The night after the Round of 16 win did not bring sleep easily.
Álex lay on his bed at the team hotel, legs buzzing with a low, electric ache that refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, the match replayed itself in fragments. The curl of the free kick. The sound of the net. The weight of the final whistle. Victory lingered like heat trapped beneath the skin.
Tomorrow would be worse.
Wolverhampton Wanderers U15 were not a mystery team. Everyone knew their reputation. Physically dominant. Direct. Relentless runners who treated the pitch like a proving ground. They did not play to entertain. They played to overwhelm.
Álex rolled onto his side and stared at the faint glow of his phone screen before locking it again. He did not need distractions. He needed clarity.
[Recovery status: Adequate.]
[Muscle fatigue: Elevated.]
[Mental focus: Stable.]
He exhaled slowly.
Enough.
The morning air carried a different weight. Cooler. Sharper. Even breakfast tasted quieter. Conversations were brief, clipped, unfinished.
Javi Torres sat across from Álex, aggressively tearing into toast like it had personally offended him.
"They kick," Javi said between bites. "A lot."
Álex nodded. "Then we move faster."
The bus ride to the stadium was shorter than the previous rounds. The venue itself felt tighter, crowd closer to the pitch, noise bouncing back from concrete walls instead of drifting away.
Wolves were already warming up when Valencia arrived.
They looked bigger.
Not taller, necessarily. Broader. Their shoulders filled their shirts. Their passes were drilled, not caressed. Every shot during warm-up was struck with intent, even when it missed.
One of them glanced at Álex and smirked.
Álex did not look away.
The Valencia coach pulled the team into a tight semicircle.
"They will test you," he said. "Early. Hard. Don't react. Let the ball do the talking. Álex, don't drift too deep today. Stay between the lines. Force them to choose."
Álex absorbed every word.
Paco Cuenca stood several meters behind the group, arms folded, expression unreadable.
The whistle called them forward.
Wolverhampton kicked off with violence disguised as enthusiasm. Their first touch was a long diagonal aimed at their striker, who muscled his defender aside and fired early.
Saved.
But the message landed.
In the opening ten minutes, Valencia struggled to settle. Wolves pressed high, forcing hurried passes, closing space aggressively. Every tackle carried weight. Every collision felt intentional.
In the 8th minute, Álex received the ball near the center circle and was immediately flattened by a shoulder charge. He rolled once, popped back up before the whistle even blew.
No complaint.
The referee allowed play to continue.
Álex adjusted.
He began releasing the ball earlier, using one-touch passes to bypass pressure. He drifted laterally, never staying long enough to be pinned. Wolves followed, but their shape began to stretch.
In the 17th minute, Valencia finally broke free. A quick sequence of passes pulled Wolves' midfield out of alignment. Álex received on the half-turn and slipped a through ball into space.
Javi chased it down.
Cross.
Blocked.
Corner.
The corner came in low. Chaos erupted in the box. Wolves cleared it forcefully, launching another counter.
This time, it worked.
A long ball caught Valencia's defense flat. Wolves' winger burst past his marker and squared it across goal.
Tap-in.
0–1.
The Wolves bench exploded with noise.
Álex stood still, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.
[Adversity acknowledged.]
Valencia regrouped, but Wolves smelled blood. They pressed harder, tackles flying in with increasing ferocity.
In the 29th minute, Álex was clipped from behind while turning. He stumbled, kept possession, and laid it off anyway.
The crowd reacted sharply.
Wolves' physicality bordered on reckless now, but Valencia refused to panic. Slowly, deliberately, they regained control of the ball.
In the 36th minute, Álex dropped slightly deeper to collect possession. Wolves followed.
Again, that was the mistake.
He turned sharply, surged forward, and drew two defenders before releasing the ball wide. The left winger cut inside and fired.
Post.
Rebound.
Goal.
1–1.
The relief was audible.
Wolves responded immediately, but the half ended with the score level, tension thick as fog.
The locker room buzzed with restrained anger.
"They're bullying us," one player muttered.
"They can't keep it up," the coach replied sharply. "They'll tire. We won't."
He looked directly at Álex.
"Keep moving them. They don't like thinking."
Álex nodded.
[Stamina threshold recalculated.]
The second half opened with Wolves doubling down on physicality. One of their midfielders earned a yellow card within two minutes. Another should have followed shortly after but escaped punishment.
Álex absorbed contact after contact, learning when to ride it, when to release early. He began drawing fouls intentionally, using his body to invite pressure.
In the 55th minute, Valencia earned a free kick near the right touchline.
Álex stood over it.
This one wasn't for goal.
He lofted the ball deep, targeting the far post. Wolves misjudged the flight. Valencia's center-back rose highest.
Header.
Saved.
But the keeper spilled it.
Scramble.
Goal.
Valencia 2–1.
The Wolves bench went quiet.
Now the game changed.
Wolves pushed forward desperately, abandoning structure for brute force. Valencia absorbed pressure and countered with precision.
In the 63rd minute, Álex intercepted a pass near midfield and immediately accelerated. One defender lunged.
Álex flicked the ball past him.
Another closed in.
He stepped over the ball, shifted direction, and broke free.
[Skill move efficiency increased.]
The crowd rose as he surged forward, options opening around him. He waited until the keeper stepped out, then slipped a perfectly weighted pass to the right.
Shot.
Goal.
3–1.
Wolves' shoulders sagged.
But they did not quit.
In the 71st minute, they clawed one back through a scrappy corner, bundling the ball over the line amid protests.
3–2.
The final minutes were brutal.
Wolves threw bodies forward. Valencia defended with discipline. Álex tracked back repeatedly, legs burning, lungs screaming.
[Stamina critical.]
In the 88th minute, Wolves nearly equalized. A shot from distance screamed toward the top corner.
Saved.
The rebound fell loose.
Cleared.
The referee glanced at his watch.
One final Wolves attack fizzled out with a mis-hit cross.
The whistle blew.
Valencia players collapsed onto the grass, chests heaving, faces streaked with sweat and dirt.
Álex dropped to one knee, hands planted on the turf, breathing hard but steady.
He looked up at the scoreboard.
Quarterfinals conquered.
From the touchline, Paco Cuenca nodded once, slow and deliberate, before turning away.
In the stands, Carlos punched the air silently. Abisoye wiped tears from her cheeks.
Álex rose and walked toward the tunnel, shoulders squared.
Two matches from immortality.