The afternoon air above Alboraya carried that peculiar tension only football could create, the kind that settled into the chest before a single ball was kicked. The stands were alive long before kickoff, a patchwork of local supporters wrapped in blue and white, Valencia scarves flickering like embers in the away section.
This was not a stadium that intimidated through size.
It intimidated through proximity.
Every shout could be heard. Every mistake felt personal.
Up in the commentary booth, microphones crackled softly as the broadcast came alive.
"Good afternoon, everyone," the lead commentator began, voice steady and clear. "We welcome you to Matchday Three of the División de Honor Juvenil, coming to you live from Alboraya. Today, the home side host Valencia CF Juvenil A in what promises to be a fascinating encounter between two teams already shaping narratives early in the season."
His partner leaned in.
"And there's already a talking point before a ball has been kicked," he added. "Álex Castillo starts this match on the bench."
The camera cut instantly.
Álex sat among the substitutes, tracksuit zipped halfway, hands clasped loosely, posture composed. He looked younger than most around him, slimmer, shorter, but there was nothing uncertain about his eyes.
"Three goals and one assist across his first two appearances," the commentator continued. "A sensational impact since his promotion. Yet Paco Cuenca has chosen continuity today."
The co-commentator nodded audibly.
"It sends a message," he said. "Performance earns minutes, but structure earns starts. And Valencia will need structure today."
The referee's whistle pierced the atmosphere.
Alboraya kicked off.
The first touch rolled backward, and immediately Valencia stepped up, Rodrigo Gamón leading the press, angling his run to force play wide. Alin Gera followed, compact and alert, closing the passing lane into midfield.
From the opening seconds, it was clear.
This would not be comfortable.
Alboraya circulated the ball patiently across their back line, drawing Valencia forward, waiting for space. Their goalkeeper clipped a measured ball toward the right flank.
Iván Mejía tracked it well, stepping in decisively to win the duel.
Valencia's first possession.
Rodrigo received and slowed the tempo instantly, raising a hand, calming the movement around him. He played it square to Rubén Martínez, who shifted it across to Carlos Alós.
The ball moved.
The crowd murmured.
On the bench, Álex leaned forward slightly, eyes tracing every passing angle.
Valencia settled into their familiar rhythm early, forming a narrow diamond in midfield. Jaume Durà floated between lines, checking shoulders constantly, looking for pockets. Javi Torres held width on the right, stretching Alboraya's back line.
In the fifth minute, Valencia created the first real opening.
Jaume Durà received on the half-turn and slid a sharp pass into Pablo Reyes, who dropped deep to link play. Pablo flicked it first time into the path of Javi Torres.
The winger accelerated.
One touch. Two.
He cut inside, opened his body, and shot.
Blocked.
The ball ricocheted out for a corner.
Polite applause from the Valencia section.
But the warning went both ways.
Alboraya's response was immediate and far more direct.
In the eighth minute, a loose pass from Víctor García was intercepted near the halfway line. Alboraya transitioned instantly, a vertical pass slicing through midfield before Valencia could reset.
Their striker peeled off Rubén Martínez, dragging him wide.
Space opened.
A late runner surged through midfield.
Shot.
Saved.
Vicent Abril parried it wide, reacting sharply, but the stadium roared anyway.
"That's the danger," the commentator said. "Alboraya transition quickly and without hesitation."
Álex felt his heartbeat pick up.
This was not a match that would wait patiently.
The home side began to grow.
Their confidence wasn't loud, but it was firm. They pressed selectively, forcing Valencia into longer spells of circulation, tempting a mistake.
In the thirteenth minute, it came.
Rodrigo Gamón received under pressure, tried to shift the ball onto his right, but the angle closed faster than expected. An Alboraya midfielder stabbed a foot in cleanly.
Turnover.
The ball was played wide instantly.
Iván Mejía sprinted back, but the cross came early, arcing toward the penalty spot.
Carlos Alós rose.
Missed it by inches.
Behind him, the Alboraya forward arrived unmarked.
Header.
Goal.
The net rippled violently.
The stadium exploded.
"And Alboraya strike first!" the commentator shouted. "A lapse in concentration from Valencia, and the home side make it count!"
Vicent Abril slammed his fists into the turf, frustration etched across his face.
Rubén Martínez turned and shouted, organizing, pointing.
On the bench, Johan Villa exhaled sharply.
Álex stayed still.
1–0 Alboraya.
And suddenly, the match tilted.
Valencia tried to respond with composure.
Rodrigo slowed the tempo deliberately, demanding the ball, trying to reassert control. Alin Gera positioned himself deeper, offering protection against counterattacks.
Jaume Durà began to drift wider, attempting to create overloads with Javi Torres.
But Alboraya were now sharper.
They pressed with intent, not recklessly, but with purpose. Every Valencia touch was met with a shoulder, a step, a challenge.
In the twenty-fourth minute, Alboraya nearly doubled their lead.
A free kick from the right was whipped into the box, dipping dangerously toward the near post. Vicent Abril punched, but not cleanly.
The second ball fell loose.
Chaos.
A swing of a boot sent it just over the bar.
Valencia survived, but the warning was unmistakable.
"Valencia are rattled here," the co-commentator observed. "They need to settle."
On the sideline, Paco Cuenca remained composed, arms folded, eyes scanning rather than reacting.
The equalizer came not through dominance, but resilience.
In the thirty-second minute, Hugo Guijarro stepped in front of an Alboraya pass and won possession cleanly. Without hesitation, he played it into Rodrigo Gamón, who turned away from pressure beautifully.
Rodrigo looked up.
Jaume Durà was already moving.
The pass split the midfield.
Jaume took it in stride, drew two defenders, and slipped a perfectly weighted ball into the channel.
Pablo Reyes timed his run.
One touch.
Finish.
Low. Precise.
Silence.
Then a burst of applause from the away end.
"And Valencia respond!" the commentator cried. "That's the quality they possess. One moment of clarity, and the match is level."
Pablo raised a single fist, controlled, professional.
Jaume nodded once, breathing heavily.
On the bench, Álex allowed himself a small smile.
1–1.
Game on again.
If Valencia believed the equalizer would calm the match, they were mistaken.
Alboraya responded with fury.
They pushed higher, sensing vulnerability, feeding off the crowd's energy. Their midfield began to dominate second balls, snapping into challenges with renewed aggression.
In the forty-first minute, Valencia lost possession near the right flank. Javi Torres attempted to recover but was forced to foul.
Free kick.
Deep position.
Everyone stepped forward.
The delivery was clever, rolled short instead of crossed. A quick one-two bypassed Valencia's defensive line.
Cut-back.
Shot.
Deflection.
Goal.
The stadium erupted again, louder this time, raw and unfiltered.
"And Alboraya have their second!" the commentator exclaimed. "Valencia caught napping once more, and the home side punish them before halftime!"
Vicent Abril stood frozen for a second before turning away, jaw clenched.
Rubén Martínez kicked the post lightly, anger contained but visible.
Paco Cuenca finally stepped forward, clapping once, loudly.
Focus.
On the bench, Álex felt it now, a tightness in his chest.
2–1 Alboraya.
The scoreboard glowed unforgivingly.
The referee blew for halftime moments later.
Alboraya players jogged toward the tunnel, chests high, feeding off the applause. Valencia followed more slowly, expressions serious, minds racing.
Up in the booth, the commentator summarized.
"A compelling first half here at Alboraya. The home side lead 2–1 at the break, capitalizing on Valencia lapses and riding the momentum of the crowd. Valencia have shown flashes of quality, but questions will be asked at halftime."
The camera lingered once more on the Valencia bench.
Álex Castillo stood now, pulling his training top tighter around his shoulders.
He looked calm.
But inside, everything was accelerating.
Because he knew.
This match was not slipping away quietly.
And the second half would demand something different.
Something decisive.