The quiet did not last.
It never did.
The recovery day dissolved gently into evening, and with it went the softness that had settled over Paterna. By the time Álex woke the following morning, the academy had already changed its posture. Doors closed more firmly. Conversations shortened. Boots appeared earlier by the racks, freshly cleaned, laces tightened with intention.
Matchday 2 was approaching.
And with it came work.
Álex arrived at the tactical hall just before the others, notebook tucked under his arm, heart steady. The room smelled faintly of dry grass and marker ink, a familiar scent already etched into the memory of anyone who had spent time at a professional academy. One wall was dominated by a magnetic board, half the pitch drawn in clean white lines. Small colored discs rested on the tray below, waiting to become players.
Paco Cuenca entered without ceremony.
He did not raise his voice. He did not clap his hands. He simply walked to the board, placed his clipboard down, and looked at the room until silence assembled itself.
"UCAM is done," he said calmly. "It gave us information. Nothing more."
He began placing magnets.
"Matchday 2," Paco continued, "is different. Different opponent. Different problems. Same principles."
The name appeared on the board: FC Cartagena Juvenil A.
A few players exchanged glances. Home match. Expectations heavier. Opponents more cautious after Valencia's opening win.
Paco tapped the center of the board. "They defend compact. They press late. They wait for mistakes."
He moved two magnets closer together, narrowing space between lines.
"If we rush, we give them what they want."
Álex sat near the middle of the room, listening carefully. This was where the game slowed down enough to be understood. Yesterday had been emotion. Today was structure.
Paco's finger hovered near the attacking midfield zone.
"This space," he said, tapping twice, "decides the match."
Álex felt the words settle onto him without being spoken directly.
"We rotate. We overload. We pull their pivot out of position, then we attack behind."
He turned slightly, eyes scanning the room, lingering just a fraction longer on Álex and Jaume Durà.
"You two," Paco said evenly, "are the axis."
Jaume nodded, composed. Álex straightened almost imperceptibly.
The magnets moved again.
The formation shifted on the board, fluid, adaptable. At times a 4-3-3. At times something more elastic, bending around the central attacking midfielder like a spine.
"This is not about who starts," Paco added, anticipating thoughts before they formed. "It's about who understands."
Álex wrote that down.
Out on the pitch, the session translated theory into motion.
The grass was still cool underfoot, dew clinging stubbornly to the blades. Cones marked channels. Mini-goals waited at awkward angles. The drills were designed not for speed, but for awareness.
Positional rondos first.
Álex moved between lines, checking his shoulders constantly, receiving the ball on the half-turn. He felt eyes on him, not judgmental, but measuring. Teammates adjusting their spacing instinctively when he drifted into pockets. Fullbacks stepping higher when he dropped. The formation breathed around him.
"Time," a coach called.
One touch. Two. Release.
The ball zipped across the grass, clean and purposeful.
Then came pattern play.
No opposition at first. Just movement. Repetition. Muscle memory built deliberately, pass by pass.
Álex played as the connector, sometimes central, sometimes drifting left, sometimes vacating space entirely to drag an invisible marker away. When he rotated with Jaume, the swap felt natural, like two gears meshing cleanly.
Paco watched from the sideline, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"Again," he said. "But slower."
Slower was harder.
It required restraint. Patience. Trust that the opening would come if the shape held.
Álex felt sweat bead at his temples as the sequence reset. He reminded himself to breathe. To stay inside the system, not above it.
When opposition was added, the tempo rose.
Defenders pressed with intent now. Midfielders snapped into tackles. The space shrank.
Álex received the ball under pressure, shielded it, felt a boot scrape his ankle, and still slipped a pass through the narrowest seam. A murmur rippled from the sideline.
Not praise. Recognition.
Between drills, Javi jogged past him, grinning. "They're going to hate chasing you."
Álex smiled, but said nothing. He was already thinking about Cartagena. About how they would sit deep. About how patience would be tested. About how his debut goal had raised expectations that now hovered quietly over every touch.
As the session wound down, Paco gathered them one last time.
"We won Matchday 1," he said. "Good."
He let the word hang, incomplete.
"Now we prove it wasn't noise."
Álex wiped his face with his sleeve, chest rising and falling evenly. He felt grounded. Focused. Ready to be useful again, whether from the bench or the start.
As they walked off the pitch, the sun climbed higher, burning away the last traces of morning mist.
The league had begun to move.
And Valencia, with its youngest spark quietly learning the weight of structure, was preparing to move with it.
The official session ended with the usual signals.
A short whistle. A nod from the staff. Players drifting toward water bottles, stretching mats, shade. The pitch loosened its grip on intensity, returning to something almost peaceful as boots scraped less urgently against the grass.
But Álex didn't leave.
He stood near the edge of the penalty area, ball tucked under his arm, eyes tracing the goalposts as if they were coordinates on a map only he could see.
The keeper noticed first.
Vicent Abril had just finished a series of explosive dives, gloves half-off, sweat darkening the collar of his training top. He followed Álex's gaze, then met his eyes.
"You're not done, are you?" Vicent asked, half amused.
Álex shook his head. "Five minutes. Set pieces."
Vicent exhaled, then smiled. "Make it ten. I need the work too."
They walked back together, the rest of the squad slowly filtering away toward the locker rooms. The pitch felt bigger now. Quieter. The kind of silence that sharpened sound instead of muting it.
Álex placed the ball carefully just outside the box, slightly left of center.
He stepped back.
Three steps. One adjustment. He visualized the wall that wasn't there yet, imagined the keeper's weight shifting, the fraction of a second when balance betrayed intention.
Vicent took position, bouncing lightly on his toes.
"Whenever you're ready," the keeper said.
Álex struck.
The ball rose cleanly, curling with intent rather than power. It dipped late, kissing the inside of the post with a hollow, satisfying sound before settling in the net.
Vicent turned, eyebrows lifting. "Again."
The second attempt flew higher, clipped the crossbar, rebounded out.
Álex frowned slightly, already correcting in his mind.
They reset.
Shot after shot followed. Some saved. Some wide. Some perfect.
Each attempt taught him something. About contact. About rhythm. About how fatigue changed his mechanics. He adjusted his run-up by inches, his plant foot by degrees.
Soon, footsteps returned.
Jaume Durà jogged back onto the pitch, ball under his arm. Then Javi. Then one of the fullbacks, curious. Another midfielder lingered near the edge of the box, watching the arc of the ball.
"Mind if we join?" Jaume asked.
Álex shrugged. "More walls are better."
They laughed, and within minutes a makeshift drill formed organically. A three-man wall. Then four. Players arguing about angles, about who should jump, about whether Vicent was cheating his positioning.
Álex listened to all of it, absorbing perspectives, testing solutions.
He tried different techniques now. Inside foot. Outside. Lower trajectory. Higher whip.
One free kick bent around the wall so tightly that even Vicent, fully extended, could only brush air.
"Okay," the keeper said, laughing as he pushed himself up. "That one doesn't count."
Álex allowed himself a small smile.
From the second floor of the training building, behind glass darkened just enough to reflect the sky, Paco Cuenca watched.
He had not planned to.
He had paperwork to finish, reports to review, calls waiting. But the movement on the pitch below had caught his attention. Not the noise. The opposite. The deliberate quiet of players who stayed when no one asked them to.
Paco leaned against the frame of the window, arms crossed, eyes narrowing slightly.
He watched Álex's routine.
The way he placed the ball exactly the same each time. The way he paused before striking, not rushing, not performing. The way he reacted to misses with adjustment, not frustration.
He noted who stayed.
Who asked questions.
Who drifted away.
"Habits," Paco murmured to himself.
Down below, Álex prepared another attempt.
He struck through the ball with confidence now, the fatigue in his legs acknowledged but not obeyed. The shot dipped, swerved, and nestled into the upper corner.
The players let out a collective groan.
"Alright," Javi said, hands on hips. "That's unfair."
Álex retrieved the ball, breath steady, heart calm.
He did not look toward the building. He did not know he was being watched.
But Paco did not need eye contact.
He already had confirmation.
The session eventually dissolved on its own. One by one, players drifted away, slapping Vicent's gloves, nudging Álex's shoulder, promising rematches and better walls next time.
Álex stayed last, collecting cones that hadn't even been part of the drill, rolling the final ball back toward the equipment shed.
As he walked off the pitch, the sun dipped lower, stretching shadows across the grass like long, quiet applause.
Above him, Paco Cuenca finally turned away from the window.
Matchday 2 was coming.
And Valencia was sharpening its details.