The final bell rang through the school building with all the authority of a referee ending extra time.
Within seconds, the quiet classroom burst into life.
Chairs scraped against the floor. Zippers closed. Backpacks disappeared onto shoulders. Someone at the back cheered a little too loudly before earning a warning look from the teacher.
"Don't forget your history assignment," she called as students poured through the doorway.
Nobody answered.
The corridor outside became a river of uniforms flowing toward the exits.
Javi Torres appeared beside Álex, dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.
"I've survived."
Álex adjusted the strap of his backpack.
"The maths quiz?"
Javi nodded proudly.
"I only guessed half the questions."
"I watched you guess almost all of them."
"That's called confidence."
"I don't think that's what confidence means."
"It should."
Álex laughed.
"How many questions did you actually know?"
Javi held up three fingers.
"Out of ten?"
"...Let's not ruin the moment."
They stepped into the warm September afternoon, where the academy bus was already waiting.
Several Valencia academy players were climbing aboard.
Boyko reached the door carrying two bottles of water and a paper bag from the school cafeteria.
Carlos Alós frowned.
"Didn't you eat lunch?"
"I did."
"Then what's in the bag?"
"My second lunch."
Carlos blinked.
"There are people who have snacks."
Boyko looked genuinely offended.
"This is a snack."
"You bought two sandwiches."
"I get hungry."
"You were hungry twenty minutes ago."
"I still am."
Johan Villa climbed onto the bus behind them and glanced inside the paper bag.
"Can I have one?"
"No."
"I thought we were teammates."
"We are."
"And teammates share."
Boyko hugged the bag protectively.
"Not sandwiches."
The laughter followed them onto the bus.
Álex took his usual seat by the window while Javi dropped into the seat beside him with a sigh that suggested he'd just completed ninety minutes instead of six hours of school.
"I'd rather play Elche twice than sit another maths test."
"You say that now."
"I mean it."
"You'll change your mind on Saturday."
"I probably will."
The bus pulled away from the school, rolling through the streets of Valencia.
Outside, the city moved at its own pace.
Parents collected younger children.
Cyclists weaved between traffic.
A street musician played guitar beneath a row of orange trees.
None of them knew that a bus carrying one of Spain's most promising youth teams had just passed by.
Álex rested his forehead lightly against the cool window.
He liked moments like this.
Football wasn't everywhere.
For twenty minutes, he could simply watch the city breathe.
Across the aisle, Johan leaned over Boyko's shoulder again.
"Seriously... one bite."
"No."
"Half a sandwich."
"No."
"A quarter?"
"No."
Carlos looked up from the front of the bus.
"Johan."
"What?"
"Stop negotiating."
"I'm trying to build team chemistry."
"You're trying to steal his food."
"Same thing."
Even Boyko laughed at that.
Ciudad Deportiva de Paterna welcomed them with the familiar scent of freshly cut grass.
The moment the players stepped off the bus, the atmosphere shifted almost automatically.
Schoolbags stayed on the bus.
Kit bags came out.
Conversation changed.
Homework gave way to football.
Inside the academy building, the changing room hummed with familiar routines.
Lockers opened.
Training tops replaced school uniforms.
Athletic tape peeled from rolls with crisp ripping sounds.
Someone connected a small speaker to their phone, filling the room with quiet Spanish pop music.
Johan sat on the bench wrestling with a stubborn boot.
"I swear these things get tighter every week."
"They don't," Hugo Guijarro replied while pulling on his socks.
"My feet haven't changed."
"They definitely have."
"I measured them."
"When?"
"Last month."
Carlos Alós looked over.
"Maybe that's the problem."
"What?"
"You've grown since then."
Johan stared at his boot for a second before laughing.
"...Fair point."
Across the room, Álex finished tying his laces.
Double knot.
The same way every time.
He stood, stamped each boot against the floor once, then reached for his shin pads.
Routine.
Football was full of routines.
The way Gamón always adjusted his captain's armband before training.
The way Vicent Abril bounced lightly on his toes before every session.
The way Mejía never stepped onto the pitch before touching the Valencia badge stitched onto his shirt.
Everyone had something.
None of them talked about it.
They just did it.
The dressing-room door opened.
Paco Cuenca entered carrying a laptop beneath one arm and a magnetic tactics board beneath the other.
The conversations faded naturally.
He didn't need to ask for silence.
Years of habit had taken care of that.
"Leave your boots," Paco said.
"We're starting inside."
The analysis room was cool and dimly lit.
Rows of chairs faced a large projection screen mounted on the wall.
Players settled into their usual places.
Gamón near the front.
Boyko somewhere in the middle.
Javi and Johan whispering until Carlos cleared his throat from behind them.
That was enough.
The whispering stopped.
Paco connected the laptop.
The projector flickered to life.
The first image that appeared wasn't Elche.
It was Valencia.
Frozen on the screen was the seventy-second minute against Miguelturra.
Valencia leading.
2-0.
Every player recognised the moment immediately.
Paco didn't speak.
He simply looked around the room.
"If I stop the match here..."
He pointed at the image.
"...how does everyone feel?"
Boyko answered first.
"Comfortable."
Several heads nodded.
"Confident."
"Like the game's under control."
Paco nodded slowly.
"So did Miguelturra."
The room became quieter.
He pressed play.
The footage rolled forward.
Valencia lost possession in midfield.
Instead of reacting instantly, two players hesitated.
One second.
Then another.
Miguelturra attacked the space.
The counter ended with the ball in the back of the net.
Nobody looked away.
Not even the players responsible.
Paco paused the video.
"What was the mistake?"
Silence.
Finally, Gamón spoke.
"We reacted too slowly."
"Why?"
"We thought..."
He stopped himself.
Paco waited.
"...we thought we still had time."
The coach nodded.
"Exactly."
He rewound the clip.
"This goal didn't start with the finish."
He rewound further.
"It didn't even start with the pass."
Further again.
The image froze on a Valencia player jogging instead of sprinting after losing possession.
"It started here."
No one argued.
Because football had a cruel habit of exposing every lazy second.
Paco let the silence settle before closing the clip.
When the next video appeared, the shirts were green.
Elche.
"This," he said calmly, "is why we're here today."
The room leaned forward.
Matchday Five had already begun.