped the glass table with his knuckle. "He said families who sit around waiting for perfect certainty end up with nothing. And tell me, Rayan... tell me he was wrong about how Sporting works."

Rayan didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the framed poster of Ronaldo on the wall. Sitting in the cafe yesterday, listening to Bento’s quiet voice, he had felt a sudden rush of hope. He had imagined wearing another shirt, starting every weekend, scoring goals, and showing Duarte Faria and Coach Tavares that they had made a mistake. They had both believed him because he promised exactly what they wanted.

"Did he ask for money yesterday?" Rayan asked softly.

Karim shifted uncomfortably. "He mentioned setup costs for independent representation. He said it would cost several thousand euros, depending on what he arranged."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him we would talk after I saw something in writing," Karim muttered.

Rayan looked directly into his father’s eyes. "What if he had put an official-looking form in front of you and asked for the money right there?"

Karim sat back sharply, his hands flying up. "Why are you doing this? Nothing happened. I didn’t give him a cent."

"Because you didn’t have that kind of money," Rayan said quietly.

Karim froze. The anger left his face. He looked away, staring at the scuffed wooden edge of the table.

"I don’t have that kind of money," Karim admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "You think I don’t know that? You think I like sitting here listening to your mother talk to me like I’m a child?" He let out a dry laugh. "She has the clinic, steady hours and those blue notepads. If there isn’t a form, she doesn’t trust it. She sees every way this could go wrong and none of what we might lose. And every decision still has to go through her."

He rubbed a heavy hand over his face. "If he’d pushed me, I might have tried to borrow it. That’s the part I don’t want to admit. I thought that if I let the chance go, I’d failed you again."

Rayan swallowed and looked at his father’s slouched shoulders and the clutter of unpaid bills sitting under the tea glass.

Karim cleared his throat and reached for his mint tea, his fingers slightly unsteady. "Maybe the guy is a crook. Maybe she stopped me making a mistake. But she acts like walking away cost us nothing."

He turned towards Rayan, waiting for his son to agree.

Rayan picked up his glass, feeling the warmth against his palm. He thought about his mother standing by the sink in Olivais, writing down every detail Karim had leaked. Then he looked at Karim, sitting in his untidy room surrounded by Sporting scarves.

"I don’t think you’re stupid, dad," Rayan said, his voice quiet and plain. "I think you wanted the promise to be true."

Karim held the glass halfway to his mouth, his lips parting as if another joke or explanation might follow.

Instead, no sound came out. Karim sat in silence, holding his tea, his eyes fixed on his son’s face.