The silence inside the bus was not empty.
It was crowded with thoughts that had nowhere else to sit.
The road into Alboraya curved gently, bordered by low buildings and familiar streets that many of the players had passed countless times growing up. This was not a distant away trip. This was local. Intimate. The kind of fixture where parents, former teammates, and old rivals filled the stands. The kind where whispers traveled faster than the ball.
Álex Castillo sat by the window, forehead resting lightly against the glass. He watched the reflection of the bus interior overlay the passing scenery, faces merging with streets, jerseys ghosting through traffic signs.
Matchday 3.
Too early in the season to panic. Too late to pretend nothing mattered.
Two matches already played. One win. One draw. Solid on paper. Incomplete in feeling.
He exhaled slowly.
The problem wasn't that he wasn't starting.
The problem was that he understood exactly why.
Training that week had been sharp. Not spectacular. Sharp.
Paco Cuenca had emphasized structure over freedom, repetition over flair. Positional drills lasted longer than usual. Transitions were rehearsed again and again until even the most instinctive players had to pause before moving.
Alboraya, Paco had said, were not careless.
"They don't beat you with talent," he had explained during a midweek session. "They beat you when you grow impatient."
Álex remembered that phrase clearly.
Grow impatient.
It echoed now as the bus slowed near the stadium.
During small-sided games, Álex had been good. Clean touches. Quick turns. Nothing extravagant. But nothing decisive either. Meanwhile, Jaume Durà had been relentless, constantly offering angles, constantly demanding the ball. Rodrigo Gamón had dictated tempo with authority. Even Javi Torres, normally chaotic, had shown discipline, holding his runs, stretching lines exactly when instructed.
Selection was not a mystery.
It was arithmetic.
The bus doors opened with a pneumatic sigh, and sound rushed in. Voices. Whistles. The thud of balls being warmed up nearby. A faint chant from a group of parents leaning against the fence, scarves draped casually rather than ceremoniously.
Álex stepped down onto the concrete, boots crunching softly. He adjusted his tracksuit jacket and scanned the surroundings.
The stadium was modest but proud. White walls slightly weathered. Blue accents freshly painted. A banner reading "Orgull Alboraya" stretched across the main stand.
This was their house.
And they intended to defend it.
Inside the changing room, lockers were arranged tightly, forcing players into proximity. There was no room to isolate yourself even if you wanted to. Bags were stacked. Boots lined up beneath benches. The smell of liniment mixed with damp grass.
Javi Torres tossed his bag into a corner and began taping his wrist immediately, methodical, repetitive. Pablo Reyes sat quietly, pulling his socks up inch by inch. Iván Mejía cracked a joke that landed half-heartedly, laughter sparse but appreciative.
Álex took his seat near Johan Villa.
Neither spoke at first.
Paco Cuenca entered without ceremony.
He didn't clap his hands. Didn't raise his voice.
He waited.
The room settled naturally.
He placed the magnetic board against the wall and turned it around.
A familiar shape.
4-3-1-2.
"This is not a match for impatience," Paco began, repeating himself deliberately. "They will sit compact. They will try to frustrate you. They will try to provoke rushed decisions."
He moved magnets slowly.
"Vicent," he said, tapping the goalkeeper position, "distribution must be clean. No rushed clearances unless absolutely necessary."
Vicent Abril nodded, face calm, eyes focused.
"Iván, Víctor," Paco continued, pointing to the fullbacks, "your first instinct will be to push. Control it. Choose your moments."
Iván Mejía leaned forward slightly, attentive.
"Rubén. Carlos," he said, nodding to the center-backs, "you hold the line. Don't step out unless Rodrigo covers."
Rodrigo Gamón acknowledged the responsibility with a subtle nod.
"Midfield," Paco said, his voice firm now. "This is where the match lives."
He paused.
"Rodrigo, you set the rhythm. Alin, you offer balance. Hugo, you close gaps."
Each name carried weight.
Each instruction carved a role.
Then Paco pointed to the space behind the forwards.
"Jaume," he said, "you are our brain today."
Jaume Durà met his gaze, expression unreadable but alert.
"And up front," Paco continued, "Pablo, you occupy. Javi, you stretch."
Javi Torres clenched his jaw and nodded.
Paco stepped back.
"These are the eleven."
No flourish.
No debate.
Just truth.
Álex already knew.
Still, seeing it confirmed changed something.
Not pain.
Pressure.
He felt Johan shift beside him.
"Again," Johan muttered quietly.
Álex kept his eyes forward.
"They need control first," he replied softly.
Johan scoffed under his breath. "Until they don't."
Paco turned toward the substitutes.
"Those not starting," he said, "you are not spectators. This match will evolve."
His eyes briefly locked with Álex's.
Not kindly.
Not coldly.
Accurately.
As players changed, the room filled with small rituals.
Rodrigo tied his laces twice, always twice. Jaume stretched his calves meticulously. Pablo Reyes closed his eyes, visualizing movement. Javi bounced lightly on his toes, barely containing his energy.
Álex observed everything.
He wasn't sulking.
He was studying.
He noticed how Alin Gera checked his positioning repeatedly even before stepping onto the pitch. How Víctor García rolled his shoulders, shaking off nerves. How Vicent Abril tapped the crossbar during warm-up, grounding himself.
These details mattered.
This was football at a level where margins lived in the mind.
The corridor to the pitch was narrow, concrete walls amplifying sound. Alboraya's players stood opposite, white and blue kits crisp, expressions composed but sharp.
There were nods of recognition. Former teammates. Youth rivals. Shared tournaments from years past.
Jaume adjusted his captain's armband.
Javi glanced back toward the bench.
"Be ready," he whispered, barely audible.
Álex nodded once.
He didn't need encouragement.
He needed opportunity.
The teams emerged.
The sun hung high, casting sharp shadows across the pitch. The grass was well-kept but firm, ball speed quick.
Álex took his seat on the bench, hands resting on his knees, posture upright.
He scanned Alboraya's shape immediately.
Compact.
Narrow.
Two banks forming already.
"They'll bait us wide," Johan said quietly.
Álex nodded. "And collapse centrally."
The referee checked his watch.
Whistle to lips.
The season's third test began.
Valencia kicked off.
Rodrigo Gamón received the ball immediately, recycling possession calmly. No rush. Just circulation.
Alboraya dropped deep, exactly as expected.
Jaume drifted laterally, searching for space. Javi made an early run, stretching the line. Pablo Reyes pinned the center-backs.
From the bench, Álex leaned forward.
He could see it.
The structure was working.
But it was fragile.
One forced pass. One impatient run. That was all it would take for the rhythm to break.
He felt something twist in his chest.
Not jealousy.
Urgency.
Minutes passed.
Possession favored Valencia.
Danger did not.
Álex watched Jaume receive the ball under pressure, recycle it safely. Watched Rodrigo slow the tempo deliberately. Watched Javi hesitate between pressing and holding.
This was control.
But control without incision was a balancing act.
He glanced at Paco.
The coach stood still, arms crossed, eyes scanning.
Not satisfied.
Not displeased.
Waiting.
Álex understood then.
This match would not be decided by brilliance.
It would be decided by timing.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello everyone, Curis here.
Sorry I didn't upload yesterday, I just started my exams so I was busy yesterday and couldn't finish it so I will be making it up for the next two days.