The door shut behind them with a dull thud.
Noise from the stands faded instantly, replaced by breathing, boots scraping tile, and the faint hiss of running showers somewhere deeper in the tunnel. Sweat hung in the air, mixed with grass and adrenaline.
Valencia CF Juvenil A: 2
EFB Miguelturra: 0
Scoreboards looked simple.
Halftime never was.
Álex sat quietly at his locker, jersey damp against his back, heart finally slowing after forty-five relentless minutes. Two goals. His first start. Applause still echoed faintly in his ears like waves refusing to retreat.
But Paco Cuenca did not smile.
The coach walked slowly across the room, hands behind his back, studying faces one by one.
Gamón leaned forward, elbows on knees. Boyko drank water in heavy gulps. Taučas stretched his calves against the bench. Nobody celebrated.
Because Paco never allowed halftime victories.
He stopped in the center.
"What happens now?" he asked calmly.
Silence.
Guijarro answered first. "We control the game."
Paco nodded slightly.
"And what usually happens when a young team leads two-zero?"
No one replied this time.
Paco tapped the tactics board once.
"You relax."
The word landed harder than shouting.
"You think the game is finished. Passes become slower. Runs stop. Communication disappears."
He turned toward Álex briefly.
"And opponents stop respecting the score."
Álex met his gaze, understanding immediately. The goals meant nothing now. The match had restarted at zero inside the coach's mind.
Paco drew arrows quickly.
"They will change something. They must. Expect pressure higher. Expect aggression."
He pointed at Gamón and Guijarro.
"You two control rhythm. No chaos."
Then to the front three.
"Keep stretching them. Do not admire yourselves."
A small pause.
Finally, he looked directly at Álex.
"They will mark you now."
Not praise.
Prediction.
"You must decide faster. One touch earlier. Trust teammates."
Álex nodded quietly.
Inside his chest, confidence shifted shape. First halves were freedom. Second halves were responsibility.
Paco clapped once.
"Finish the job."
Across the corridor, the atmosphere burned differently.
Miguelturra's coach slammed a magnetic marker onto the board.
"Number 27."
Players looked up immediately.
"That boy is deciding the match."
He circled Álex's position repeatedly until the ink nearly tore the board.
"No more space. No more turning."
He pointed at two midfielders.
"You follow him."
Then at a defender.
"And if he escapes, you step early."
A final instruction, sharp and clear:
"Double him. Triple him if needed. Make someone else beat us."
Hope returned slowly to the room.
Because two goals felt large.
But football only needed one moment to change direction.
The teams returned to the pitch beneath louder noise than before. The crowd sensed tension now, not celebration.
David Figueira's voice carried across broadcast microphones.
"Welcome back to Paterna. Valencia lead two-nil thanks to a brilliant first half from Álex Castillo."
Fermín Suárez added thoughtfully:
"The question now isn't talent. It's management. Young teams often struggle protecting leads."
The referee checked both sides.
Whistle.
Second half underway.
Álex noticed it immediately.
Before the ball even reached him.
A midfielder stood closer than before. Another shadowed five steps behind. Passing lanes narrowed like doors slowly closing.
First touch.
Pressure instantly.
He released the ball quickly to Guijarro.
Second touch moments later.
A shoulder collided into his back.
Third time…
Two players converged.
Inside his mind:
So this is respect, this is what will determine if I can survive under pressure and prove that I am ready to the world and not just an attention seeker.
And attention hurts when performance is not proven.
Valencia kept possession, but energy dipped subtly.
Passes safe instead of sharp.
Runs shorter.
Communication quieter.
Gamón gestured for movement that came half a second late.
Paco Cuenca crossed his arms on the sideline.
He recognized it instantly.
Comfort.
Football's most dangerous illusion.
Miguelturra pressed aggressively for the first time all match.
A rushed clearance from Martínez gifted possession centrally.
Shot from distance.
Saved by Abril, but spilled briefly before recovery.
David spoke quickly:
"That's the first real warning for Valencia."
Álex jogged back into position, sensing momentum tilt slightly.
The match felt heavier now.
Like air before rain.
Pressure finally broke structure.
A quick combination down Valencia's right bypassed Mejía. Cross delivered early.
Striker arrived between defenders and jumped over the two center backs to head the ball.
Header.
Goal.
The away bench exploded.
Crowd noise fractured into nervous murmurs.
Fermín's tone sharpened.
"And suddenly… this game changes."
Álex stood near midfield watching celebrations, hands on hips.
Two goals no longer felt safe.
They felt fragile.
Valencia attempted immediate response, but passes lost precision.
Álex received again between lines but he was instantly surrounded.
One defender front.
One behind.
Another closing sideways.
He tried turning.
Ball stolen.
Counterattack launched.
Gamón sprinted desperately to recover
.
Inside Álex's thoughts:
Too slow. Decide earlier.
Lessons arriving mid-match.
Chaos followed.
Corner conceded.
Ball whipped into the box but it was pushed away by Abril.
Bodies colliding.
Loose ball fell near penalty spot.
A Miguelturra player stretch his leg and shot through traffic.
Net rippled.
Silence.
Then stunned noise spreading across the stands.
David exhaled slowly.
"From two goals down… Miguelturra have equalized."
Fermín added:
"And Valencia look shaken."
Players glanced at one another, searching for stability that suddenly disappeared.
Álex bent forward briefly, hands on knees.
Not exhaustion.
Pressure.
The match had reset completely.
Now every time he touched the ball, three shirts closed in.
Pulls.
Shoulders.
Voices shouting instructions to mark him tighter.
He passed quickly and moved again.
Still followed.
He drifted wider but a midfielder or defender followed.
Dropped deeper.
Another tracked him.
Inside his head:
They're not defending space anymore. They're defending me.
For the first time since kickoff, frustration flickered.
He wasn't free.
He was hunted.
Commentary Booth
Fermín observed carefully.
"You see Miguelturra's adjustment. Castillo barely has room to breathe."
David nodded.
"This becomes a mental test now. Great players solve new problems when old solutions disappear."
The game stretched open.
Both teams tired.
Mistakes increasing.
Gamón shouted instructions constantly, trying to restore rhythm.
Paco Cuenca gestured calmly from the sideline.
No panic.
Just patience.
Álex inhaled deeply during a stoppage.
Don't fight the pressure. Use it.
If three players followed him…
Someone else was free.
Understanding settled quietly.
Miguelturra built from midfield confidently, sensing victory closer than defeat.
A central midfielder received facing his own goal.
One touch too many but Guijarro anticipated.
Stole cleanly.
Ball rolled loose into open space.
Time slowed.
Álex reacted first.
Acceleration immediate.
Guijarro pushed the ball forward and followed behind Álex supporting his run.
Counterattack alive.
Boyko sprinted left dragging defenders.
Taučas ran wide right.
But the defense hesitated.
Because all eyes followed number 27.
Even now.
Especially now.
Álex drove forward through the center and received a pass from Guijarro near the box.
Twenty-five metres.
A defender stepped.
He feinted right.
Cut left.
Space opened at the edge of the box.
Crowd rising.
Inside his mind:
Shoot now.
Right foot.
Clean.
Powerful.
The ball screamed toward the bottom corner beyond the goalkeeper's reach.
Net burst alive.
The stadium exploded.
David shouted over roaring noise:
"HAT TRICK! ÁLEX CASTILLO!"
Fermín nearly laughed in disbelief.
"Under pressure! Triple-marked all half! And he delivers the decisive moment!"
Álex slid on his knees, teammates crashing into him seconds later.
Not wild celebration.
Release and relief.
The pressure had not broken him.
It had shaped him.
Valencia defended with renewed energy.
Gamón controlled tempo masterfully.
Guijarro won crucial duels.
Miguelturra pushed desperately but lacked clarity now.
Every clearance felt louder.
Every second longer.
The referee checked his watch and blow the final whistle bringing the match to an end.
Whistle.
Full time.
Valencia CF Juvenil A 3 – 2 EFB Miguelturra Juvenil A
Álex stood still for a moment, breathing deeply as teammates celebrated around him.
First start.
Hat trick completed under pressure.
But what stayed with him wasn't scoring.
It was the difficult minutes.
The marking.
The mistakes.
The fear of losing control.
Because becoming undeniable wasn't about shining when free.
It was surviving when trapped.
As he walked toward the tunnel, Paco Cuenca placed a hand briefly on his shoulder.
No speech.
Just one sentence.
"Now you know what they will do every week."
Álex nodded.
And for the first time, he understood.
This wasn't the peak.
It was the beginning of resistance.
And resistance meant he mattered.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I will not the drop a chapter for the after match because we all know how it ends and there is suppose to be an agent recruitment in the aftermath but it will be postponed to after the next match and I will be getting a contract soon.
Finally I will be dropping my new novel Deadlight Protocol today and continue my other novel: Above the Dust, Beneath the Dao Mid-march probably the on the 20th of the month to celebrate my favorite boy band comeback. BTS Army in the house.