Morning arrived gently over Paterna, the academy waking not with alarms but with routine. The sun crept across the training pitches in pale bands, dew still clinging to the grass like a secret not yet ready to be told. For most players, it was just another day in the Juvenil A grind.
For Álex Castillo, it was the first morning where everything felt… different.
He noticed it immediately.
Not in words. Not in headlines. But in glances.
When he walked into the cafeteria, tray in hand, conversations dipped for half a heartbeat before resuming. Not awkward. Not hostile. Just aware. Rodrigo Gamón nodded at him from across the room. Pablo Reyes raised an eyebrow and smirked.
Javi Torres, already halfway through breakfast, leaned back in his chair.
"You sleep at all, superstar?"
Álex shrugged, sitting down. "A little."
"Liar," Javi said, grinning. "You probably replayed that goal in your head fifty times."
Álex didn't answer. He stabbed a fork into his eggs, focused on the plate. But inside, Javi wasn't wrong. The outside-of-the-box strike still lived somewhere behind his eyes, looping back at odd moments. Not the celebration. Not the noise. The feeling just before he hit it. The certainty.
That was what scared him a little.
Certainty could turn into expectation very quickly.
The squad gathered on Pitch Two just before nine. Boots crunching softly on gravel. Conversations muted. The coaching staff stood in a loose line near the cones, Paco Cuenca at the center, clipboard tucked under his arm.
"Recovery first," Paco announced. "Then tactical."
The warm-up was light. Jogging laps. Dynamic stretches. No ball yet. Álex moved with the group, body still carrying the residue of the match but responding well. His legs felt alive, responsive, like they remembered exactly what they were supposed to do.
As the rondos began, the ball started moving faster than usual.
Not recklessly. Sharper.
Rodrigo Gamón took control early, barking instructions, keeping the tempo high. Victor García snapped into challenges, refusing to give space. Jaume Durà, eyes always scanning, positioned himself intelligently, ready to receive between lines.
And Álex.
He was marked differently now.
Not aggressively. But attentively.
When he checked into space, a defender followed. When he drifted wide, someone tracked. When he dropped deep, a midfielder stepped with him.
He felt it in the extra half-second he no longer had.
This is insane, he thought.
This was what moving up felt like.
During a positional game, Paco blew his whistle sharply.
"Freeze."
The players stopped. Paco walked into the grid, pointing at the central pocket between midfield and defense.
"This space," he said, tapping the grass with his boot, "is where matches are decided. We don't rush it. We don't force it. We control it."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Álex. Not accusatory. Observational.
"Competition for this role is open," Paco continued. "Every session. Every drill."
Jaume Durà straightened subtly.
Rodrigo Gamón glanced sideways.
Álex felt something tighten in his chest.
So this was it.
It didn't take long for the tension to surface.
During a small-sided game, Álex received the ball with his back to goal. He turned sharply, slipping past one defender with a quick Cruyff turn, then nutmegged another to escape pressure. A few players laughed in surprise. Someone whistled.
But when the play broke down moments later, Jaume clapped sarcastically.
"Simple pass works too, eh?"
Álex stopped, turning to him. Not angry. Just steady.
"I saw space."
"And lost it," Jaume replied.
The moment hung there. Heavy tension arises between them.
Paco's whistle cut through it.
"Reset."
They didn't argue further. They didn't need to. The message was clear. Talent was welcome. Control was mandatory.
Later, during shooting drills, Pablo Reyes and Dominykas Taučas rotated finishes from crosses. Álex stood just outside the box, waiting for rebounds. When one fell loose, he struck first time. Low. Hard. Inside post.
Vicent Abril didn't move.
"Again," Paco called.
Another ball. Another finish. Saved this time.
Álex exhaled slowly, nodding to himself.
This wasn't about proving he belonged anymore.
This was about proving he could stay.
That evening, alone in his room, Álex sat on his bed and let the familiar overlay settle quietly into view. Not intrusive. Just present.
Name: Alejandro Adeyemi Castillo
Age: 14
Height: 170 cm
Position: Attacking Midfielder (Central)
Technical Potential: Very High
Tactical Awareness: Stabilized
Physical Development: Accelerating
Mental Resilience: Tempered
Current Standing: Juvenil A Squad Rotation Player
[OVERALL RATING]
OVR: 67
[PHYSICAL]
Acceleration: 66
Sprint Speed: 64
Agility: 69
Balance: 65
Jumping: 58
Reaction: 62
Stamina: 66
Strength: 54
[MENTAL & TACTICAL]
Positioning: 68
Vision: 70
Decision Making: 69
Composure: 67
[TECHNICAL]
Ball Control: 72
Crossing: 64
Dribbling: 74
Finishing: 68
Short Pass: 71
Long Pass: 66
[SPECIAL ATTRIBUTES]
Weak Foot Strength: ★★★☆☆ (3 stars)
Skill Moves: ★★★★☆ (4 stars)
[SKILLS POSSESSED]
• Stepover – Level 2
• Body Feint – Level 1
• Cruyff Turn – Level 1
• Nutmeg – Level 1
[POTENTIAL]
Projected OVR: 86
Trajectory: Elite La Liga Attacking Midfielder
Álex let the window fade.
Sixty-seven.
It felt heavier than fifty-eight ever had.
Later that night, the common room buzzed softly. Some players watched highlights from other matches. Others played cards. A few argued about music.
Javi Torres dropped onto the couch beside Álex.
"Some insane discussions are going on," he said quietly.
Álex didn't look up. "Who?"
"Everyone," Javi replied. "Coaches. Players. Even people outside."
"And so?"
Javi shrugged. "Pressure's different when you're the reason matches turn."
Álex smiled gently and replied with a short sentence.
"I know."
Javi smiled, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Good. Because next match… they'll expect it again."
Álex leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Expectation wasn't a shout.
It was a shadow.
And it had just started following him everywhere.