The morning of the Round of 16 did not feel like a morning at all.
It felt suspended.
Álex woke before his alarm, eyes open, ceiling unfamiliar. For a few seconds he did not move, listening to the hum of the air conditioner, the muffled sounds of footsteps in the hallway, distant laughter from another room. His legs felt heavy even before they touched the floor, muscles still carrying the memory of three group-stage matches played in rapid succession.
Knockout football did not care about fatigue.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair, then flexed his left ankle, his right knee. Everything responded. Not perfectly. But enough.
Enough mattered.
Downstairs, the team gathered in near silence. The chatter from earlier days was gone. Plates were filled, half-eaten, abandoned. Coaches moved between tables, checking posture more than appetite.
BCN Junior.
That was the name written on the whiteboard near the exit.
A team known for structure. Compact lines. Ruthless pressing triggers. No stars. No showmen. Just efficiency.
On the bus, Álex sat beside Javi Torres, both staring out opposite windows. The road curved through Catalan countryside, banners for MIC Football fluttering along fences like witnesses that would forget everything by tomorrow.
Javi broke the silence.
"No penalties today."
Álex nodded. "We finish it before that."
The stadium was smaller than the one used in the group stage, but louder. Parents lined the railings, flags waved, chants overlapped. BCN Junior warmed up with military rhythm, passing in triangles, coaches shouting sharp corrections.
Valencia's staff gathered the team near the sideline.
"Listen carefully," the head coach said. "They compress the middle. If you force it, you lose it. Width first. Patience. Álex, you dictate tempo."
Álex met his eyes and nodded once.
The whistle called them in.
As Álex stepped onto the pitch, his boots brushed the grass lightly. He bounced twice, inhaled deeply.
[Match pressure acknowledged.]
[Decision latency minimized.]
BCN Junior kicked off and immediately dropped into their shape, a compact 4-3-3 that became a wall the moment Valencia crossed midfield. Every passing lane felt guarded, every touch contested.
Álex positioned himself between the lines, constantly moving, never settling. When the ball came, it came under pressure.
In the 6th minute, he received with his back to goal and felt a defender clamp into his shoulder instantly. Instead of turning, he rolled the ball backward with the sole of his boot, laid it off, and spun away.
Simple.
But the movement pulled two defenders out of position.
Valencia recycled possession. BCN Junior did not chase recklessly. They waited.
The first warning came in the 11th minute. A misplaced pass in midfield was intercepted, and BCN Junior countered sharply, slicing through Valencia's right side. Their striker fired low.
Saved.
A collective exhale followed.
Álex clapped his hands once. Loud. Sharp.
"Reset."
The tempo shifted.
Valencia began stretching the pitch. Fullbacks pushed higher. Álex drifted left, then right, dragging his marker with him. He stopped trying to dominate the ball and started dominating space.
In the 18th minute, he saw it.
The right-sided defender stepped out half a second too early.
Álex took one touch forward, another sideways, and threaded a pass into the channel behind him. Javi Torres burst through, timing his run perfectly.
Shot.
Saved.
Groans echoed.
Álex did not react. He jogged back into position, eyes scanning.
BCN Junior grew bolder after that chance, pressing higher, committing more bodies forward. It was exactly what Valencia needed.
In the 26th minute, Álex dropped deep, almost level with the defensive midfielders. BCN Junior's shape followed him instinctively.
That was the mistake.
He turned sharply, drove forward, and released the ball wide in one motion. The winger crossed low.
Chaos in the box.
Deflection.
Goal.
Valencia 1–0.
Álex didn't celebrate. He turned and sprinted back to his half before the net even stopped shaking.
BCN Junior responded immediately, raising intensity. Tackles became heavier. The referee's whistle became more frequent.
In the 39th minute, they equalized.
A corner. Poor marking. A free header.
1–1.
Álex stood with hands on hips, breathing controlled, eyes fixed on the center circle.
Half-time arrived without relief.
The locker room smelled of sweat and grass.
"Stay calm," the coach said. "They want chaos. Don't give it to them."
Álex sat quietly, head down, replaying sequences in his mind.
[Pattern recognition ongoing.]
He knew where the cracks were.
The second half began with Valencia asserting control again, but BCN Junior defended deeper now, compact and patient.
In the 52nd minute, Álex tried to dribble through two defenders and lost the ball. Immediately, he tracked back, slid, and recovered possession himself.
No frustration. No gestures.
Just work.
The match dragged into a physical battle. Legs grew heavier. Touches less clean.
In the 61st minute, Valencia won a free kick just outside the box, slightly left of center.
Álex picked up the ball.
No one questioned it.
He placed it carefully, took four steps back, adjusted once.
The wall formed.
The whistle blew.
He struck through the ball with the inside of his foot, wrapping it around the wall. The ball dipped late.
The keeper reacted.
Too late.
Goal.
Valencia 2–1.
The stadium erupted.
BCN Junior threw everything forward in the final minutes. Crosses rained in. Shots were blocked. One effort rattled the post.
Álex dropped deeper than ever, helping defend, intercepting passes, calming teammates with gestures.
When the final whistle came, he didn't raise his arms.
He closed his eyes.
Round of 16 survived.
As the team walked off, Álex glanced toward the stands. He spotted Carlos and Abisoye, standing, hands clasped together, eyes shining.
He nodded once.
The tournament continued.