Chapter 63: Volume 1, - 62: Sixteen
Bernardo Rocha’s phone vibrated on his nightstand at six in the morning.
He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. The family group chat was already flooding with messages from his aunts in Coimbra, accompanied by aggressive floral GIFs from his grandmother. His father had sent a brief, precise text at midnight: Happy birthday, son. Focus today.
Bernardo sat up, swung his legs over the frame of his single bed, and rested his elbows on his knees. Sixteen. It felt like one of those ages adults treated as a threshold. Old enough for conversations about contracts, work, and what came next to suddenly sound more serious.
He stretched his shoulders, feeling the general heaviness in his legs from Monday’s session. His mother had left a note on the kitchen counter alongside a box of fresh pastéis de nata from the bakery down the street.
For the team, the note read. Dinner at eight. Don’t be late.
Bernardo packed the pastries into his gear bag alongside his boots and walked out into the cool morning air to catch the 7:15 bus.
By two in the afternoon, the news had spread through the U16 dressing room at Alcochete.
"Sixteen?" Duarte shouted, slamming his locker shut and making an exaggerated bow. "Look at him! Old man Rocha! Should we get you a walking stick for the high-press drill, Bernardo?"
A few of the boys chuckled as Bernardo unzipped his bag and placed the bakery box on the central bench. "My mother sent these. Take one before Duarte eats the entire box."
Tiago Silva lunged forward, grabbing two before Duarte could react. "Your mother is a saint, Bernardo. If you play like a sixteen-year-old today, leave the rest for us."
Rayan sat three lockers down, carefully tying his boots. He watched Bernardo handle the teasing with effortless, quiet poise. Bernardo didn’t blush, didn’t posture, and didn’t try too hard to be funny. He simply smiled, took a pastry for himself, and chewed in silence while the rest of the squad crowded around the bench.
To Rayan, Bernardo had always felt like an institution. A winger manufactured in a lab specifically to fit Sporting’s structural ideal. He was reliable on the ball, defensively responsible, and never seemed to panic under pressure. Every clean, disciplined tactical sequence Bernardo executed during training felt like a subtle argument against Rayan’s existence at the academy.
’He doesn’t have to fight for space. The coaches built the system around players like him.’
Training was fast and sharp.
During the eleven-versus-eleven tactical phase, João Tavares focused heavily on mid-block transitions. Bernardo played from the left side of the first XI. He didn’t dominate the ball or chase highlights. When Nuno Valente advanced from left-back, Bernardo drifted inside to keep the passing channel open. When possession broke down, he recovered quickly enough to help close the flank. And when Matias found him between the lines, Bernardo protected the ball under pressure before releasing it cleanly.
He didn’t produce highlight-reel goals or explosive fifty-yard runs. He simply kept making the correct action early enough for the team to keep functioning.
From his position on the left wing of the second XI, Rayan felt a familiar, bitter heat rising in his chest. Every time Bernardo tracked back or cleanly turned out of trouble, Rayan saw another mark on Tavares’s evaluation sheet.
’He’s sixteen today. He looks like he belongs here. He’s safe.’
After session recovery, the squad dispersed towards the showers, but Bernardo remained on the secondary pitch, gathering cones into a neat stack. It was standard duty for the day’s birthday boy, a light tradition kept alive by the senior academy players.
Rayan walked back out from the equipment shed carrying a mesh bag of balls. He dropped the bag by the touchline and hesitated for a second before walking over to grab the remaining four yellow cones near the centre circle.
"You don’t have to do that," Bernardo said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his training top.
"I’m already out here," Rayan said shortly, throwing the cones onto Bernardo’s stack.
They began walking back towards the tunnel in relative silence, the thud of their studs against the concrete path echoing in the quiet late-afternoon air.
"My parents are taking me out for dinner in Parque das Nações tonight," Bernardo offered casually, breaking the silence. "First time in two months my dad isn’t working the late shift."
Rayan kept his eyes fixed on the tunnel entrance. "Must be nice. A celebration."
Bernardo let out a small, quiet laugh. A sharp sound with no real humour in it. "More like an interrogation. My dad’s going to spend half the meal asking if Senhor Tavares spoke to me after session."
Rayan slowed his pace slightly, turning his head to look at Bernardo. "Spoke to you about what?"
"Next season," Bernardo said, shifting the stack of cones in his hands. "My dad thinks because I turned sixteen today, Sporting should have a contract sitting on the desk. He doesn’t get how it works."
Rayan blinked, caught off guard. "You... haven’t heard anything?"
Bernardo looked at Rayan, his expression flat and surprisingly tired. "No one’s heard anything, Rayan. It’s May 30."
"You play all the time," Rayan said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Tavares trusts you on the left whenever he wants the shape to hold."
"In the U16s," Bernardo corrected quietly. "Next year is U17. There’ll be boys coming in, boys already fighting for places, and coaches looking at who can handle the physical jump. I haven’t been promised anything."
He stopped walking just outside the door to the boot-washing room.
"Being useful doesn’t guarantee anything," Bernardo continued, his voice steady but low. "There’s always someone else fighting for the same place."
Rayan stared at him. For months, he had viewed Bernardo as a fixed piece of the academy landscape. An obstacle standing directly in his path, completely secure, untroubled by the ticking clock of June 30. He had convinced himself that the anxiety consuming his own nights was a penalty unique to outsiders.
Standing there in the fading sunlight, looking at the dried sweat on Bernardo’s forehead and the subtle tension around his eyes, Rayan saw something else entirely: a sixteen-year-old kid who was just as terrified of being discarded as he was.
"I thought..." Rayan began, then cleared his throat. "I thought you were locked in."
Bernardo shook his head, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "Nobody owns next year, Rayan. Not here."
He turned towards the boot-wash brushes, dipping his right boot into the running water to scrub away the caked turf rubber.
They weren’t friends. They hadn’t suddenly erased months of quiet friction, tactical rivalry, and competing for the same spot on the pitch. Tomorrow, if they were placed on opposite teams in small-sided games, Rayan would still try to blow past him on the wing, and Bernardo would still try to clip his ankles to stop the counter.
But as Bernardo turned the tap off, Rayan looked at him properly.
"Bernardo," Rayan said.
Bernardo looked up from his boots.
"Happy birthday," Rayan said, his voice flat, earnest, and completely free of sarcasm. "Go enjoy the dinner with your family."
Bernardo paused for a fraction of a second, then gave a single, firm nod. "Thanks, Rayan. See you tomorrow."
Bernardo picked up his clean gear and walked down the corridor towards the showers. Rayan stood by the boot wash for a moment longer, watching him leave, before turning on the tap to clean his own boots.