The morning after an away win always arrived differently.
It did not announce itself with cheers or music or the metallic clatter of studs on concrete. It came quietly, slipping through the blinds at the academy like a breath held too long, pale Valencian light stretching across the floor before anyone was ready to acknowledge it.
For Álex, waking up felt unfamiliar.
Not because of the bed, not because of the room at Paterna, but because of what lingered inside him. The match had ended hours ago, yet his body still carried echoes of it. The acceleration before his run. The weight of the ball at his feet. The brief, suspended silence before the net rippled. Even sleep had not erased those moments. It had only rearranged them, replayed them with different angles, different heartbeats.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
UCAM Murcia 1. Valencia 3.
The scoreline returned uninvited, but this time it did not spark adrenaline. It settled into him like a fact. Solid. Real.
He exhaled slowly.
Around the academy, the usual morning sounds were muted. Doors opened without slamming. Footsteps padded instead of stomped. Even laughter, when it appeared, arrived half-formed, careful not to wake soreness too aggressively. Recovery days carried their own etiquette. Nobody rushed. Nobody chased intensity. The work was quieter, internal.
Álex sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His calves protested immediately, tight bands pulling beneath the skin. He welcomed the sensation. Pain like this was not punishment. It was confirmation.
He pulled on his Valencia training top, the bat crest still unfamiliar on his chest in this context. Yesterday, it had been a match shirt. Today, it was armor stripped of ceremony.
In the mirror above his desk, he paused.
He looked the same.
Same narrow shoulders. Same face still hovering between boyhood and something sharper. Same height. The same thirteen going on fourteen body that had no business deciding a División de Honor match.
And yet something behind his eyes had shifted.
The recovery session took place away from the main pitch. No grass, no goals, no tactical boards barking instructions. Instead, the players filtered into the indoor facility where mats, foam rollers, and exercise bikes waited patiently.
Paco Cuenca stood near the entrance, clipboard tucked under his arm, not as a general today but as a watchful custodian. He greeted each player with the same nod, the same brief look. He did not praise. He did not correct. Not today.
Recovery was about listening.
The older players moved with the economy of experience. They knew which muscles would complain first. They knew how far to push before restraint became intelligence. Some of them spoke quietly about the match, dissecting moments without urgency.
"Murcia came out strong after halftime," someone said.
"They always do at home."
"But we didn't panic."
That last sentence hung for a moment, unchallenged.
Álex stretched near the far wall, careful not to draw attention. He was still the youngest. Still the one whose presence felt temporary to some, like a test rather than a conclusion. He liked it that way. It gave him space to observe.
Javi Torres dropped onto the mat beside him with a groan, his buzz cut darkened by sweat even though the session had barely started.
"Welcome to senior legs," Reyes muttered.
Álex smiled faintly. "You were flying yesterday."
Reyes snorted. "You finished it."
There was no bravado in the exchange. Just acknowledgement. The kind that mattered more than praise shouted from the bench.
As they moved through light cycling and stretching, Álex noticed how often his mind drifted back to the moment he stepped onto the pitch. The sound of the crowd swelling, curious rather than hostile. The commentator's voice, amplified and distant, talking about him like he was already part of the story.
Youngest player in the league this season.
MICFootball MVP.
He remembered how his stomach had tightened at those words. How his legs had felt lighter afterward.
Fame, he was learning, did not arrive with fireworks. It arrived as pressure that asked quietly, relentlessly: Can you do it again?
After the session, the players were released.
A full day off. Paco's voice had been calm when he announced it, but deliberate. Recovery was physical, yes, but it was also mental. Matches like that left residue. Confidence could swell too quickly. Doubt could linger too long. The wrong kind of thinking could settle if left unattended.
Álex returned to his room earlier than most. The corridors felt emptier now, sunlight slanting across the walls in long, slow strokes. He dropped his bag by the door and sat on the edge of the bed again, hands resting on his knees.
For the first time since the final whistle, he allowed himself to feel it fully.
The joy.
It came in waves, but quieter than he had expected. There was pride, yes. Relief. A warmth in his chest when he remembered the pass he slipped through for the assist, weighted just enough to split the line. The run he timed perfectly for his goal. The way the net had accepted the ball without argument.
But beneath all of it, there was something steadier.
Belonging.
He had not survived the match. He had influenced it.
That distinction mattered more than goals.
He reached for his phone.
The screen lit up instantly with notifications he had deliberately ignored the night before. Messages from academy teammates. A short congratulatory text from an assistant coach he barely knew. Even a missed call from a local number he didn't recognize.
He scrolled past them all.
Then he called home.
It rang twice before his mother answered.
"Álex?"
Her voice carried the familiar mix of excitement and restraint, like she had been waiting but didn't want to assume.
"Hi, mamá."
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired," he admitted. "But… good."
His father's voice joined the call a moment later, deeper, steadier. "We watched the highlights this morning."
Álex swallowed. "Yeah?"
"You didn't rush," his father said. "That's what impressed me."
That comment landed harder than any praise shouted from the stands.
They talked for a long time. About the match, yes, but also about home. About small things. About how his younger cousin had tried to copy his celebration in the living room. About the heat in Seville. About nothing and everything.
At one point, his mother asked, gently, "Did it feel real?"
Álex thought about it.
"Yes," he said. "But it also feels like the beginning."
When the call ended, he stayed seated, phone resting in his palm long after the screen went dark.
That evening, the academy grounds were almost peaceful.
Some players wandered toward the cafeteria. Others sat outside, headphones on, letting music do the work words could not. A few watched matches on their phones, habits refusing to take a day off.
Álex walked alone.
The main pitch stood empty, grass trimmed and perfect, goals casting long shadows as the sun dipped lower. He stopped at the fence, hands gripping the cool metal, and looked out.
Yesterday, this pitch had been abstract. A place he trained, not a place he belonged.
Now, it felt closer.
He thought about the season ahead. The long calendar. The losses that would come. The injuries. The benches. The moments when his name would not be called. He thought about being fourteen, about his body still changing, about how quickly football could remind you of your place if you forgot it.
And yet.
He felt calm.
Not the calm of certainty, but the calm of readiness.
Behind him, footsteps approached. Paco Cuenca stopped a short distance away, not intruding, just present.
"You handled yesterday well," Paco said finally.
Álex nodded. "Thank you, coach."
"Today," Paco continued, "is for letting it settle. Tomorrow, we work again."
Álex didn't turn around, but he smiled.
"Understood, coach."
As Paco walked away, Álex remained by the fence a moment longer, letting the quiet do its work.
The noise would return. The pressure. The expectations. The matches that demanded answers.
But for now, in the stillness after the storm, he understood something essential.
The debut was over.
The journey had truly begun.