Álex joined the other kids warming up for the arrival of the coaches, his boots brushing the dew-kissed grass as he fell into line. The pitch hummed with nervous energy, a chorus of bouncing balls, quick breaths, and whispered bravado. Some boys stretched like coiled springs, others juggled with exaggerated flair, all of them trying to look like they belonged.
Álex rolled his shoulders and began light touches with the ball Estrella had given him. Each tap felt like a heartbeat he could hear through his feet. He kept his eyes forward, but his awareness spread wide. Who was fast.
Who was strong. Who was scared.
A whistle sliced the air.
The coaches walked out in a small formation, dark tracksuits, sharp gazes. One of them carried a tablet, another a clipboard. Their footsteps felt heavier than they should have, as if they were stepping on futures instead of grass.
"Alright," one coach called. "We start with possession drills. Five-a-side. Quick passing. No hiding."
No hiding.
Álex was placed on the left flank of his group. As the drill began, the ball zipped between feet like a living thing. A tall boy tried to dribble through two defenders and lost it. Another blasted a pass straight out of bounds.
Pressure cracked them.
Álex waited.
[Decision making stabilized.]
The words flickered faintly at the edge of Álex's vision, not like a blinding screen, but like a whisper only his mind could hear. He did not look for them. He did not need to. His focus stayed locked on the ball rolling toward him, on the defender's stance, on the open channel that existed for just half a heartbeat before it would close again.
He took his first touch with the inside of his left foot, cushioning the ball so gently it seemed to hesitate, confused by the kindness. A defender lunged. Álex shifted his weight, let the defender's momentum write a mistake across the grass, then slipped past on the outside. The move was not flashy. It was clean. It was correct.
He lifted his head.
The striker was making a diagonal run between two center backs. The passing lane was thin as a thread. Álex threaded it anyway.
The ball cut through the gap and met the striker's foot in stride.
A shot. A sharp crack. The keeper parried it wide.
"Unlucky," someone muttered.
Álex was already moving, chasing the rebound even though it rolled out of play. Old habits. Good ones.
The drill reset. The coach with the tablet glanced up, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
From the sideline, Carlos felt his lungs forget how to breathe for a moment. That pass. That run. It was not just effort. It was awareness.
And far from the pitch stood the coach of Valencia under-18 Paco Cuenca, who was there just for some assessment and confirmation.
Back on the pitch, the boys shuffled into position again. Sweat darkened shirts. The Valencia crest on the coaches' jackets glinted under the sun like a promise that could be kept or broken with equal ease.
"Switch teams," one coach barked. "New combinations."
Álex jogged to his new group. This one looked tougher. A boy with thick calves and a buzz cut bounced on his toes beside him, eyes sharp. Another, taller, broader, folded his arms as if he had already decided this was his stage.
"Left side?" the tall boy muttered without looking at him.
"Yeah," Álex replied calmly.
"Hm."
The whistle sang again.
The ball was rolled into play, and this group moved with a different rhythm. Faster. More aggressive. Touches were heavier, tackles sharper, egos louder. The buzz-cut boy demanded the ball with snapping gestures, already calling plays like a general with no army.
Álex did not argue. He slipped into space instead.
A defender tried to mark him tightly, shadowing his every step. Álex let him come close, feeling the heat of another body, then drifted away just enough to create a lane.
When the ball finally came, he didn't trap it. He let it roll across his body, spinning away from pressure and sending it back in one smooth motion.
The move was simple.
The effect was not.
Paco Cuenca, standing just beyond the touchline, raised his head. His eyes followed the boy in orange and black, not the ball.
Back on the pitch, the buzz-cut boy received the pass and charged forward. Two defenders closed him down. He hesitated, trapped between pride and panic.
"Alex!" someone shouted.
Álex was already moving, slicing down the left channel. The run was not obvious. It was a ghost run, bending away from defenders' lines of sight. When the buzz-cut boy finally looked up, the pass was there.
Álex took it in stride.
One defender lunged.
Álex rolled the ball under his foot and stepped over it, body swaying left while the ball slipped right.
[Stepover success.]
The defender went the wrong way, his boots biting uselessly into the grass.
Álex was through.
The goal loomed ahead. The keeper crouched, reading him, waiting.
Álex didn't shoot.
He slid a low pass across the box to a teammate who had ghosted in at the far post.
Tap.
Goal.
A ripple went through the pitch.
Some boys clapped. Some frowned. A few stared.
Paco Cuenca didn't clap. He smiled.
Just a little.
"Again!" one of the academy coaches barked.
The ball was back in play, and the tempo rose another notch. Álex felt his lungs beginning to burn, his calves tightening like drawn wires.
[Stamina strain detected.]
He ignored it and continue playing, determined to prove himself and not disappoint his father.
The ball came to him again near the halfway line. Two defenders closed him down immediately, trying to trap him near the touchline. Álex slowed his steps, letting them think they had him boxed in.
Then he flicked the ball backward with his heel and spun between them, slipping through the narrow gap like water through a cracked door.
A sharp intake of breath followed him.
"Oi—!"
Too late.
Álex was already accelerating down the wing, hair lifting in the wind of his own speed. He pushed the ball ahead, chased it, then cut inside just before the final defender could meet him.
The keeper rushed out.
Álex struck.
The shot wasn't powerful. It was placed.
The ball slid past the keeper's glove and rolled into the corner of the net like it had always planned to be there.
Silence fell.
Then noise exploded.
"Nice!"
"Wow."
"Who's that?"
Álex jogged back, face flushed, chest heaving. He did not celebrate. He did not need to. His body already felt like it was glowing from the inside.
On the sideline, Carlos's hands were trembling. Paco Cuenca leaned forward slightly now, interest sharpening his gaze.
"Number?" he asked one of the Valencia staff.
The man checked his list. "Álejandro Castillo. Attacking midfielder."
"Hm."
The drills continued.
Álex was tackled hard once, sent skidding across the grass. Pain flared through his hip, sharp and sudden, a ghost of the accident trying to remind him who it used to be.
[Injury memory detected.]
He pushed himself up before anyone could help him.
"I'm fine," he said, even though no one had asked.
The ball came again. He kept playing.
By the time the final whistle blew, every muscle in his body was screaming. Sweat dripped from his chin, darkening the grass beneath his boots. He bent forward, hands on knees, breathing in great burning gulps of air.
The boys gathered again, some with hope in their eyes, others already preparing themselves for disappointment.
The coaches spoke in low voices.
Paco Cuenca said nothing.
He just kept watching Álex in background without saying anything and then left with one of the coaching staff who was with him.
And Álex, without realizing it, was no longer just knocking on the door.
"Everyone gather around," said one of the coaches who was in charge of trial.