Football singularity
Chapter 775 Road to UCL Final (2)
If you’re enjoying the story, consider voting to show your support. Feel free to join me on Discord to chat and share your thoughts: https://discord.gg/hTQJtj2K9U.
#More than 10 Chapters ahead on my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/c/TrikoRex. If you have a moment, leaving a review would mean a lot to me and help me see who’s interested in the story’s future.
~~~
[2021-05-27 | Francisco Sá Carneiro Airport | 09:08 CET]
For most football fans, two days before the biggest final in club competition was just another Thursday. After all, their club was out, seasons over, summer plans were already being made. For most fans, that distraction was enough to block out the footballing world until the game day.
However, for two special teams each year, the weeks or days leading up to the tournament were a cause for celebration. It was an excuse to debate their team’s ingenious moves over the off-season, brag to all rivals’ fans who had to suck their thumbs and, most importantly, be a part of footballing history. Everyone had their own way of being part of the moment, whether it was sending the players gifts, bragging about them on social media, or the truly dedicated ones making the trip to Porto.
Rakim and co were met with such dedicated supporters at the arrival gate at the Francisco Sá Carneiro Airport. They cheered so loudly that the players had to turn back, half expecting Drake or Taylor Swift, given the idol-like reception. Although they had played well all year and achieved all of their goals with flying colours, they had never received such a reception.
"Jesus Christ on a motorbike," Frimpong muttered, adjusting his Balenciaga hoodie as he took in the sea of red and black scarves. "Are they all for us?"
"Unless you see another Bundesliga champion walking through," Wirtz said, walking along with a wide grin, his foot was mostly healed, and he was back to light jogging.
The crowd—easily two hundred strong—pressed against the barriers, holding up banners, phones, jerseys, scarves. Some were chanting in German, others in broken English, a few in Portuguese.
"RAKIM! RAKIM! RAKIM!"
"FLORIAN! FLORIAN!"
"BAYER CHAMPIONS!"
Lars Bender, leading the group as captain, raised a hand in acknowledgement. The volume somehow increased a couple of notches, if that was even possible. Bosz walked alongside him, looking mildly concerned about crowd control, while the club and airport security detail flanked both sides.
"Smile and wave, boys," Lars called back. "And for God’s sake, don’t promise anyone anything."
"Too late," Bailey said, already signing a jersey that someone had thrust through a gap in the barrier. "I told this kid we’d win 5-0."
"Why would you—" Demirbay started.
"Confidence, mate. Confidence."
Rakim found himself swarmed the moment he got within arm’s reach of the barriers. Phones appeared from every direction, markers and jerseys materialising out of thin air. A young girl, maybe ten years old, held up a homemade sign: "REX = GOALS!"
"That’s facts," Rakim said, crouching down to sign her shirt. "What’s your name?"
"Sofia!" she said in heavily accented English as Rakim moved to sign her kit, which happened to be his own.
"The next goal I score is for you, yeah?"
"YES!" She practically screamed it, looking far more excited by that fact than by receiving his signature performing a star stance. Her mother laughed, pulling her back into a hug.
"How do you keep getting these young fans?" Frimpong whispered, signing a scarf nearby.
"What can I say, your boy is nice," Rakim commented before joining three fans in taking a selfie.
Bosz finally managed to usher the group toward the exit, security forming a corridor through the crowd. As they walked, Rakim pulled out his phone, snapping a quick selfie with the crowd in the background. Posted it to Instagram within seconds: Porto Leverkusen showed up. 🔴⚫️
The comments flooded in a moment later:
@TomWalker38: Good luck, bro, the dream is becoming a reality 😂
@MayParker: Good luck, Babe, see you in two days ❤️
@BundesligaEN: The king has arrived 👑
Rakim pocketed his phone as they finally made it through to the team buses waiting outside. The Porto sun hit differently than Germany’s for the contingent, warmer, brighter, with that coastal humidity that clung to everything. Nothing seemed to be able to ruin their mood as the world appeared more vibrant in their eyes.
The players filed onto two luxury coaches, luggage being loaded into the cargo holds by airport staff. Rakim ended up near the back of Bus One with Wirtz, Bailey, and Amiri. Hradecky claimed the front row, immediately reclining his seat and pulling a sleep mask from his bag.
"Man’s treating this like a holiday," Bailey observed.
"Man’s smart," Hradecky called back without opening his eyes. "Some of you could learn from that."
The buses pulled away from the airport, police escort leading the way. Porto’s streets opened up before them, colourful buildings with terracotta roofs, narrow cobblestone streets, the Douro River glittering in the distance.
"This city is beautiful," Wirtz said, pressing his face against the window like a kid on a school trip.
"Wait until you see the hotel," Amiri said, scrolling through his phone. "Five-star, overlooking the river. Infinity pool, spa, the works."
"Please tell me we’re allowed to use the pool," Bailey said hopefully.
"Bosz said light recovery sessions only," Rakim reminded him. "No parties."
"That was ONE time—"
"You nearly gave the physio a heart attack," Wirtz cut in. "And you broke a pool chair."
"Why does it sound like you care more about the chair?" Bailey questioned. "For the last time, it’s not my fault you bought a cheap chair."
"It was IKEA."
-_-
>_<
~~~
[The Yeatman Hotel | 10:05 WEST]
The Yeatman, perched on a hillside in Vila Nova de Gaia, offers panoramic views of Porto across the river. The team buses pulled into the circular drive, where hotel staff waited with welcome refreshments and cool towels.
"Now THIS is what I’m talking about," Frimpong said, accepting a glass of iced tea from a server.
"Focus, Kid," Bender said, placing his hand on his head before his eyes could wander more.
The lobby was all marble floors, contemporary art, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the river view perfectly. A massive chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, catching the light and scattering it across the space.
"Welcome to The Yeatman," the hotel manager said in perfect English, addressing the group. "We’re honoured to host Bayer Leverkusen for the Champions League final. Your rooms are ready, and our staff is at your complete disposal. If you need anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to ask."
"Can we get extra towels?" someone called from the back.
"Of course."
"What about room service at 2 AM?"
"Available 24 hours."
"Marriage counselling?"
"That’s... not typically within our services, but we can make recommendations."
The group dissolved into laughter, Bosz doing his best to hold back the twitch of his lips. Before the coach could go into another tirade of nagging, Lars stepped forward with the rooming assignments, reading names off a tablet. "Listen up! I’m only saying this once, so pay attention..."
Rakim ended up rooming with Wirtz, no surprise there since they had been together all season. "Room 847," Wirtz read off the key card sleeve. "Eighth floor. River view."
"Bet the minibar costs more than my first car," Rakim joked as they headed toward the elevators.
"Your first car was a 2018 i8 Roadster," Wirtz pointed out. "No mini bar will ever match that."
"Then you need to go on holiday in Vegas, New York or Miami," Rakim retorted with a deadpan expression. "I mean, in hotels and on holiday mode, not visiting family, they charge you for the very air you breathe."
"Bro, America is not a real place."
~~~
[Room 847 | 10:30 WEST]
The room was ridiculous, two queen beds with premium linens, a sitting area with a flat-screen TV, a marble bathroom with both a rainfall shower and a soaking tub, and, most importantly, a balcony overlooking the Douro River.
"Bro," Rakim said, stepping onto the balcony. The view was insane, red-tiled roofs cascading down to the riverfront, boats dotting the water, the iconic Dom Luís I Bridge spanning the gap. Wirtz joined him, both of them just taking it in for a moment.
"We’re really here," Wirtz said quietly. "Champions League final."
"Two days away," Rakim confirmed.
"You nervous?"
"Terrified," Rakim admitted. "But in a good way, you know? Like, this is what we worked for."
"Yeah," Wirtz agreed. "Too bad I won’t actually get to play."
"Priorities," Rakim said, flicking his forehead. "You getting healthy is much more important than any match, plus you will be alright for the Euros."
"I don’t even know if I am selected for the team yet," he complained, re-entering the room with a frustrated sigh. "You are a shoo-in for sure, after all, who wouldn’t include the Ballon d’Or contender?"
"You had just as good a year, no question," Rakim comforted. "If you’re healthy, Löw will have to include you in the squad."
"Easy for you to say," Wirtz muttered, flopping onto his bed. "You scored 65 goals and won everything. I got injured and watched the title run from the physio room."
"And before that, you were the best young midfielder in Europe," Rakim countered, unpacking his suitcase. "Löw’s not an idiot. He knows what you can do."
Wirtz was about to respond when someone knocked on the door—three sharp raps followed by two slower ones, their agreed-upon "friend code."
Rakim opened it to find Frimpong standing there with Bailey, both grinning as if they’d just discovered something incredible. "Lads," Frimpong said dramatically, "you need to see the pool."
"Bosz said—" Wirtz started.
"We’re not swimming," Bailey interrupted. "Just looking. Come on."
.
.
.
.
TO BE CONTINUED...