Monday evening settled gently over the Valencia academy hostel.
The noise that had filled the corridors after training slowly faded as players disappeared into their rooms. Somewhere down the hall, someone was arguing over a video game. Another room erupted with laughter after a badly timed joke. The familiar sounds bounced off the walls, turning the building into something more than a place to sleep. For many of the boys living there, it had become a second home.
Álex unlocked his room and quietly stepped inside.
The room wasn't large, but over the past few months he had made it his own. A stack of schoolbooks occupied one corner of the desk, neatly arranged beside a football covered in signatures from last season's academy squad. On the wall hung a Valencia scarf, and beside the lamp stood the framed family photograph he looked at almost every night.
He picked it up absentmindedly while changing into a T-shirt.
Carlos Castillo stood at the back with one hand resting on Abisoye's shoulder. His father rarely smiled widely in photographs, but his eyes always gave him away. Beside them stood Estrella, who had somehow managed to ruin the family picture by sticking her tongue out at the camera at the exact moment it was taken.
Álex couldn't help smiling.
"You still haven't learned..."
His phone buzzed before he could place the frame back down.
Mamá ❤️
He answered almost immediately.
The screen lit up to reveal his mother sitting in the family living room back in Seville.
"There he is," Abisoye said with a warm smile. "I was beginning to think Valencia had kidnapped my son."
"They nearly did," Álex replied, laughing.
"They'll have to ask me first."
Before either of them could continue, another face suddenly pushed into the camera.
"¡Álex!"
"Hola, Estrella."
"You forgot to call yesterday."
"I got back late."
She folded her arms with exaggerated seriousness.
"That's not an excuse."
Álex laughed.
"I know."
"You promised."
"I did."
"And you broke your promise."
"...I did."
She nodded proudly, satisfied that her case had been won.
"You owe me."
"What do I owe you this time?"
"Ice cream."
"Only ice cream?"
She pretended to think for several seconds.
"...And churros."
Carlos' voice drifted from somewhere behind the camera.
"Keep negotiating like that and your brother won't have any money left."
"I'll pay with yours."
The room burst into laughter.
Carlos finally appeared beside his wife, shaking his head.
"I see she's already planning my financial future."
"You started it," Estrella replied without missing a beat.
Álex leaned back in his chair, simply watching them argue. For the first time that day, the academy hostel didn't feel hundreds of kilometres away from Seville.
Football never dominated conversations at home.
It was simply another part of life.
"So," Carlos asked eventually, "how are you feeling?"
"Tired."
"I wasn't asking about your legs."
Álex paused.
"I'm... good."
His father studied him for a moment before nodding.
"Good."
There was no lecture.
No long speech about success.
Carlos had always believed the simplest questions usually carried the deepest answers.
Abisoye took over before the silence became awkward.
"Are you eating properly?"
"Yes."
"Properly?"
"Mum..."
"I'm serious."
"The food's good."
"And breakfast?"
"I don't skip breakfast."
She looked unconvinced.
"You'd better not."
Carlos chuckled quietly.
"I think your mother worries more about your breakfast than your football."
"Of course I do," Abisoye replied. "Goals don't matter if he forgets to eat."
The conversation drifted naturally after that.
Estrella talked about school and proudly announced that she'd scored twice during lunchtime football, insisting one of the goals was "almost as good" as Álex's second against Miguelturra.
Carlos spoke about work.
Abisoye reminded him not to stay up too late studying.
For nearly twenty minutes, football barely came up at all.
When the call finally ended, the room felt quieter than before, but not lonely.
Álex placed the phone on his desk and opened his mathematics textbook.
Tomorrow's homework wasn't going to solve itself.
Less than five kilometres away, another Monday evening was unfolding inside Valencia's academy offices.
The lights were still on despite the late hour.
Paco Cuenca sat opposite the academy director with a laptop open between them. Several clips from Sunday's victory were queued on the screen, but no one pressed play immediately.
The academy director broke the silence.
"You've coached talented players before."
"I have."
"How different is this one?"
Paco rested his elbows on the table.
"He's unusual."
"In what sense?"
"He learns faster than most."
The director nodded for him to continue.
"I can teach two players the same idea during training. One understands it next week. The other understands it next month."
"And Álex?"
Paco smiled faintly.
"He understands it before training ends."
Silence settled over the office.
Not because anyone doubted him.
Because they were measuring the weight of those words.
The sporting coordinator leaned forward.
"There's already interest."
"I expected that."
"We've had two phone calls this morning."
Paco wasn't surprised.
"A hat trick attracts attention."
"No."
The coordinator shook his head.
"The goals attracted headlines."
He tapped the paused video on the laptop.
"This attracted scouts."
The screen showed Álex glancing over both shoulders before receiving the ball.
One simple movement.
Easy to miss.
Impossible to ignore if you understood football.
The academy director folded his hands.
"We should move before somebody else does."
Paco nodded once.
"I agree."
"Prepare the youth contract."
No celebration followed.
No dramatic handshake.
Just signatures waiting to be printed.
The decision stayed inside that room.
Álex would hear nothing.
Not yet.
Rain fell steadily against the windows of a small office in Birmingham.
Oluwaseun Reeves replayed the same sequence for what felt like the twentieth time.
Not the finish.
The scan.
The body shape.
The awareness.
The patience.
He finally closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair.
"So young..."
Most people searched for talent after everyone else started talking.
Oluwaseun had built his reputation by arriving first.
He reached for his notebook and wrote another observation beneath Álex's name.
Never rushes the game. Makes the game rush around him.
He stared at the sentence for several seconds before smiling to himself.
That wasn't something you coached.
That was instinct.
His phone buzzed.
The airline confirmed his booking.
Birmingham → Valencia
Departure: Wednesday Morning.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and looked out at the rain.
"Let's see who you really are, Alejandro Adeyemi Castillo."
Back in Paterna, Álex finished the last mathematics question just before ten o'clock.
He closed the notebook, stretched his aching shoulders and walked to the window.
The academy pitches lay empty beneath the floodlights.
Twenty-four hours ago, they had echoed with applause after his first hat trick.
Now they were silent again.
He liked that.
Football had a short memory.
You celebrated on Sunday.
You trained on Tuesday.
You proved yourself again on Saturday.
He switched off the light and climbed into bed, already thinking about tomorrow's session.
Outside his room, the academy slept peacefully.
Inside the club's offices, paperwork had already begun.
Across England, a flight had been booked.
The ripples from one extraordinary afternoon were still spreading.
Álex simply hadn't felt the waves yet.