The tournament paused.
Not ended. Not concluded.
Paused, as if the football world itself inhaled and held its breath.
After the semifinal, The teams were given two full days of rest before the final. Two days that felt unreal after the relentless rhythm of matches, recovery, buses, whistles, and adrenaline. The silence that followed was almost louder than the stadiums.
For Álex, the first morning felt strange.
He woke without an alarm.
No urgency. No stiffness that screamed warning. Just a deep, settling ache in his muscles, like embers cooling after a long fire. He sat up slowly, rolled his shoulders, stretched his legs, and listened to his body.
It answered calmly.
[Recovery status: Optimal.]
[Muscle fatigue: Reduced.]
[Mental clarity: Improving.]
Outside, sunlight spilled across the hotel grounds, warm and patient. The Mediterranean air carried salt and distance, and for the first time since the tournament began, Álex allowed himself to breathe without counting seconds.
Breakfast was relaxed. No one spoke about tactics. No one mentioned Atlético de Madrid. Plates clinked. Someone laughed. Someone spilled juice and cursed softly.
The coach let it happen.
That afternoon, the team walked rather than trained. Shoes instead of boots. No ball. No drills. Just movement and conversation. Álex walked beside Javi Torres, their steps matching naturally.
"It feels somehow weird," Javi said. "Like we are skipping something."
"We are not," Álex replied. "We are storing it."
That evening, his family arrived.
They stood near the fence of the training complex, waiting patiently as the team returned. Estrella spotted him first and waved with both arms, nearly toppling over.
Álex broke into a jog.
Carlos hugged him tightly, firm and proud. "No matter what happens," he said quietly, "you have already gone further than anyone expected."
Abisoye kissed Álex's forehead, her hands warm against his cheeks. "Rest," she said simply. "The body listens when the heart is calm."
They sat together on a low wall, watching the sun dip behind the stands. Estrella talked endlessly about school, about how everyone knew her brother was in a final, about how she practiced celebrating goals in her room.
Álex listened, smiling, grounding himself in the ordinary.
That night, he slept deeply.
The second day was quieter still.
No training. No intensity. Just video analysis in short bursts. Atlético de Madrid U15 appeared on the screen like a blueprint of discipline. Compact lines. Ruthless transitions. A midfield that suffocated creativity without fouling.
"They don't rush play," the coach said. "They wait for mistakes."
Álex watched closely.
He noticed how Atlético's midfield anchor shadowed the opposing playmaker, not tackling, not lunging, just erasing options. He noted the timing of their runs, the way their defenders stepped up in unison.
"They suffer comfortably," Álex murmured.
The coach nodded. "And we make them uncomfortable."
That night, Álex lay awake again, staring at the ceiling, but this time his thoughts were steady. No fear. No doubt. Just images. Spaces. Movements.
He fell asleep knowing exactly where he needed to be.
The stadium for the final was larger than any before it. The stands curved higher, noise layered thickly, banners snapping in the wind. Red and white mixed with black and orange, chants overlapping like competing tides.
Álex stepped onto the pitch during warm-ups and felt the gravity of it instantly.
Atlético de Madrid were already there.
Their players moved with a calm menace. Every pass snapped. Every sprint cut sharp lines across the grass. No wasted motion. No wasted emotion.
One of their midfielders met Álex's gaze.
Nothing was said.
In the stands, Álex found his family.
Carlos stood tall, jaw set.
Abisoye clasped her hands together.
Estrella bounced, waving furiously, her voice lost in the noise.
Álex touched his chest once and turned back.
The teams lined up.
The referee checked watches.
The whistle blew.
Atlético kicked off.
Immediately, the match revealed its nature.
This was not chaos.
This was control fighting control.
Atlético pressed intelligently, cutting passing lanes rather than chasing bodies. Álex felt the shadow instantly, a midfielder glued to his movements, close enough to breathe but never close enough to foul.
Every touch mattered.
Álex adjusted quickly. He stopped demanding the ball centrally, drifting wide, then dropping deep. He pulled his marker with him, creating brief pockets for others to exploit.
The tempo slowed.
Then Atlético struck.
In the 14th minute, a turnover near midfield triggered a lightning-fast transition. A diagonal run split Valencia's defense, the cross came low and vicious, and the finish was clinical.
0–1.
No celebration. Just efficiency.
Valencia regrouped.
Álex took responsibility immediately, calming his teammates, slowing play, forcing Atlético to defend deeper. He began switching play, stretching their compact shape, forcing their midfield to shift laterally.
In the 22nd minute, Álex slipped past his marker with a sudden turn and surged forward. A defender stepped up.
Álex released the ball wide at the last second.
Cross.
Header.
Saved.
The crowd roared anyway.
Atlético responded with control, recycling possession, waiting. Valencia pressed carefully, refusing to overcommit.
The minutes ticked.
In the 38th minute, Valencia earned a free kick just outside the box.
Álex stood over it.
The noise faded.
He remembered the quiet afternoons. The repetition. The rhythm of his breathing.
He struck.
The ball curved around the wall, kissed the post, and bounce back, waiting for it was Javi Torres, who struck the ball low into the net.
1–1.
The stadium erupted.
Álex raised one finger to the sky and joined the others celebrating the goal but moving back into position.
Atlético restarted immediately, unfazed.
The half ended moments later.
Players walked off slowly, chests heaving, eyes locked forward.
The final was only beginning.