The sun rose over Paterna with a stubborn calm, scattering golden rays across the trimmed fields where Valencia CF's youth squads trained. Everything was meticulously arranged—the white lines crisp, the goalposts gleaming, the cones in neat rows—but to Álex, it never felt static. Every blade of grass carried memory: the scrape of a boot, the sweat of a teammate, the echoes of a goal scored too soon, a pass misread, a tackle lost.
Returning from the MIC tournament was strange. The medals and trophies had been carefully locked away in the academy's office. Yet, in a way, the victory still clung to the boys like a scent of warm sweat on their clothes, a quiet confidence in their step, a glint of ambition in their eyes. They weren't the same children who had left their homes in March—they were fighters molded by pressure, fear, and triumph.
Álex jogged out of the locker room, boots thudding lightly on the wet morning grass. His lungs expanded with the cool air, the scent of turf mixing with the faint tang of early morning dew. Around him, the under-15 squad was already assembling. Laughter spilled from some corners of the field, while others whispered quietly, testing each other, staking out the hierarchy that had subtly shifted after the tournament.
A whistle cut sharply across the pitch. The sound was simple, singular, yet it carried authority. Heads snapped forward, eyes adjusting, hearts syncing.
Paco Cuenca stood at the halfway line, hands clasped behind his back. He was the same man who had watched Álex since his earliest days at Paterna: calm, measured, and intimidating in his quiet presence. He didn't shout or gesture unnecessarily. Every movement carried weight because every movement meant something.
The boys gathered instinctively.
"First," Paco began, his voice carrying easily across the field, "congratulations."
A ripple of subdued excitement passed through the team. Smiles formed but faded quickly under the weight of attention. They weren't here to celebrate—they were here to work.
"You represented Valencia with intelligence," Paco continued, scanning each face, lingering briefly on Álex. "With courage. With discipline. That matters more than any trophy."
Álex's chest tightened at those words, a warmth settling into his stomach. He didn't need medals. The acknowledgment from Paco meant more than any celebration could.
"But listen carefully," Paco continued, his eyes darkening slightly. "What you did in April earns you nothing in May. Nothing in June. Football remembers only what you do today. So should you."
The boys absorbed the words, nodding in quiet understanding. Some clenched their fists. Others let their shoulders relax, readying themselves to prove they could maintain momentum.
Paco's gaze landed on Javi Torres first, and the buzz-cut winger straightened instinctively, feeling the weight of his coach's attention.
"Javi," Paco said, "you're already fifteen. The intensity you showed at MIC, the directness, the willingness to take responsibility—those belong at another level now."
Javi's eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed hard. "Yes, coach."
"You and the striker," Paco continued, "will begin training with the under-18 squad starting next week. You're ready. The next step waits for you."
A ripple of surprise and quiet envy moved through the remaining squad. Pride for Javi. Apprehension for themselves. The hierarchy had shifted again, and the under-15s were reminded that the ladder in elite football climbed fast.
Paco turned his attention slowly toward Álex. The weight of his gaze was deliberate, heavy with quiet judgment.
"Álex."
The sound of his name made Álex straighten automatically. The ground seemed to tilt slightly under the weight of expectation.
"I've been watching you," Paco said plainly. "Not just in matches. In training. In how you solve problems. In the way you guide your teammates."
Álex held his gaze. He could feel every heartbeat in his chest, a drum marking both pressure and purpose.
"When you turn fourteen," Paco continued, "you will move up to the under-18 squad. But until then, you stay here. Lead. Sharpen your game. Learn patience. Learn responsibility."
The words settled slowly, like dust floating in a beam of light. Not now. Not yet. But soon. The door was no longer closed; it was waiting.
Álex nodded. "Yes, coach."
Paco's eyes lingered on him a second longer, then he stepped back and blew his whistle.
"Warm up. Three minutes."
The group broke apart immediately, returning to their familiar routines. Álex rolled his shoulders, stretched his legs, and dribbled the ball lightly at his feet. Every touch was deliberate. Every movement calculated. He could feel the difference now—not physically, but mentally. Every glance he took scanned the field for weaknesses, every pass he considered how it could open space for teammates. Leadership was subtle. It didn't announce itself with shouts. It was woven into decisions.
Across the field, Javi jogged toward the older boys, preparing for under-18 drills. He looked back once and raised a hand in a silent "see you soon." Álex returned the gesture, his mind already shifting back to the group he was still leading.
The drills began. Cones zigzagged. Balls snapped between feet. Coaches barked instructions in short bursts. In one corner, Álex noticed a younger boy struggling with a simple passing pattern. Without hesitation, Álex adjusted his position, called out a slight tip about body angle, and demonstrated the movement. The boy nodded, tried it, and successfully completed the pass. Small victories. Leadership in action.
The morning stretched into the afternoon. Rondos, tactical drills, sprint sets. Álex found himself pushed physically—his lungs burned, calves tightened, shoulders ached—but mentally he was sharper than ever. He anticipated every move, guided teammates silently with positioning and small gestures, and executed decisions with an economy of motion that made him appear almost in slow motion to his competitors.
By midday, sweat drenched every shirt. Water bottles were drained, replenished, and drained again. Paco Cuenca walked along the sidelines, watching, occasionally jotting notes, rarely speaking. He didn't need to. He was measuring more than skill—he was measuring temperament, focus, and resilience.
During a break, Álex sat under the shade of a large oak, sipping water. His legs shook slightly from exertion. But his mind was restless. He replayed every match, every dribble, every pass. He visualized free kicks, calculated angles, imagined defenders shifting in slow motion.
"Not bad," a voice said. It was the under-15 striker, sitting beside him, towel draped over his shoulders. "You're… different. You think too much."
Álex smiled faintly. "Or maybe I just see what's coming."
The striker grinned. "Keep it up. Maybe one day we'll meet in the U-18 pitch."
"Maybe," Álex said. But inside, he already knew that day would come sooner than most expected.
Afternoon drills focused on shooting. Goalkeepers were set up, cones formed channels, and each player took turn practicing precision strikes under pressure. Álex felt the ball at his feet like an extension of himself. Step over, touch inside, guide the ball into the far corner. Over and over. He measured trajectory, force, and timing, adjusting with every touch. Sweat mingled with sunburn, muscles screamed, but he kept moving.
Finally, the day ended with a mini-match, a decisive internal scrimmage to test the squad's readiness. Coaches split the group, forming two teams. Álex's team took position on the left flank. The whistle blew.
It was chaos. But controlled chaos. Players lunged, passed, fell, got up. The ball zipped and bounced, a living entity demanding attention. Álex dribbled past two defenders, a third lunged—he stepped over, shifted the ball, and sent a diagonal pass to the striker. Goal. His team roared. Coaches nodded. Notes were taken.
Another possession, another attack. This time Álex feinted, twisted, and curled a shot from the edge of the box. Goal. Silence, then applause. The message was clear: he wasn't just participating; he was dictating tempo, decision-making, and outcome.
By the end of the session, bodies were drained. Minds sharpened. Coaches gathered the boys, nodding approvingly.
"Today was good," Molina said. "You've earned the weekend. Rest. Reflect. Prepare for what comes next. Remember, victories aren't just in trophies—they're in improvement. Consistency. Focus."
Álex nodded, his legs heavy but his spirit lighter. He had not just survived the return to training—he had thrived.
That night, in the quiet of his room, he opened the MIC trophy case mentally. The gold shimmered, yes, but it was distant. What mattered now was the next challenge: leadership, discipline, and the slow, unrelenting climb toward the U-18 squad.
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, training would begin again. He would run, dribble, shoot, and guide his teammates. He would continue building the foundation that Paco had promised would open the next door.
And for the first time in a long time, Álex smiled, knowing that his journey had only just begun.