The academy bus slowed as it approached the familiar entrance to Ciudad Deportiva de Paterna. Beyond the gates, the morning calm had already given way to the quiet rhythm of a matchday. Security staff directed arriving vehicles into their designated areas while parents carrying Valencia scarves made their way toward the stands with coffee cups still warming their hands. Volunteers checked tickets at the entrance, and the occasional burst of laughter drifted across the car park before disappearing into the growing hum surrounding the stadium.
Inside the bus, nobody needed to be reminded where they were.
Headphones disappeared into backpacks. Water bottles were tightened. A few players adjusted their tracksuit tops almost absentmindedly, each one settling into the routine they had repeated countless times before youth matches. Even Johan Villa, who usually found a reason to keep talking until the very last minute, had fallen silent.
The bus came to a gentle stop.
Paco Cuenca stood first.
"Everything you've prepared this week stays with you," he said without turning around. "Leave everything else on the bus."
Nothing more.
He stepped down onto the pavement.
The players followed in pairs, greeted by the mild autumn breeze that carried the scent of freshly cut grass from the training pitches beyond the main stadium. Álex adjusted the strap of his backpack before looking up at the stand in the distance.
It was fuller than he expected.
Not packed.
Just... fuller.
The previous week's hat trick had done more than earn three points. It had stirred curiosity.
"You seeing it too?"
Álex turned as Javi caught up beside him.
"The crowd?"
Javi nodded.
"Definitely more people than against Miguelturra."
"You think they're here because of us?"
Javi laughed.
"I'd like to think so."
Johan, walking a few steps ahead, overheard the conversation.
"They're here because they heard I'm finally going to score with my left foot."
Carlos Alós looked over his shoulder.
"So... they're expecting a miracle."
The laughter that followed wasn't loud, but it loosened the last traces of tension hanging over the group.
Several rows above the halfway line, a man rested his forearms on the back of the seat in front of him, patiently watching the players disappear into the academy building.
Oluwaseun Reeves had landed in Valencia three days earlier.
He could have waited.
He could have watched recordings from England.
But recordings never captured everything.
They didn't show how a player carried himself before kickoff. They didn't reveal who greeted the kit staff by name or who thanked the volunteers collecting footballs after warm-ups. Cameras followed the ball.
Scouts followed everything else.
He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and removed a small leather notebook, the edges softened from years of use. Unlike many scouts who filled pages with statistics, Reeves rarely wrote more than a handful of observations during a match.
The first note was already there.
Alejandro Adeyemi Castillo.
Beneath the name, only one sentence had been written.
Watch the football. Ignore the noise.
He closed the notebook again.
There would be plenty of time to write later.
High above the pitch, the commentary booth overlooked every blade of grass inside the compact stadium.
David Figueira adjusted the microphone clipped to his jacket while Fermín Suárez scanned the team sheets resting on the desk between them.
"Ready?" David asked.
"As always."
The producer counted down silently from five before pointing toward the camera.
The red light blinked on.
"Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to Ciudad Deportiva de Paterna." David's voice carried the easy confidence of someone who had spent years calling youth football across Spain. "I'm David Figueira, and alongside me is Fermín Suárez as Valencia CF Juvenil A welcome Elche CF Juvenil A for Matchday Five of the División de Honor season."
"It's shaping up to be a fascinating afternoon," Fermín replied. "Valencia have won four of their opening matches, scoring freely and playing with increasing confidence under Paco Cuenca, but today's visitors are one of the most disciplined sides in the league. Elche don't give away space cheaply, and they certainly won't be intimidated by Valencia's recent form."
David smiled.
"Much of the attention this week has centred on one player."
The camera found Álex walking toward the dressing room.
"Fourteen-year-old Alejandro Castillo announced himself last weekend with a memorable hat trick against Miguelturra."
"He certainly did," Fermín agreed, "but today's challenge is completely different. Last week, he played as the surprise package. This week, Elche have spent seven days studying every touch, every movement and every run he made. The question isn't whether he can produce another spectacular performance. It's whether he can influence a match when the opposition already knows exactly who he is."
"And that's often the hardest step in a young player's development."
Inside the dressing room, familiar routines quietly unfolded.
Nobody rushed.
There was still time before the warm-up, and experience had taught the older players that wasting energy before kickoff served no purpose.
Carlos carefully wrapped fresh tape around his wrists before helping Rubén straighten a shin guard that had slipped awkwardly beneath his sock. Gamón sat in front of his locker, reading through the handwritten notes he had scribbled after yesterday's tactical meeting, while Hugo bounced a football lightly against the floor with the inside of his foot, never letting it rise above his ankle.
Across the room, Álex knelt to tighten the laces on his boots.
He tied them once.
Pulled firmly.
Then tied them again.
It was the same routine he'd followed since he was eight years old.
His father had once told him that loose boots created careless touches.
Whether that was true or not no longer mattered.
Some habits became part of a player.
Johan dropped onto the bench beside him.
"You still double-knot them."
Álex looked up.
"I've always done it."
"I know."
Johan grinned.
"I was just checking if success had changed you."
"It hasn't."
"Good."
Johan stood again.
"Because if it had, I'd have reminded you who hit the post twice so you could score the rebound."
Álex laughed.
"I don't remember it like that."
"Convenient."
Their conversation faded as the dressing-room door opened once more.
Paco Cuenca entered carrying a single sheet of paper folded neatly in half.
Nobody needed telling what it was.
Conversations naturally disappeared.
As always, Paco preferred announcing his starting eleven face to face. There were no early messages in the team chat or lineup graphics pinned to a noticeboard because he believed moments like this belonged inside the dressing room, where every player could look his teammates in the eye before stepping onto the pitch together.
He unfolded the paper and looked around until he was certain everyone's attention was on him.
"We continue with the 4-2-1-3."
A few heads nodded.
The formation wasn't changing.
The responsibility within it sometimes did.
"In goal..."
"Vicent Abril."
The goalkeeper acknowledged the call with a quiet nod.
"The back four."
"Iván Mejía."
"Carlos Alós."
"Rubén Martínez."
"Víctor García."
Paco glanced briefly at the midfield before continuing.
"Rodrigo Gamón."
"Hugo Guijarro."
Then his eyes found Álex.
"Playing behind the front three..."
"Alejandro Castillo."
Álex felt the room settle around him.
No surprise.
No applause.
Just trust.
"The front line."
"Pablo Reyes."
"Johan Villa."
"Dominykas Taučas."
Paco folded the paper again before looking toward the substitutes.
"The rest of you stay ready."
His gaze lingered on Javi for no longer than anyone else.
No promises.
No clues.
The match would decide everything from there.
He placed the team sheet on the table.
"Now..."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"Let's go outside."
The afternoon sun hung comfortably above Paterna as Valencia's players stepped onto the pitch for their warm-up. The temperature was ideal, warm enough for muscles to loosen quickly but cool enough to promise ninety minutes of relentless football.
A few hundred spectators were already scattered across the stand. Some had followed the academy for years and knew every player by name. Others were newcomers, drawn by stories of a fourteen-year-old midfielder who had scored a hat trick seven days earlier.
Álex tried not to notice them.
He jogged beside Gamón as the squad completed a slow lap around the pitch before forming two passing circles. The first few minutes were about finding rhythm rather than intensity. The ball moved crisply between boots, each pass accompanied by constant communication.
"Man on."
"Turn."
"Time."
"Again."
Gamón zipped a pass toward Álex's right foot. Before the ball reached him, Álex glanced over both shoulders out of habit, opened his body and returned it first time.
Gamón smiled.
"You've been doing that all week."
"What?"
"Checking before the ball arrives."
Álex shrugged.
"Paco keeps stopping training whenever I forget."
"And he's right."
Gamón pointed toward the centre circle.
"You'll know where everyone is before they know where you are."
Nearby, Johan and Pablo were finishing combinations with Dominykas, while the goalkeepers worked separately under the watchful eye of the goalkeeper coach. Abril threw himself low to his left to palm away a driven shot before springing back to his feet for the next one.
Everything moved with purpose.
Nothing was rushed.
From his seat in the stand, Oluwaseun Reeves watched the warm-up without paying much attention to the shooting drills.
Goals in warm-ups meant very little.
Every academy striker looked clinical without defenders closing them down.
Instead, his eyes followed Álex.
The boy celebrated nothing.
Every misplaced pass drew a quiet shake of the head, while every clean combination was met with the same expressionless face. There was no performance for the crowd, no unnecessary tricks to entertain the children pressed against the railings.
Reeves had met plenty of gifted youngsters who loved attention.
This one seemed almost unaware of it.
He opened his notebook.
Scans before receiving remain consistent.
Another line followed.
Body language unchanged after media attention.
He stopped writing.
There was no point filling pages with observations before the match even began.
Football always became honest after the first whistle.
Inside the commentary booth, the camera followed Valencia's passing drill.
David leaned slightly towards his microphone.
"One thing that's impressed me this season is how composed this Valencia side has become in possession."
Fermín nodded.
"You can see Paco Cuenca's influence. They're not interested in forcing attacks. If the forward pass isn't there, they'll recycle possession and wait. For young players, that's a difficult lesson to learn."
David gestured toward the monitor.
"And Alejandro Castillo has adapted surprisingly quickly."
"He has," Fermín replied. "People remember the goals against Miguelturra, but what caught my attention was everything between the goals. His first touch, his awareness before receiving and his willingness to play the simple pass instead of chasing highlights."
David smiled.
"So you're expecting another big afternoon?"
"I'm expecting a difficult one."
Fermín folded his arms.
"If Elche have done their homework, Castillo won't enjoy the same freedom he had last weekend. The real test isn't whether he scores again. It's whether he keeps making good decisions when space disappears."
The warm-up gradually shifted through its phases.
Passing became possession.
Possession became pressing.
Pressing became finishing.
Paco observed quietly from the touchline, occasionally blowing his whistle to stop an exercise before correcting a player's positioning with a few calm words.
He rarely raised his voice.
When he did, everyone listened.
As the session drew to a close, several footballs rolled toward the advertising boards behind the goal.
A young ball boy hurried after one before accidentally kicking another into the barrier.
The ball bounced awkwardly and escaped across the running track.
Álex jogged over, collected it and handed it back with a smile.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
The boy stared for a second before blurting out,
"Good luck today."
Álex nodded.
"Thank you."
He turned and rejoined the group as if nothing unusual had happened.
From several rows above, Reeves noticed the exchange.
He didn't write anything.
Some things were better remembered than recorded.
The referee's watch showed fifteen minutes until kickoff.
Paco clapped once.
"Inside."
The players collected their jackets and water bottles before disappearing back through the tunnel.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
Outside, supporters chatted freely.
Inside, conversation became quieter.
The sound of studs clicking against the concrete echoed through the narrow corridor leading back to the dressing room.
Each player drifted naturally toward his own seat.
Some stretched.
Others retied their boots.
Nobody looked nervous.
Not because nerves didn't exist.
Because they had learned how to carry them.
Paco waited until every player had settled before stepping into the centre of the room.
He looked around slowly.
"We've spent a week preparing for this match."
His voice remained calm.
"You know what Elche want."
He pointed gently toward the tactical board.
"They'll try to make the middle of the pitch feel crowded. Don't fight the game."
His eyes moved from Gamón to Hugo.
"If the space isn't inside, create it outside."
Then to Johan.
"Don't stand between their centre-backs waiting for the ball. Move them."
Finally, he looked at Álex.
"They'll come looking for you."
The room fell silent.
"Let them."
Álex held his gaze.
Paco continued.
"If two players follow you, someone else becomes free. Trust the next pass."
He stepped back.
"Play with courage."
Then he smiled.
"And enjoy yourselves."
That was enough.
There was nothing left to add.
The tunnel waited beyond the dressing-room door.
Sunlight poured through the opening at the far end, illuminating the green pitch beyond.
Valencia formed a single line behind the assistant referees.
Across from them, Elche's players stood shoulder to shoulder.
Some exchanged quick glances.
Others stared straight ahead.
The captains walked toward the front.
Gamón adjusted the captain's armband one final time before looking back at his teammates.
"You ready?"
Johan answered first.
"Always."
A few players chuckled.
The tension eased for just a moment.
Then the fourth official signalled.
"It's time."
The players stepped out together.
The applause from the stand rolled across the stadium like a gentle wave.
David Figueira's voice rose above it.
"Everything is set for Matchday Five here at Ciudad Deportiva de Paterna."
Beside him, Fermín watched Valencia spread across the pitch.
"Last week, Alejandro Castillo introduced himself to the league."
He smiled.
"This afternoon, he'll discover that introductions only happen once."
The referee checked both assistant referees.
A nod from the left.
Another from the right.
He placed the whistle between his lips.
Álex glanced around one last time.
Johan stood a few metres ahead, bouncing lightly on his toes.
Gamón pointed toward the left flank, reminding Pablo of their opening pressing trigger.
Dominykas rolled his shoulders.
Across the halfway line, Elche waited.
The stadium fell quiet.
One sharp whistle split the afternoon air.
The ball rolled forward.
Matchday Five had begun.