The night before his second day, sleep came to Álex in fragments.
Not dreams. Not nightmares. Just flashes. The thud of a ball against a post. The scrape of boots. The whistle slicing air. Every time his body began to sink, his mind jogged him awake again, as if afraid that rest might loosen something he had finally tightened into place.
At 5:42 a.m., he stopped fighting it.
Álex sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and pressed his feet into the cool floor. The house was quiet, wrapped in that fragile silence that exists only before dawn. From the kitchen came the faint hum of the refrigerator. Outside, the city breathed softly.
He dressed without turning on the light.
By the time Carlos emerged, already dressed for work, Álex was lacing his boots.
"You didn't sleep," Carlos said.
Álex shrugged. "I did enough."
Carlos studied him, then nodded once. He understood this kind of morning. He had lived a few himself, back when his own body had still believed in endless days.
The drive to Paterna was quiet. Streetlights blinked off one by one as the sky lightened from ink to steel. When the academy gates came into view, Álex felt the same tightening in his chest as the day before, but this time it was different.
Less fear.
More focus.
[Routine forming.]
At 6:41 a.m., he was already inside the changing room. A few boys were there, stretching, taping ankles, sitting with headphones on like shields against the world. No one spoke much. The bravado from the trials had burned away overnight.
This place had a way of doing that.
Coach Ramírez entered at exactly 7:00.
"On the pitch. Now."
Morning training was pure discipline.
No balls at first. Just movement. Sprint patterns. Direction changes. Explosive starts and sudden stops that sent fire licking up calves and thighs. The kind of work that revealed who trained when no one was watching.
Álex's legs protested early.
[Muscle fatigue noted.]
He ignored it.
They moved on to rondos. Tight circles. One-touch only. Lose the ball, step into the middle and suffer.
Álex barely entered the circle.
His body knew where to be. Not because he was faster than everyone else, but because he arrived before urgency did. He angled his hips, opened passing lanes, used the ball like punctuation rather than decoration.
Coach Ramírez circled slowly, eyes sharp.
"Castillo," he said suddenly.
Álex's head snapped up. "Yes, Coach."
"Why were you there?"
Álex hesitated. The wrong answer would sound clever. The right one would sound simple.
"Because the space was about to close," he said.
Ramírez nodded once and walked on.
The session escalated. Positional drills. Patterned attacks. Defensive transitions that demanded immediate recovery runs. Mistakes were met with shouts, not insults, but something colder.
Expectation.
Álex made one mistake. A half-second late on a press. The ball slipped through.
[Error detected]
"Again!" Ramírez barked.
They reset.
Álex didn't make it again.
By the end of the session, his lungs felt scraped raw. His shirt was heavy with sweat. When Ramírez finally blew the whistle, a few boys collapsed onto the grass. Others bent double, hands on knees, staring at the ground like it might offer answers.
"Hydrate," Ramírez said. "Classroom in twenty."
Classroom.
The word hit Álex strangely.
Inside, they sat at desks facing a screen. Clips played. Valencia first-team matches. Academy games. Freeze-frames highlighted mistakes and moments of brilliance alike.
"This," Ramírez said, pausing a clip where a midfielder failed to track back, "is how you lose a career quietly."
The room was silent.
"This," he said, advancing to another clip, "is how you earn minutes without anyone clapping."
Álex leaned forward, elbows on desk, eyes locked. The patterns, the angles, the timing. It all made sense. Not in a mystical way. In a practical one. Football stripped down to cause and effect.
[Concept integration complete.]
When class ended, they were dismissed for breakfast and rest before afternoon training.
Outside, the sun was higher now. The academy buzzed. Other age groups trained on neighboring pitches. Staff moved with purpose. This place never slept. It just rotated effort.
Álex sat on a low wall, sipping water, staring at the grass.
"Hey."
He looked up. The buzz-cut winger stood there, towel around his neck.
"You're annoying," the boy said flatly.
Álex blinked. "Okay."
The boy smirked. "You make it look easy. It's not."
Álex considered that. "It's not easy. It's just… quiet."
The boy laughed once, sharp and surprised. "Yeah. That."
"By the way, I am Javi Torres," said the boy.
Álex looked at him and replied "Álejandro Castillo,"
"Everyone knows your name, the star player," said Javi with little sarcasm.
Álex smiled and didn't replied because he knew what he meant.
They sat in silence for a while.
Afternoon training was worse.
Small-sided games with constraints. Two-touch limits. One-touch limits. Score within five seconds or lose possession. The pitch shrank. Time shrank. Space evaporated.
Álex struggled here. Not badly, but noticeably.
[Processing load increased.]
For the first time since arriving, his decisions lagged behind his intentions. A pass arrived late. A run mistimed. Coach Ramírez stopped the game.
"Castillo," he said, voice calm but firm. "You're thinking."
Álex swallowed. "Yes, Coach."
"Stop."
The game resumed.
Álex exhaled.
He let go.
The difference was immediate. His body took over again, not blindly, but decisively. Touch. Pass. Move. He stopped trying to prove anything and started serving the rhythm of the game.
Two assists followed. Then a pre-assist that split the defense open like a seam.
Ramírez said nothing.
When the day finally ended, Álex felt emptied and filled at the same time. He showered, changed, and stepped back into the evening air.
Carlos was waiting by the gate.
"How was it?" he asked.
Álex thought about the drills, the shouting, the moments where he had nearly slipped.
"It was hard," he said. "So… good."
Carlos smiled, relief softening his face.
That night, Álex slept.
Deeply.
The days began to stack.
Early mornings. Brutal sessions. Classroom work. Tactical boards. Nutrition lectures. Recovery routines. The academy reshaped time itself. Weeks felt like compressed months.
Some boys began to fade. Injuries. Homesickness. Confidence cracking under the weight of constant evaluation.
One didn't return after a weekend.
Another trained in silence after being dropped to a lower group.
Álex noticed everything.
[Attrition observed.]
He stayed quiet. Not withdrawn. Just focused.
One afternoon, after a particularly sharp session, Coach Ramírez called him aside.
"Castillo."
"Yes, Coach."
"You don't play like a boy trying to be noticed," Ramírez said. "You play like someone who expects to be here."
Álex held his gaze. "I do."
Ramírez studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"Good. That expectation will be tested."
As Álex walked away, sweat cooling on his skin, he felt it. Not words. Not symbols.
Pressure.
The kind that did not crush.
The kind that forged.
And somewhere beyond the fences of Paterna, beyond the pitches and routines and silent judgments, a future shifted slightly on its axis.
Álex didn't look toward it.
He stayed where he was.
Working.