The bus ride back from the final group match was quieter than the ones before it. Not because the boys were tired of each other, but because exhaustion had finally caught up and wrapped itself around every shoulder. Sweat had dried into salt on their collars, shins ached beneath taped socks, and conversations came in half-sentences before dissolving into sleep.
Three games in five days had taken their toll.
When they arrived back at the training complex assigned to Valencia CF, the coaches did something unexpected.
They sent them away.
"No boots this evening," the head coach said, hands clasped behind his back. "Stretch, eat well, sleep. Tomorrow morning, light recovery. Afternoon is optional. Knockout football starts with fresh legs and fresher minds."
A few boys exchanged relieved looks. Others nodded seriously, already thinking about what "optional" truly meant.
Álex felt both relief and restlessness tug at him in opposite directions.
The recovery session the next morning was slow and deliberate. Foam rollers squeaked across concrete floors. Ice baths hissed as legs slipped in, faces tightening at the shock. The physio walked between them, correcting posture, reminding them to breathe.
Álex sat on the edge of the pool, calves submerged, hands resting on his knees. His body felt heavy but alive, like a machine cooling after running too hot. Every muscle told a story from the group stage. A knock here. A scrape there. Proof that he had not just participated, but survived.
After lunch, the squad was officially free.
Most of the boys headed back to the hotel rooms, controllers already in hand, laughter echoing down the hallways. Some wandered toward the beach in flip-flops, soaking in the strange feeling of being both tourists and competitors.
Álex picked up his boots.
Not because he had to.
Because he wanted to.
The training pitch in the late afternoon was almost empty. One goal stood at the far end, net fluttering lazily in the coastal breeze. The grass was still trimmed from the morning session, lines crisp and inviting.
Álex placed the ball down just outside the box.
He took three steps back.
Then four.
He adjusted the ball slightly, rotating it so the valve faced him. A habit he had developed without knowing why, only that it felt right.
Free kicks.
He had scored from open play. He had assisted. He had dribbled. But set pieces were different. They were moments carved out of chaos, paused just long enough for courage or fear to step forward.
He struck the first ball too clean.
It sailed over the bar.
He retrieved it without frustration, resetting it in nearly the same spot. This time he opened his body more, wrapping his foot around the ball. It dipped late, clipping the top of the netting before dropping behind the goal.
Better.
He repeated the motion. Again. And again.
Left side. Right side. Central.
Some shots bent beautifully. Others smacked the wall of training mannequins he had dragged into place. Sweat returned to his temples, not from intensity, but from focus.
Each miss taught him something.
Each success demanded repetition.
[Set-piece calibration active.]
The words hovered quietly in his awareness, not as instruction, but as confirmation. His breathing slowed. His approach became rhythmic. The run-up, the strike, the follow-through. A small ritual forming.
A voice broke the silence.
"Always the same spot?"
Álex turned.
Carlos stood just beyond the touchline, hands in his jacket pockets, sunglasses pushed up onto his head. Beside him was Abisoye, smiling softly, and between them, bouncing on the balls of her feet, Estrella.
"Mama!" Álex exclaimed, jogging over.
Abisoye pulled him into a hug that was gentle but grounding, as if she could feel every ache in his body and soothe it without words.
"You look taller," she said, pulling back and inspecting him.
He laughed. "Coach said I grew again."
Estrella didn't wait her turn. She wrapped her arms around his waist. "You didn't score with a bicycle kick yet," she announced. "So you still owe me."
Carlos watched him closely, eyes taking in the leaner frame, the way Álex stood a little straighter than before.
"You've been busy," he said simply.
Álex nodded. "Knockouts start in tomorrow."
"And today?" Carlos asked.
Álex glanced back at the goal. "Today, I fix details."
Carlos smiled, the kind that didn't need approval written into it.
They sat on the grass while Álex went back to training. This time, Carlos joined him by the goal, helping retrieve balls. Estrella counted shots out loud, loudly celebrating the ones that hit the net.
"Again!" she shouted after one clean strike curled into the top corner.
Álex grinned, resetting the ball.
The final few attempts came from farther out. He struck them with restraint, aiming not for power but placement. The net rippled again.
When he finally stopped, chest rising and falling, the sun had begun to dip, casting long shadows across the pitch.
"Come," Abisoye said. "You need to eat."
Dinner was simple. Pasta. Bread. Water. No distractions. No heavy talk about matches or opponents. They spoke instead of school, of neighbors back home, of how strange it felt to see his name printed on a tournament program.
Later, as they walked back toward the hotel, Carlos slowed beside him.
"You know," he said quietly, "knockout matches are different."
Álex nodded.
"They are not won by who wants it most," Carlos continued. "They are won by who stays calm when the moment demands speed."
Álex thought of the free kicks. The pauses. The silence before the strike.
"I know," he said.
Carlos placed a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever happens tomorrow, remember this. You earned your place here. Every minute."
Álex felt the weight of those words settle into him like armor.
That night, lying in bed, he replayed the group matches in his mind. The mistakes. The passes. The chances that could have been better. The goals that had mattered.
He pictured the ball sitting still on the grass.
The wall.
The keeper shifting his weight.
[Focus sharpened.]
He exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow, there would be no second chances. No group table to soften a mistake.
Only moments.
And he was ready to meet them.
Outside, the tournament lights buzzed faintly in the distance, waiting.