The car rolled through Paterna just as the sun was climbing high enough to turn the training complex into a field of silver and green. From behind the window, Álex watched Valencia CF's academy rise out of the morning like something built from ambition itself. Multiple pitches stretched in neat, disciplined rows, nets hanging still, lines freshly painted. Every blade of grass looked like it had been instructed to behave.
This was not a place for dreams.
This was a place for results.
Álex stepped out of the car with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His boots were tucked inside, laces knotted carefully the way his father had taught him. For a moment he just stood there, breathing in the smell of cut grass, rubber, and something sharper that might have been opportunity.
[Environment registered.]
His chest tightened.
Boys were already gathering near the main building, some in full Valencia training kits, others like him wearing whatever had been clean and lucky. A few were laughing too loudly. A few were quiet in the way that meant their thoughts were sprinting.
Álex spotted familiar faces from the trial. The buzz-cut winger nodded at him. The tall boy from his second team glanced over, measuring him again.
Álex nodded back.
No words were needed.
They were all in the same storm now.
A coach with a shaved head and a voice like a referee's whistle clapped his hands. "Academy players, over here. Trials, you line up behind them."
The line moved. Names were checked. Papers signed. Parents waited by the gate, faces tight with pride and fear braided together.
Carlos stood just outside, arms crossed, eyes glued to his son.
"Remember," he said softly when Álex passed him, "you belong here."
Álex nodded. The words went somewhere deep and heavy inside him.
Inside the main building, the air changed. It smelled cleaner, colder, almost sterile. White walls were lined with photos of former academy graduates. Some of them now played for Valencia's first team. Some had gone to clubs Álex only knew from television. Their eyes followed him down the hallway, frozen in their frames, like silent judges who had already survived what he was about to face.
[Legacy detected.]
A different coach took over. This one was younger, sharp-eyed, with a tablet always in hand.
"I'm Coach Ramírez. You will call me Coach. You are not special here. You are replaceable. If you don't like that, the exit is that door."
No one moved.
"Good. Changing room, five minutes. On the pitch in ten."
The changing room buzzed like a hive. Lockers slammed. Boots thumped onto benches. Shirts were pulled over nervous shoulders.
Álex sat and tied his laces slowly, deliberately. He listened to the room.
Who was confident.
Who was lying to themselves.
Who was scared.
He could almost feel it like wind against his skin.
[Situational awareness active.]
The door banged open. "Move!"
They jogged out into the sunlight.
Pitch Three was theirs today.
The grass looked unreal. Perfect. No divots. No patches. It felt like stepping onto a screen instead of soil.
Warm-ups began. Laps. High knees. Sprints. Then ball work.
The speed was different here. Passes came harder. Runs were sharper. Mistakes were punished immediately by whistles and barking corrections.
"Faster!"
"Again!"
"Don't admire your pass!"
Álex adjusted. He always did.
His first few touches were cautious, like fingers testing hot water. Then he let go and let the rhythm pull him in. One-touch passes. Quick turns. Finding space that was there for half a second and using it anyway.
Coach Ramírez watched him without blinking.
They split into small-sided games.
Álex was placed as an attacking midfielder.
"Show me," the coach muttered.
The game began.
It was chaos and geometry at the same time. Bodies moving, lines forming and breaking. Álex felt it all. He drifted between defenders, received the ball, released it before pressure arrived.
A teammate made a run that nobody else saw.
Álex did.
The through ball slipped into space, and the runner was free.
Goal.
A few heads turned in surprise as no one was expecting the pass even the goal scorer was shocked.
A defender tried to bully Álex on the next play, shoulder into chest, boots scraping.
Álex absorbed it, rolled away, and kept the ball moving.
[Balance stabilized.]
Minutes passed like seconds.
The game paused. Teams switched.
Álex felt sweat running down his back, but his mind stayed clear. The system in him was quiet now, not flashing words, not interrupting.
It was simply… there. Like a second nervous system, smoothing his decisions, sharpening his timing.
He was not thinking.
He was choosing.
Another match.
This one was rougher. A tall center-back slid in late, catching Álex's ankle. Pain flared white-hot.
[Impact absorbed.]
Álex bit down on it and stayed upright remembering where he is now and there will challenges awaiting him.
The ball bounced loose. He recovered it, spun, and slipped past the same defender who had tried to hurt him.
Somewhere on the sideline, someone let out a low whistle.
He set up another goal. Then another chance. Then a shot that rattled the post.
When the final whistle came, Álex felt like he had been wrung out and hung to dry. His shirt clung to him. His lungs burned. But inside, something glowed steady and bright.
The players gathered.
Coach Ramírez walked slowly in front of them, eyes scanning, weighing.
"This academy is not a shelter," he said. "It is a filter. Some of you will last. Most of you will not. Every day, someone leaves."
He stopped in front of Álex for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
"Training starts at 7 a.m. tomorrow. Be early. Be ready."
As the group broke apart, Álex finally allowed himself to breathe.
This was it.
Not a trial.
Not a dream.
A beginning.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, quiet as a held breath, something waited.