The morning of the semifinal dawned cool and overcast. A mist hung lightly over the training grounds, clinging to the blades of grass like a whisper of the challenge ahead. Álex woke before sunrise, instinctively, every muscle remembering the previous rounds—the bruises, the late goals, the battles won and almost lost. This was different.
Hapoel Kfar Saba wasn't just a team. They were a system. Compact, disciplined, organized to perfection. They didn't rush. They didn't overcommit. They waited, calculating, forcing their opponents into mistakes. And Valencia was about to become their opponent.
Álex dressed quickly, pulling on his kit. The number on his back felt heavier today. Not because of fabric, but because of expectation. His boots were clean, laces tied tight, socks rolled just right. He paused in front of the mirror, clenched his fists, and whispered to himself:
"I control the game."
The bus ride was quieter than ever. No one spoke unless spoken to. Everyone knew the stakes. The Round of 16 had been about survival; the quarterfinal about strength. The semifinal demanded intelligence.
Javi Torres nudged Álex lightly. "They're organized. Don't rush. You and me, we create."
Álex nodded. "We do this together."
At the stadium, Hapoel Kfar Saba warmed up with a controlled intensity, passing in triangles, switching play with purpose, scanning Valencia as if already inside their minds. Parents, scouts, and fans were present, but their noise barely cut through the tension.
In the locker room, the coach addressed the team. "They will press intelligently. They will not make mistakes easily. Patience, positioning, and movement will win this game. Álex, you are the tempo. Control it."
[Match anticipation acknowledged.]
[Decision-making: elevated focus.]
The whistle blew. Valencia CF U15 took the field. The semifinal was underway.
Hapoel Kfar Saba kicked off with measured control. Their passes were short, precise, and angled to probe Valencia's structure. Within three minutes, they had tested Valencia's defensive coordination twice.
Álex positioned himself between the lines, constantly shifting, dragging defenders, creating invisible channels. When the ball came, he didn't just pass—it was weighted, angled, anticipating movement before it even happened.
The first real chance came in the 12th minute. Álex received a pass on the left, took one touch to control, then danced past a midfielder using a deft step-over. Another defender slid in. Álex stopped the ball, feinted, and played a low pass across the top of the box. Javi Torres arrived in stride. Shot—blocked. Rebound cleared.
Álex's calm under pressure set the tone for the team. Valencia began controlling possession more efficiently, shifting Hapoel Kfar Saba's shape side to side, drawing gaps.
At 24 minutes, Álex spotted a small opening. He ran diagonally into the pocket between the defensive line and midfield. A teammate fed the ball into his path. One touch, another to shift it outside, then a crisp cross to the far post. The striker met it with precision. Goal. 1–0 Valencia.
Hapoel Kfar Saba did not panic. They recalibrated, doubling up on the midfield and closing the center, forcing Valencia to play wide. Every pass Álex attempted was met with a defender's shadow. Every touch was contested.
By the 35th minute, they found their reward—a miscommunication in Valencia's backline allowed a quick cross to find the striker unmarked. 1–1.
Álex felt the sting but didn't dwell. He collected the ball from the restart, looked up, and began reorganizing his team, directing runners, calling for movement. Valencia's possession became purposeful. Each pass measured. Each run intentional.
The whistle blew for halftime. Score level, but tension high.
The locker room smelled of grass, sweat, and anticipation. Coaches spoke in measured tones, emphasizing patience and positional discipline.
"Remember, they are patient. We will outsmart them, not outrun them. Álex, control the rhythm. Let them chase shadows."
Álex nodded. His status window flickered faintly in his mind's eye:
[Stamina: stable]
[Decision-making: optimized]
[Pressure tolerance: high]
He visualized the second half: where gaps would open, where his passes could slice through defenses, where his dribbling could create moments.
The whistle blew. Valencia attacked from left to right. Hapoel Kfar Saba pressed but left subtle gaps. Álex exploited the first immediately.
In the 48th minute, he received a pass near midfield, spun past one defender, then slipped a perfectly weighted ball between two others. Javi Torres ran onto it, controlled, and shot low. Blocked by the keeper. Rebound met by Valencia's striker. 2–1.
Hapoel Kfar Saba intensified pressure. Physical challenges came faster. Passes were intercepted more often. Yet Álex maintained composure, orchestrating play, dictating tempo. Every time Wolves' approach in the previous round had tested him physically, Hapoel Kfar Saba tested him mentally.
In the 57th minute, Álex dribbled past three opponents along the right channel, sidestepped a sliding tackle, and delivered a low cross into the six-yard box. The ball bounced off a defender's heel, straight to a teammate. Goal. 3–1 Valencia.
The crowd erupted. Parents cheered. Scouts whispered among themselves. Paco Cuenca scribbled something in his notebook, eyes tracking Álex continuously.
Hapoel Kfar Saba did not crumble. They maintained structure, pressing, and probing. In the 66th minute, a quick one-two opened Valencia's defense slightly. A deflected shot fell to their striker. 3–2.
Now the pressure mounted. Every pass mattered. Every touch was scrutinized.
Álex adjusted positioning. He dropped slightly to collect the ball, drawing Hapoel Kfar Saba's midfield toward him. This created space behind their defensive line. He slipped Javi Torres through the opening, who drew the keeper before passing to the far post. Goal. 4–2.
Mental resilience became paramount. Álex tracked back to defend, intercepted passes, communicated constantly. The team followed his rhythm.
Hapoel Kfar Saba pushed relentlessly in the final minutes, but Valencia's defense, guided by Álex's constant awareness and positional calls, held firm. Every cross was met, every attempt blocked, every shot parried.
The final whistle blew. Valencia had won 4–2.
The players collapsed on the grass. The scoreboard reflected their triumph. The semifinal hurdle had been overcome.
Álex sat with knees drawn up, breathing deeply, letting adrenaline ebb. His mind replayed the sequences—the passes, the dribbles, the assists, the defensive recoveries.
Paco Cuenca's gaze lingered on him, almost approving. A small nod acknowledged Álex's influence.
Carlos and Abisoye were on the stands, hands tightly clasped, smiling through tears. Estrella waved, jumping with excitement.
Álex rose slowly, shoulders squared, feeling the weight and the promise of the upcoming final.
Two matches from the pinnacle.
And now… the Atlético de Madrid U15 awaited.