Chapter 50: Volume 1, - 50: Six More Weeks
The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only constant sound in the apartment.
Rayan lay on his back on the narrow bed, his hands resting behind his head, staring at the faint hairline crack in the white ceiling paint. His thighs and calves still carried the dull, heavy ache of seventy-two minutes on Pina Manique’s damp turf, but his mind refused to settle.
It was nine in the morning on Sunday, 21 May. On his desk, his mobile phone screen lit up with a silent notification, then dimmed back to black. He didn’t need to pick it up to know what it was. Probably another message in the group chat, or an automated league summary. He was waiting for one specific call or message, even though he already knew the club had scheduled a formal sit-down for eleven o’clock.
Unable to rest, Rayan sat up, swung his legs over the side of the mattress, and walked barefoot down the narrow hallway into the kitchen.
Sofia was standing at the wooden dining table, a blue ballpoint pen in her hand, leaning over the family calendar that hung beside the refrigerator. The kitchen smelled of brewed coffee and toasted bread.
"Eat," Sofia said without looking up, pointing her pen towards a plate of toasted wholemeal bread and sliced cheese set on the plastic placemat. "We leave in an hour."
Rayan pulled out a chair and sat down, taking a slice of toast. His eyes drifted to the calendar grid. Sofia was filling in the boxes for late May and June with her small, neat handwriting.
25 May: Geography review. 29 May: Portuguese paper. 2 June: Geography project deadline. 5 June: End-of-term submission. 12 June: Final history evaluation. Sporting sessions and medical checks were marked around them in blue.
Leonor walked into the kitchen wearing her oversized grey sweatshirt, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She poured a glass of water from the filter jug, leaned against the counter, and stared at the calendar board.
"Why is every single square filled with Rayan’s stuff?" Leonor asked, her voice flat.
Sofia stopped her pen mid-sentence. She looked at the grid, then turned her head towards her daughter.
"You’re right," Sofia said quietly. She set the pen down on the table. "Bring your school planner, Leonor. Where are your final history tests and your presentation dates?"
"They’re in my bag," Leonor said, her tone softening slightly as she set her glass down.
"Go get it," Sofia said. "We put them up right now. This family calendar is for three people, not one."
Rayan chewed his toast in silence, looking down at his plate. His football, his fitness, his uncertain future. It filled his head every second he was awake.
At ten-forty-five, Sofia and Rayan walked through the main administrative entrance at Alcochete.
They were shown into a second-floor meeting room overlooking the academy grounds. Rain had begun to fall again, a soft, steady drizzle that turned the grass on the lower fields a deep, dark green.
Marta Nunes sat at the head of the rectangular table with a thin yellow folder open in front of her. To her right sat João Tavares, dressed in his dark grey Sporting tracksuit, his arms folded across his chest. To her left was Álvaro Pires, Sporting’s recruitment and retention coordinator, his spectacles resting beside a printed ledger.
"Good morning, Sofia. Rayan," Marta said, gesturing towards the two wooden chairs opposite her.
Once they sat down, Marta did not spend time on small talk. She rested her hands flat on the yellow folder.
"We are entering the final phase of squad planning for next season," Marta said, her tone professional, steady, and clear.
She looked directly at Rayan.
"In your case, we aren’t releasing you. But we also aren’t confirming your place for next season today."
Relief hit Rayan first, sudden enough that his shoulders loosened before he could stop them. He wasn’t out. Sporting had not closed the door.
Then the second half of Marta’s sentence caught up with him. He wasn’t safe either.
She slid a single printed page across the polished wood towards Sofia.
"We’re extending your evaluation through Friday, 30 June 2023," Marta stated. "Six more weeks."
Sofia picked up the sheet, her eyes scanning the bulleted list printed down the centre of the page. Rayan leaned sideways, his eyes darting across the paper:
Academic completion and school attendance
Punctuality and professional conduct
Medical transparency, pain reporting, and compliance
Training intensity and application
Tactical comprehension, decision-making, and practical weak-foot use
Execution of defensive and off-ball responsibilities
Physical development and load management
Competitive evidence during remaining fixtures
Rayan looked up from the sheet, his brow furrowed. "Is there a goal target? Or a number of starts I need to reach?"
"No," Marta replied cleanly. "There is no target for goals, assists, or total minutes played."
Rayan swallowed. The absence of a number felt unnatural, like playing a match without a scoreboard. He looked at Tavares, who remained quiet, his face unreadable.
"How will I know if I’m doing enough?" Rayan asked. The question came out sharper than he intended, thin and exposed in the quiet room. "If there isn’t a stat or a minute target... how do I know where I stand before the end?"
João Tavares uncrossed his arms and leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"You probably won’t know," Tavares said, his voice level and dry. "Not before we make the decision."
The words hit Rayan like cold water.
A hard target. Four goals, three assists, three hundred minutes was something he could chase. He could stay after training, take fifty extra shots, demand the ball on the wing, force the play. A target gave him something to hit. Being told that his daily behaviour, his tactical releases, his defensive recoveries, and his attitude were being observed without a metric left him completely stripped of leverage.
The System interface flickered into view across his line of sight:
[RETENTION EVALUATION PERIOD RECORDED.]
[DEADLINE: 30 JUNE 2023.]
[SPORTING CP DECISION: PENDING.]
[NO GUARANTEED PERFORMANCE THRESHOLD EXISTS.]
"Those expectations apply throughout the evaluation period. In school, in the medical room, and on the pitch," Marta said, drawing his focus back to the room. "We will meet again here on Friday, 30 June."
Sofia placed the paper into her handbag and zipped it closed. "Thank you, Marta. João. Álvaro."
"We will see you on the pitch on Tuesday, Rayan," Tavares said, giving him a single, firm nod.
The bus journey back towards Olivais was quiet. Rain streamed down the double-glazed windows in long, diagonal rivers as the bus negotiated the heavy Sunday traffic along the avenue.
Rayan sat near the middle doors, staring out at the grey concrete blocks. His mind was racing, trying to build a mental schedule.
’Casa Pia is done. Next Saturday is Estoril... then what? How many matches after that? Three? Four? If I start against Estoril, and then—’
They reached the apartment just before one o’clock.
Sofia unzipped her bag at the dining table, pulled out the single printed sheet from Sporting, and walked over to the refrigerator. She took a red magnetic clip, secured the evaluation sheet to the door, and picked up her blue marker pen from the counter shelf.
Rayan stood in the doorway, watching her.
Sofia found the box for June 30 on the family calendar. She drew a clean, thick blue circle around the number 30, then wrote underneath it in neat print: Sporting CP Final Meeting.
Rayan walked over to the refrigerator and stood inches from the calendar.
He stared at the blue circle around June 30. Just under six weeks. Forty days until the meeting.