The academy bus rolled out of Paterna just after seven-thirty, merging into the steady flow of Monday morning traffic. Inside, the atmosphere was completely different from the intensity of a matchday. School bags rested between football boots, earphones hung around necks, and conversations bounced from unfinished homework to which teacher gave the hardest tests. For a little while, football took a back seat.
Javi Torres slid into the seat beside Álex as if it had always belonged to him. He had a phone in one hand and a grin that usually meant trouble.
"You've been avoiding your phone."
Álex looked out of the window at the passing streets. "I've been sleeping."
"So you haven't seen the highlights?"
"I lived them."
Javi laughed, unlocking his phone anyway before turning the screen towards him. Valencia's official page had already uploaded yesterday's best moments, and the thumbnail froze on Álex's second goal, his body leaning perfectly over the ball as it curled towards the top corner.
"The comments are going crazy."
Álex barely glanced at the screen before looking away again. He didn't need another replay. Every important moment from yesterday was already stored in his mind, especially the little details that never made highlight videos: the movement that pulled a defender out of position, the first touch that opened the shooting lane, and the split-second decision to strike before anyone could close him down.
"You're not even curious?" Javi asked.
"Not really."
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
Javi locked his phone with an exaggerated sigh. "You know, I'm beginning to think you're allergic to compliments."
"I'm just more interested in playing the next match than watching the last one."
For once, Javi didn't have a joke ready. He simply nodded before looking back out of the opposite window.
"That's probably why you scored three."
The bus slowed to a stop outside the school gates, and the conversation dissolved naturally as everyone stood, slung their bags over their shoulders and joined the stream of students walking into the building.
Football disappeared surprisingly quickly.
The first lesson was mathematics, and within five minutes the whiteboard was filled with equations instead of tactical diagrams. Álex copied each step carefully into his notebook, occasionally glancing towards the clock as the teacher explained another method. It felt strangely comforting. Nobody here cared whether he'd scored a hat trick yesterday. They cared whether he could solve the next problem before the bell rang.
Halfway through the lesson, someone tapped lightly on his desk.
A classmate he'd spoken to only a few times smiled awkwardly.
"My dad took me to the match yesterday."
Álex looked up from his notebook.
"He says you're going to be a big player one day."
The compliment caught him off guard.
"Tell him... thanks."
The teacher cleared her throat at the front of the classroom, and the conversation ended there. Both boys returned to their work as though nothing had happened.
Álex liked that.
He enjoyed football more when it stayed on the pitch instead of following him everywhere.
By the time school finished, the afternoon sun had settled comfortably over Paterna again. The Juvenil A players changed into their training gear before reporting to the recovery gym, where footballs had been replaced by foam rollers, resistance bands and stationary bikes.
The complaints started almost immediately.
"I'd rather run intervals," Iván Mejía muttered while struggling through a mobility exercise.
The physiotherapist smiled without looking up from his clipboard. "That's because running doesn't expose how stiff your hips are."
Laughter spread around the room.
"He's got you," Hugo Guijarro said, almost losing his balance while attempting the exact same stretch.
"Don't laugh," Mejía shot back. "You're wobbling worse than I am."
"I wasn't wobbling."
"You were."
"I was... adjusting."
Even Carlos Alós allowed himself a quiet smile before returning to his routine. At eighteen, he was one of the oldest players in the squad, and everything about him reflected that. While the younger boys joked through recovery, Carlos treated every exercise with the same concentration he showed during matches.
"Recovery is part of training," he reminded Boyko, who had started rushing through his repetitions.
Boyko rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Yes, Dad."
"I'm not old enough to be your dad."
"No," Boyko replied with a grin, "but you sound like one."
The room erupted again, breaking whatever seriousness Carlos had been trying to maintain.
A sharp whistle cut through the laughter.
"Castillo."
Álex turned to see Paco Cuenca standing beside one of the analysis stations, a tablet tucked under his arm. He walked over, expecting another recovery exercise, but Paco simply handed him the device.
"Watch the seventy-sixth minute."
The clip began playing.
It wasn't one of the goals.
It wasn't even one of Valencia's attacks.
It was the moment Álex lost possession while trying to turn in midfield.
He watched the sequence once, then replayed it without saying a word.
"What do you see?" Paco asked.
Álex studied the frozen frame for another few seconds before answering.
"I waited for the ball instead of moving towards it, and I never checked over my shoulder before the pass arrived. By the time I realised the second defender was closing in, I'd already trapped myself."
Paco nodded, satisfied.
"I could've told you all of that," he said, taking the tablet back, "but it's better that you found it yourself. People outside this building will spend the week talking about your hat trick. I'm more interested in whether you'll remember this mistake when the next match begins."
Álex looked at the paused image one last time before meeting his coach's eyes.
"I will."
"I know."
Paco gave a single nod and walked away to speak with another player, leaving Álex standing quietly beside the analysis screen. Three goals had earned him applause, but one misplaced touch had earned him a lesson. Somehow, that felt even more valuable.
As he returned to the rest of the squad, the noise of the gym swallowed him again. Mejía and Guijarro were still arguing over who had the worse balance, Boyko was trying to convince Carlos that stretching counted as torture, and Javi was laughing so hard he nearly fell off his exercise mat.
Álex smiled to himself.
Yesterday had made him the name everyone was talking about.
Today reminded him he was still just another academy player with another training session to finish.