The alarm rang at 6:15.
For a few seconds, nobody in the academy hostel moved.
Then, almost on cue, doors began opening one after another.
Someone groaned loudly down the corridor.
Another player muttered something about "five more minutes" before immediately losing the argument with the second alarm on his phone.
Morning had arrived.
Álex sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before glancing at the window. The sky above Paterna was still painted in shades of blue-grey, the first hint of sunrise just beginning to creep over the academy buildings.
His muscles reminded him of Sunday's match the moment his feet touched the floor.
Not pain.
Just that familiar heaviness that came after ninety intense minutes.
He stretched instinctively, rolled his shoulders once, then reached for the framed photo on his desk.
Carlos.
Abisoye.
Estrella.
A smile found him before he'd fully woken up.
"Morning."
He wasn't sure whether he was greeting them or himself.
After making his bed, he pulled on his Valencia training gear and stepped into the corridor.
The smell of toasted bread was already drifting upstairs from the dining hall.
Halfway there, a door burst open.
Johan Villa stumbled into the corridor, one boot in his hand and his shirt hanging awkwardly over one shoulder.
"I overslept."
Álex looked at him.
"I can see that."
"I blame the hat trick."
"...What?"
"You scored it."
"I did."
"Exactly."
"I still don't understand."
"If you hadn't scored three, Coach would've made recovery easier."
Álex blinked.
"...That's not how recovery works."
"It is in my head."
"You need a new head."
Johan laughed as they walked downstairs together.
The dining hall was already alive.
Trays clattered softly.
Players drifted between tables with bowls of cereal, fruit, toast and eggs balanced carefully in their hands.
Boyko was impossible to miss.
He sat in the middle of the room with a breakfast that looked capable of feeding an entire defensive line.
Two bowls of cereal.
Four slices of toast.
Scrambled eggs.
A banana.
Three yoghurts.
Javi stopped beside the table and stared.
"You planning to hibernate?"
Boyko looked genuinely confused.
"This is breakfast."
"This is catering."
"I'm still hungry."
Carlos Alós walked past carrying a much simpler tray.
"You said that yesterday."
"I was."
"You said it before dinner."
"I was hungry then too."
"You said it during recovery."
"I never stop growing."
Carlos looked him up and down.
"I hope your finishing grows at the same speed."
The table erupted into laughter.
Boyko clutched his chest dramatically.
"Captain..."
"I'm not captain."
"...That hurt."
Carlos sat down opposite him.
"Eat."
"See? You do care."
"I care that you stop talking with your mouth full."
Around them, conversations overlapped naturally.
Iván Mejía was trying to convince Hugo Guijarro that pineapple belonged on pizza.
"It absolutely doesn't."
"It absolutely does."
"It's a crime."
"It's fruit."
"It's evidence."
Víctor García looked up from buttering his toast.
"I can't believe this is what we're discussing before eight in the morning."
"It's important," Mejía insisted.
"No," Hugo replied.
"The league table is important."
"Pineapple is also important."
"To who?"
"Pineapples."
Even Paco Cuenca, walking through the dining hall on his way to the coaches' office, couldn't hide the faint smile that crossed his face.
He didn't interrupt.
He simply observed.
Football teams weren't built only on tactics.
They were built here too.
At breakfast tables.
On bus rides.
During stupid arguments that nobody remembered a week later.
Because trust didn't suddenly appear in the eighty-fifth minute of a difficult match.
It was built every ordinary day before that.
Álex quietly ate his breakfast while listening more than speaking.
He liked mornings.
Nobody expected anything from him yet.
No goals.
No assists.
No applause.
Just breakfast.
Just another Tuesday.
As they finished eating, Carlos stood, collecting his tray.
"School."
A chorus of groans answered him.
Boyko looked genuinely offended.
"We've only just started breakfast."
"You've been eating for twenty-five minutes."
"I need another twenty-five."
"You need mathematics."
"I definitely don't."
Javi threw an arm around Álex's shoulders as they headed for the exit.
"I've got a maths quiz first period."
"You'll be fine."
"I revised for twenty minutes."
"Yesterday?"
"This morning."
Álex smiled.
"That's not revising."
"It counts."
"It doesn't."
"It should."
Javi sighed dramatically.
"If I fail, I'm blaming you."
"For what?"
"You made me talk during breakfast."
"You started the conversation."
"Technicalities."
The academy bus was already waiting outside, engine humming softly as students climbed aboard.
Álex took his usual seat beside the window.
The city slowly awakened as they pulled away from Paterna.
Cyclists wove through traffic.
Shop owners rolled open their shutters.
Parents hurried children across zebra crossings before the lights changed.
Life moved at its own pace.
Football barely existed beyond the academy gates.
Álex liked that.
It reminded him that the world was much bigger than ninety minutes on a weekend.
As the bus turned onto the main road toward school, Javi pulled a folded sheet of paper from his bag.
"Last chance."
Álex looked over.
"My maths notes."
"You revised on the bus?"
"I'm starting now."
Álex shook his head, laughing quietly.
"You really do leave everything until the last minute."
"And yet..."
Javi tapped the side of his head confidently.
"...I somehow survive."
Álex looked out of the window again, watching the morning sun finally climb above the rooftops.
Another day had begun.
The hat trick already felt like yesterday's news.
Exactly how he wanted it.