The heat of Paterna in late summer had a way of settling into the bones.
By the time the sun climbed fully above the training complex, the pitches were already alive. Boots scuffed the grass into familiar patterns, cones were dragged into grids, and the low thump of passes echoed like a pulse. This was not trial football. This was preparation. This was Juvenil de Honor.
Álex stood near the center circle, rolling the ball under his sole as Paco Cuenca finished speaking with the staff. Around him were bodies bigger, broader, voices deeper. He was still the youngest, still the smallest by instinct if not by measurement, but the gap was narrowing. Every session shaved something away. Doubt. Hesitation. Fear.
"Warm-up pattern A," Paco called. "Two-touch. Tempo high."
The ball moved instantly.
Rodrigo Gamón took the first pass, opening his body like a door swinging wide. Jaume Durà followed, already scanning, already thinking one pass ahead. Álex slid into the rotation naturally, his touch light, his movement economical. He didn't demand the ball. He made himself unavoidable.
Victor García clipped a pass toward him with just enough pace to test intent.
Álex killed it with the inside of his foot and returned it first-time, then burst into space to receive again.
"Good," Victor muttered as he ran past.
Small words. Big meaning.
Training with the U18s was less about impressing now and more about synchronizing. Everyone here could play. What separated starters from shadows was understanding. Timing. Trust.
In possession drills, Álex learned the habits of his teammates.
Rodrigo liked the ball early, before pressure arrived.
Hugo Guijarro waited, then struck forward suddenly.
Alin Gera played simple, brutal football. No wasted touches.
Jaume Durà thought in curves instead of straight lines.
And the forwards?
Pablo Reyes attacked the near post like it owed him money.
Dominykas Taučas held defenders with his frame, creating gravity.
Yaroslav Boyko drifted wide, then cut inside with quiet menace.
Álex adjusted his passing accordingly.
One session focused entirely on vertical progression. Paco split the squad into narrow channels, forcing midfielders to play through pressure rather than around it. Álex thrived here. His decision-making had sharpened, no longer reactive but anticipatory.
A defender stepped. Álex already knew where the ball would go.
A lane closed. He opened another.
"Again," Paco called.
They did.
And again.
By the end of the drill, sweat soaked his back, but his breathing stayed controlled. He had learned when to slow the game and when to accelerate it. That was the difference here. Juvenil de Honor punished chaos.
Afternoons were often technical. Paco believed that flair without efficiency was noise, but efficiency with creativity was lethal.
Álex worked closely with Jaume Durà during one-on-one drills. Cones formed narrow corridors, defenders released late, forcing attackers to improvise at speed.
"Don't beat him twice," Jaume said quietly after Álex slipped past a marker with a body feint. "Beat him once and disappear."
Álex nodded.
Next run, he shifted his hips, sold the feint, then burst diagonally into space instead of straight ahead. The defender lunged where Álex had been, not where he was going.
Clean. Silent.
On the sideline, Paco watched without comment.
Later came shooting drills. Not power. Placement. Rhythm. Shots after movement, after passes, after fatigue. Álex struck with both feet now, his weak foot no longer a liability but a tool.
One touch. Set. Strike.
Net rippled.
"Left again," the coach shouted.
Álex adjusted his angle, opened his body less, struck earlier.
Goal.
Johan Villa watched from the line, arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth.
"Still feeding me those passes?" Johan called.
"Only if you keep finishing," Álex replied.
Johan laughed. "Deal."
Javi Torres arrived the following week.
Buzz cut gone, replaced by something slightly longer, more controlled. His stride was the same though. Sharp. Direct. Hungry.
When their eyes met across the pitch, neither smiled.
They didn't need to.
Javi slotted into the right side immediately, stretching play, attacking defenders with the same fearless aggression that had defined him at U15. The difference now was restraint. He picked his moments.
During a small-sided game, Álex found him with a disguised pass through the half-space. Javi took one touch and whipped the ball across the box.
Johan arrived.
Goal.
Javi jogged back, glanced at Álex. "Not bad, kid."
Álex raised an eyebrow. "You're the older one now. Act like it."
That earned a laugh.
Slowly, bonds formed.
Not loudly. Not ceremonially.
Shared exhaustion did the work.
Ice baths. Protein shakes. Quiet jokes while stretching. Victor Duran explaining positioning. Rodrigo correcting angles. Even the goalkeepers joined in, Vicent Abril barking encouragement, Luis Romero offering feedback after shooting sessions.
Álex listened more than he spoke.
But when he spoke, they listened.
One evening session stood out.
Paco waited until the squad was visibly drained before calling for shooting drills. Legs heavy. Minds tired. This was where bad habits appeared.
"Final action decides matches," Paco said. "Not the first."
Álex's thighs burned as he jogged into position. The ball was played wide, recycled back, then slipped into him at the edge of the box.
A defender closed fast.
Álex didn't rush.
He took a touch sideways, created half a yard, and struck low across goal.
Post.
Out.
He exhaled, annoyed.
"Again," Paco called.
Next repetition, same movement, different choice. Álex delayed, waited for Johan's run, slipped the ball into his path.
Finish.
Goal.
Paco nodded once.
The message was clear.
Weeks passed. August crept closer. The Juvenil de Honor season loomed like a wall waiting to be climbed.
Álex no longer felt like a visitor.
He knew where to stand during rondos. He knew which center back wanted cover and which wanted space. He knew when Javi would cut inside without looking. He knew Johan's runs better than Johan did.
One afternoon, as they packed up after training, Rodrigo clapped a hand on Álex's shoulder.
"You don't play like a fourteen-year-old," he said.
Álex shrugged. "I don't feel like one on the pitch."
Rodrigo smiled. "Good. Don't start now."
As the sun dipped and shadows stretched across the grass, Álex sat alone for a moment, lacing his boots slowly. The noise of training faded into memory.
He thought of the U15 pitch. Of the walk between fields. Of Paco's quiet expectations.
He wasn't chasing approval anymore.
He was earning belonging.
And the season hadn't even begun yet.