Extra time did not begin with a whistle.
It began with silence.
Not the absence of sound, but the kind of quiet that settles when everyone understands what is at stake. Players gathered in small clusters near the benches, some kneeling, some lying flat on the grass, staring at the sky as if bargaining with it. Boots were loosened, tightened again. Shin guards adjusted. Water poured over heads that no longer cared about appearance.
Álex sat on the turf, legs stretched out, hands resting on his knees.
His breathing was controlled, deliberate. Each inhale counted. Each exhale released a fragment of tension. His calves throbbed with the dull ache of effort accumulated over days, not minutes. Matches stacked on matches. Sprints layered on sprints.
Two days of rest had helped.
But now the body asked for more than it could reasonably give.
He glanced up at the stands.
His family hadn't sat down since full time. They stood with the rest of the crowd, scarves clenched, eyes fixed. Estrella caught his gaze and raised both hands, forming a heart before clapping wildly. Álex smiled faintly, then looked away.
He couldn't afford softness now.
The referee called them back.
Players dragged themselves upright, forming lines again. Substitutes who had already entered the match stretched nervously, knowing extra time was where mistakes came not from ignorance, but exhaustion.
The whistle finally came.
First half of extra time.
Atlético kicked off.
Immediately, the rhythm changed.
No one pressed recklessly anymore. Space opened not because of tactics, but fatigue. The pitch felt wider, the runs longer, the decisions heavier. Every action carried cost.
Álex felt it in his first sprint.
His legs responded a fraction slower, muscles protesting before obeying. He adjusted instinctively, conserving movement, choosing positioning over chasing. He dropped into pockets where he could receive without sprinting, where his mind could still dominate even if his body lagged.
Atlético attacked first.
A long diagonal caught Valencia's fullback slightly out of position. The winger surged forward, crossing early. The ball skimmed dangerously across the box.
Cleared.
Álex tracked back again, slower this time, but still present. He intercepted the second ball, cushioning it with his instep before rolling it sideways to safety.
The crowd applauded.
Small moments mattered now.
In the 94th minute, Valencia countered.
A loose Atlético pass fell kindly to Álex near the center circle. He turned immediately, scanning forward. One striker drifted left. The right winger pointed to space behind the defense.
Álex hesitated.
Half a second.
He chose the harder option.
A threaded ball through the middle, splitting two midfielders whose legs no longer closed quickly enough. The striker latched onto it, drove toward goal, and shot low.
Saved.
Again.
Álex closed his eyes briefly.
The keeper rose slowly, milking time that no longer mattered. Extra time felt infinite until suddenly it didn't.
Atlético began targeting Álex directly now.
Every time he received the ball, a body arrived. A shoulder. A foot left hanging just long enough to be felt. Nothing overt. Nothing punishable.
Relentless.
In the 99th minute, Álex was clipped late near the edge of the box.
He stayed down longer than necessary, staring at the sky, chest rising sharply. The referee jogged over, asking if he could continue.
Álex nodded.
Of course he could.
He always could.
The free kick was taken short, recycled. Valencia maintained possession, but the chance dissolved as legs failed to support ambition.
The first half of extra time ended without announcement.
The referee simply blew the whistle.
Players sank again.
Hands on hips. Hands on knees. Some stared at the grass as if it had betrayed them. Others looked toward the benches, silently begging for substitutions that had already been spent.
Álex walked toward the sideline.
His coach grabbed his shoulder, leaned in, spoke quietly.
"Ten more minutes," he said. "You don't have to run. You just have to see."
Álex nodded.
He drank, poured water over his head, wiped his face. His heart rate slowed. His mind sharpened.
The whistle came again.
Second half of extra time.
Atlético pressed immediately.
They sensed weakness.
A midfielder surged forward, shooting from distance. It dipped late, forcing Valencia's keeper into a full stretch save. The rebound bounced loose.
Cleared.
Again, barely.
Álex felt the match tilting.
Not toward Atlético.
Toward inevitability.
He repositioned himself slightly higher, closer to the attacking third. He stopped drifting wide. He planted himself centrally, demanding the ball, trusting that if it came, something would follow.
In the 108th minute, it almost ended.
Atlético broke through the right, cut inside, and unleashed a shot from the edge of the box. It deflected off a defender, wrong-footing the keeper.
Time slowed.
The ball trickled past the post by inches.
The stadium roared.
Álex exhaled sharply.
One mistake. One deflection. One moment.
He clenched his fists.
Then it happened.
The moment didn't arrive loudly.
It arrived quietly, disguised as routine.
In the 111th minute, Valencia won possession deep in their half. A tired defender cleared long, not accurately, but far enough. Atlético's center-back misjudged the bounce, his legs heavy, his timing off by just enough.
The ball skipped past him.
Álex saw it before anyone else.
He moved.
Not fast.
Decisive.
He slipped between the retreating defenders, cushioning the ball with his first touch, carrying it forward. The box loomed ahead, crowded but uncertain. A defender lunged, missed.
Álex entered the final third.
The keeper advanced.
Álex slowed.
He remembered the training ground.
The repetitions.
The controlled finishes when legs burned and lungs screamed.
He opened his body.
Shot low.
The keeper got a hand to it.
But not enough.
The ball rolled, agonizingly slow, kissing the inside of the post before crossing the line.
For a split second, there was nothing.
Then everything.
The stadium detonated.
Valencia players sprinted toward him, collapsing into a heap of exhausted bodies. Álex fell backward onto the grass, staring at the sky again, this time with disbelief etched across his face.
His family screamed.
Estrella cried openly.
Carlos clenched both fists and bowed his head.
Abisoye pressed her hands to her mouth, shaking.
Atlético restarted immediately, desperation fueling them now. They threw bodies forward, abandoning structure. Cross after cross flew into the box.
Álex tracked back once more, legs screaming, intercepting a final loose ball near the corner flag. He shielded it, was fouled, stayed down.
The referee checked his watch.
Whistle.
Full time.
Valencia CF U15 were champions.
Álex remained on the grass, chest heaving, eyes closed.
The match was over.
The pitch did not empty right away.
Players stayed where they were, sprawled across the grass like survivors after a storm. Some laughed without sound. Some cried without shame. Others simply stared upward, blinking against the sun, as if the sky itself needed to be confirmed as real.
Álex lay on his back near the edge of the box, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. His boots were caked with dirt, his socks stained green, his legs trembling not from fear but from the delayed realization that he no longer had to run.
It was over.
Someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him upright. Then another arm wrapped around his shoulders. Then another. Valencia colors flooded his vision. Teammates shouting his name, shaking him, pressing their foreheads to his.
"Extra time winner!"
"You are crazy!"
"You don't get tired easily, do you?"
Álex laughed, short and breathless. He shook his head.
"I do," he said. "Just… later."
Across the pitch, Atlético players knelt or stood frozen, hands on hips, faces hollow. There was no bitterness in Álex's chest when he looked at them. Only respect. They had pushed Valencia to the edge of what was possible.
That was why it mattered.
The referee gathered both teams near the center circle. Medals were brought out. Cameras moved closer. Parents leaned over railings, phones held high, voices hoarse from shouting.
Álex finally found his family.
They were closer now, near the front row. Carlos had one arm around Abisoye, the other raised in triumph. Estrella was crying openly, laughing at the same time, her scarf twisted tightly in her hands.
Álex raised a hand toward them.
Not a wave.
A promise.
The Valencia players lined up first.
One by one, medals were placed over their heads. Cold metal against hot skin. Álex felt the weight settle on his chest, heavier than it should have been, as if it carried more than just gold coloring.
When the trophy was lifted, it happened slowly at first. A collective inhale.
Then the captain raised it.
The sound that followed was not cheering. It was release.
Confetti exploded into the air. Red and yellow fragments caught the sunlight and spun like sparks. Álex jumped with the rest, arms raised, voice gone, joy vibrating through him like electricity.
Someone shoved the trophy into his hands.
He froze.
For a heartbeat, he didn't lift it.
He looked at it instead.
The curved metal. The engraved lettering. The proof that the days of doubt, the hospital bed, the uncertainty, the quiet training sessions when no one was watching had led here.
Then he lifted it.
The roar doubled.
Photos snapped. Cameras flashed. The moment was captured from a hundred angles, but Álex knew none of them would ever quite get it right. They would show the shape of victory, not the weight.
Later, when the pitch had emptied and the sun began to sink, Álex sat on the grass again, this time with his family.
Carlos spoke first.
"You didn't just play," he said quietly. "You controlled the game."
Abisoye brushed dirt from Álex's sleeve, her hands gentle but firm. "You looked taller," she said, half joking, half serious.
Estrella grinned. "He is indeed taller."
Álex smiled. He felt it too. Not just in centimeters, but in presence.
Coaches passed by, nodding. One stopped, crouched slightly.
"Enjoy this," he told Álex. "But remember, this changes expectations."
Álex nodded.
He already felt them shifting.
Back at the accommodation, long after laughter faded and teammates drifted into exhausted sleep, Álex sat alone by the window. The medal lay on the table beside him. The trophy was locked away somewhere safe.
He didn't touch either.
Instead, his vision flickered softly.
Not intrusive.
Not overwhelming.
Just… present.
Post-MIC Tournament Evaluation
Name: Álejandro Adeyemi Castillo
Age: 13
Position: Attacking Midfielder (CAM)
Academy: Valencia CF
Dominant Foot: Right
Height: 167 cm (+3 cm growth)
Overall Rating
62 OVR (+5 from pre-tournament)
Potential
84
(Trajectory stabilized. Growth curve accelerated.)
Technical Attributes
Ball Control: 65
Dribbling: 66
Short Passing: 67
Vision: 68
Finishing: 63
Long Shots: 61
Physical Attributes
Acceleration: 64
Sprint Speed: 63
Stamina: 66
Agility: 65
Balance: 64
Mental Attributes
Composure: 69
Decision Making: 70
Positioning: 67
Work Rate: High
Traits & Special Notes
Weak Foot: ★★★☆☆ (3 Stars)
Skill Moves: ★★★★☆ (4 Stars)
Key Trait: Late-Game Decisiveness
Coach Remark: "Plays faster than the match."
Tournament Impact Summary
Goals: 8
Assists: 5
Match-Winning Contributions: 3
Final Deciding Goal: Yes
The window faded.
Álex leaned back and closed his eyes.
The MIC was finished.
But now, when people said his name, they didn't ask who is he?
They asked something else.
How far can he go?