The whistle cut through the night like a blade.
Sharp. Final. Absolute.
For half a second, no one moved.
Then the stadium exploded.
White flags rose. Applause crashed in waves. The concrete bowl of Paterna vibrated with sound, with relief, with belief. On the giant screen above the tunnel, the score glowed bright and undeniable:
VALENCIA CF JUVENIL A 2
FC CARTAGENA JUVENIL A 0
Álex Castillo stood frozen just outside the center circle, chest rising and falling hard, sweat dripping from his chin onto the grass. His lungs burned. His calves trembled. His heartbeat felt loud enough to be heard through the studs of his boots.
Two goals.
Not imagined.
Not dreamed.
Real.
Behind him, Vicent Abril punched the air near his penalty area. Rubén Martínez wrapped Carlos Alós in a tight embrace. Javi Torres jogged over, laughing breathlessly, eyes bright with adrenaline.
"You're not normal," Javi said, grabbing Álex by the shoulders and shaking him once. "You know that, right?"
Álex tried to answer, but his voice got lost somewhere between breath and disbelief.
Around them, FC Cartagena players slumped. Some bent forward with hands on knees. Others stared blankly at the turf, the fight drained from their limbs. They had come to Paterna disciplined, compact, defiant.
They were leaving beaten.
The referee gestured toward the benches, signaling the end of formalities, but Valencia's players lingered. This was not just three points. This was momentum. Identity. Proof.
From the commentary booth, the voices still rang.
"Two goals from the youngest player in the División de Honor this season. Alejandro Castillo, fourteen years old, continues a remarkable rise after his standout MIC Tournament performance earlier this year. This is not a flash. This is consistency."
Down by the tunnel, Paco Cuenca stood still, arms crossed, watching his players absorb the moment. His face was calm, but his eyes told another story. Satisfaction, measured and deep.
He locked eyes with Álex across the pitch.
A nod.
Nothing more.
Álex nodded back.
The Valencia players began to drift toward one another, forming loose clusters. Rodrigo Gamón clapped Álex on the back as he passed.
"You read that second goal before Javi even turned," Gamón said quietly. "That's… rare."
Alin Gera followed, extending a hand. "You make the game easier."
Álex shook it, still struggling to fully land inside his own body.
Near the touchline, a stadium announcer's voice boomed through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats for the Man of the Match presentation."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
The Valencia players exchanged looks. A few of them glanced instinctively toward Álex.
He didn't move.
He assumed nothing.
The announcer's voice returned, deliberate now.
"The MVP of today's match, with two goals and a decisive impact off the bench…"
The pause stretched.
"…number twenty-seven… Álejandro Castillo!"
For a fraction of a second, the world went quiet again.
Then everything hit him at once.
The applause surged, louder than before. Teammates shoved him forward, laughing, clapping, calling his name.
"Go!"
"That's you!"
"Deserved!"
Álex blinked, stunned, before stepping toward the sideline. His legs felt heavier than they had all match.
The official handed him a small trophy. Clear glass. The Valencia crest etched into it. MVP.
The crowd rose to its feet.
Álex lifted it awkwardly, unsure what to do, and the roar doubled.
From somewhere in the stands, he caught sight of a familiar silhouette. His father's posture. His mother's hands clasped together. Even from a distance, he could feel them.
He swallowed.
This was real.
The cameras flashed. The commentators spoke again.
"Remember the name. Fourteen years old. Two goals tonight. MVP. Valencia may have found something special."
Álex jogged back toward his teammates, trophy tucked under his arm. As he reached the group, Johan Villa pulled him into a brief embrace.
"You didn't steal my goals," Johan said with a grin. "You earned them."
"Next one's yours," Álex replied softly.
They laughed.
Paco clapped his hands once, sharp and commanding.
"Tunnel," he called. "Now."
The noise followed them as they moved beneath the stands, concrete swallowing the echo of the crowd. The moment they crossed into the corridor, the atmosphere shifted. The roar faded. Breathing became audible again. Boots echoed against the floor.
Someone let out a long exhale.
Then the door to the locker room closed.
And the dam broke.
Shouts. Laughter. Thumps against lockers. Shirts pulled over heads. Someone blasted music from a phone speaker, bass rattling the walls.
Álex sat down slowly, placing the MVP trophy beside his bag like it might vanish if he let go.
His hands were still shaking.
Across from him, Pablo Reyes shook his head, smiling. "Fourteen," he muttered. "I was still scared to talk in the locker room at fourteen."
"Still are," Victor Durán shot back, and the room erupted again.
Paco waited.
He let them have it. Thirty seconds. Forty.
Then he raised his voice, calm but absolute.
"Enough."
The room settled instantly.
Paco stood in the center, eyes moving from face to face.
"That," he said, gesturing vaguely, "is how we play when we trust the process."
He turned toward Álex.
"And that," he continued, voice steady, "is what happens when preparation meets opportunity."
Álex felt his throat tighten.
"This is not a reward," Paco added. "It's a responsibility. Every opponent from now on will prepare for you."
He scanned the room.
"For all of you. Enjoy tonight. Tomorrow, we work."
No shouting. No theatrics.
Just truth.
As the players began to cool down, laughter returned in quieter tones. Conversations overlapped. Someone replayed the goals on their phone.
Álex leaned back against the locker, exhaustion finally settling into his bones. The adrenaline drained, leaving behind something deeper.
Belonging.
He glanced at the MVP trophy again.
Not a dream.
A beginning.
And somewhere beyond the walls, the season waited.