The morning after Matchday 2 did not arrive gently.
It arrived with discipline.
At Paterna, the sun crept over the training complex like it always did, pale gold spilling across trimmed grass and concrete walkways, but for the players of Valencia Juvenil A, the light carried an extra edge. Success had sharpened the atmosphere. Victory had invited scrutiny. And scrutiny, Álex was learning, never announced itself loudly. It seeped in quietly, changing how people stood, how they spoke, how they watched.
Álex felt it before anyone said a word.
He stepped out of the residence building with his boots slung over one shoulder, backpack tight against his back, and paused for half a second longer than usual. The familiar smells of cut grass and early-morning humidity wrapped around him, grounding and unsettling at the same time. Paterna had been intimidating when he first arrived. Then it became routine. Now it was something else.
Now it felt like a proving ground.
As he crossed the pathway toward Pitch Three, he noticed the subtle shifts.
Rodrigo Gamón was already stretching, movements precise, almost exaggerated, as if every rep needed to be noticed. Alin Gera stood nearby, juggling the ball absentmindedly but glancing sideways more often than usual. Jaume Durà leaned against the fence, boots already on, arms crossed, watching the younger players arrive with an unreadable expression.
They all looked up when Álex walked onto the pitch.
Not staring.
Tracking.
No one said anything. They didn't need to.
Álex jogged over to an open space and began his warm-up routine, deliberately unhurried. He rolled his ankles, stretched his calves, tapped the ball lightly between his feet. Each touch was measured, controlled. He could feel his heartbeat syncing with the rhythm of the ball. That part never changed. The ball was still honest. It didn't care about ratings, expectations, or headlines.
People did.
"Good morning," Paco Cuenca's voice cut through the quiet.
The coach stood near the touchline, clipboard tucked under his arm, eyes already working. Paco didn't waste words early in the day. He believed mornings were for absorption, not speeches.
"Dynamic warm-up. Then rondos. Three groups."
The whistle sounded.
Training began.
Rondos had always been a litmus test at Paterna.
They revealed more than speed or technique. They exposed mentality. Who panicked under pressure. Who stayed calm. Who demanded the ball even when mistakes were inevitable.
Álex stepped into the circle, body low, scanning. The ball moved quickly. One touch. Two. A sharp interception attempt from Víctor García forced a hurried pass. Jaume adjusted his position instantly, offering an angle. Rodrigo played it back to him. The tempo increased.
Álex received the ball with a defender closing fast.
He didn't rush.
He rolled the ball under his sole, let the defender commit, then nudged it sideways to Alin with the outside of his foot. Simple. Clean. Efficient.
But when the ball came back, tighter now, Álex felt it.
The challenge was firmer.
Rodrigo pressed harder than necessary. Jaume closed space faster. Even Victor Duran, usually conservative, stepped aggressively into passing lanes.
No words were exchanged.
This wasn't personal.
This was positional gravity.
Álex was now a reference point. And reference points attract pressure.
When he miscontrolled once, just a fraction, Jaume pounced and forced him into a rushed pass. Paco's whistle cut sharply.
"Reset," Paco said. "Tempo."
His eyes lingered on Álex for half a second longer than on anyone else.
Not disappointment.
Expectation.
Juvenil A was built on balance.
The squad wasn't stacked with stars. It was layered with players who understood roles, hierarchy, patience. That was what made the shift so dangerous. Álex hadn't disrupted the team with ego. He disrupted it with possibility.
During positional drills, Paco divided the squad into functional units. Back line. Double pivot. Attacking triangle.
The attacking triangle was where tension lived.
Jaume Durà stood on one side. Rodrigo Gamón hovered deeper. Álex took the central pocket.
They rotated. They interchanged. They tested.
Jaume played sharper passes than usual, threading balls through narrow channels with intent. Rodrigo took more risks stepping forward. Hugo Guijarro began drifting into half-spaces instead of holding deeper positions.
Every movement carried subtext.
I can do this too.
Don't forget me.
This is still my space.
Álex didn't shrink.
He adapted.
When Jaume drifted wide, Álex filled the central lane. When Rodrigo stepped forward, Álex dropped a few meters to recycle possession. When defenders stepped tight, Álex released the ball earlier, trusting movement rather than forcing moments.
He understood something crucial.
At this level, survival didn't come from dominating every action.
It came from making yourself necessary.
That night, exhaustion crept in slowly.
Álex sat on his bed in the residence, legs stretched out, ice pack resting against his knee not because of pain, but because he'd learned recovery early. The room was quiet. His roommate was still in the common area. The hum of distant conversation filtered through the walls.
Potential was a dangerous word.
It comforted coaches. It haunted players.
He knew this didn't mean safety. It meant time pressure. Time before others caught up. Time before mistakes mattered more. Time before expectation hardened into demand.
He shut the interface down.
Tomorrow wouldn't wait.
Paco Cuenca watched training footage late into the evening.
He did this often, but now with heightened attention. The footage ran silently, players moving across the screen like pieces on a board. Paco paused. Rewound. Adjusted angles.
He wasn't looking for goals.
He was looking for decision chains.
Álex appeared repeatedly, sometimes central, sometimes drifting left, sometimes dropping deeper than expected. Paco noted it all.
Good awareness.
Needs faster scan under pressure.
Brave positioning for age.
He leaned back slightly.
Talent didn't worry him.
Balance did.
Promoting a fourteen-year-old wasn't risky because of football. It was risky because of psychology. Older players didn't fail because they lacked skill. They failed because they felt displaced.
Paco made a note.
Manage rotation carefully.
As Matchday 3 approached, intensity crept upward.
Training sessions shortened but sharpened. Recovery became structured. Tactical sessions grew more specific. Paco drilled pressing triggers, defensive transitions, and spacing between lines.
Álex felt fatigue differently now.
Not in his legs.
In his focus.
School assignments stacked up. Tactical concepts layered. Social dynamics demanded awareness. Every word, every reaction mattered.
Javi Torres noticed.
"You're quieter," Javi said one evening as they walked back from dinner.
Álex shrugged. "Just thinking."
Javi smirked. "That's worse than nerves."
Álex laughed softly. It helped.
Around them, the squad moved in clusters. Goalkeepers joking loudly. Defenders debating a training moment. Forwards competing over finishing stats.
No one was relaxed.
They were alert.
On the wall of the locker room hung the Valencia crest.
It wasn't oversized. It wasn't flashy. But it carried weight.
Álex stood in front of it after one session, towel draped over his shoulders, sweat cooling on his skin. He stared at the emblem longer than necessary.
He remembered arriving as a U15.
Quiet. Observing. Grateful.
Now he was something else.
A question mark.
A catalyst.
A risk.
He understood something important then.
At this level, the shirt didn't care how old you were.
It only cared whether you could carry it.