The first thing Álex learned about Juvenil A was that silence meant more than shouting.
At Paterna, silence was deliberate. It lived in the spaces between instructions, in the moment after a drill ended but before the next cone was moved, in the seconds Paco Cuenca allowed to stretch uncomfortably before correcting someone's positioning. It was not empty. It was observant.
And it was everywhere.
The August sun sat high and unforgiving, flattening shadows and baking the pitches into a shimmering green expanse. The air carried the scent of cut grass and rubber pellets, mixed with sweat and the faint tang of sunscreen. Training had resumed in full rhythm now, no longer easing players back from summer but pushing them toward something sharper, leaner, more exacting.
For Álex, each morning began the same way.
Wake up before the alarm.
Stretch quietly so he wouldn't wake his roommate.
Check his calves, his knees, his lower back.
Drink water.
Breathe.
He had learned to listen to his body not as a limitation, but as an instrument. Every tight muscle was a note slightly out of tune. Every ache carried information.
At fourteen, he was still growing, and everyone knew it. The staff monitored him closely. Load management. Recovery windows. Modified gym sessions. But none of that softened the expectations on the pitch.
Once the boots were on, age stopped mattering.
The morning session began with positional rondos. Not the playful kind. These were structured, layered, and punishing. Two-touch maximum. One mistake meant immediate pressure. The shape revolved around the central channel, cones marking invisible corridors that Paco expected them to see without being told.
"Orientation," Paco said calmly, watching from the side.
"Your body decides your options before the ball arrives."
Álex stood between Rodrigo Gamón and Alin Gera, constantly adjusting his angle. He received passes on the half-turn, sometimes blind, sometimes with a defender breathing down his neck.
He lost the ball once.
Just once.
The correction came immediately.
"Too square," Paco said. Not loud. Not angry. "You turned your back on the game."
Álex nodded. No excuse. No reaction. Just adjustment.
The next time the ball came, he opened his hips earlier, scanned over his shoulder twice, and released the pass with one touch into the advancing fullback's path.
The rondo flowed again.
What struck Álex most about Juvenil A training was not the physicality, though that was undeniable. It was the speed of consequence. Mistakes did not linger. They were corrected instantly, either by a coach's word or by the ruthless reality of being pressed by players who could punish hesitation without mercy.
Jaume Durà thrived in that environment.
He moved like a player who had already accepted responsibility as his default state. His passes carried intention. His pauses felt controlled, not uncertain. When he lost the ball, he chased it back with quiet fury, never gesturing, never complaining.
Álex watched him closely.
Not to imitate.
To understand.
Javi Torres, on the other hand, burned.
Every sprint was an argument against doubt. Every take-on felt like a challenge thrown at the defender's feet. Sometimes it worked spectacularly. Sometimes it ended with him sprawled on the grass, jaw clenched, pushing himself up before the whistle could even stop play.
They were different.
But they were learning to coexist.
During a full-pitch exercise midway through the week, Paco introduced a pressing trigger system. The CAM initiated the press. The timing had to be perfect. Too early and the block collapsed. Too late and the opponent played through them.
Álex took the role first.
He waited.
Counted steps.
Watched the opponent's body shape.
Then he went.
The press snapped shut like a trap.
Behind him, the team surged forward in unison. The ball was forced wide. A turnover followed. A quick transition. A shot.
Goal.
No celebration.
Paco simply nodded once and gestured for the drill to reset.
Later, Jaume ran the same pattern. Different tempo. Same result.
Paco said nothing.
That silence again.
As the days passed, the internal hierarchy began to reveal itself. Not through words, but through habits. Who stayed late. Who asked questions. Who corrected teammates quietly instead of blaming them.
Álex found himself speaking more, though never loudly.
"Time," he called once when Rodrigo received under pressure.
"Man on," he warned Victor Durán.
"Again," he said to Johan Villa after a missed combination, offering the ball back immediately.
Trust built in small, almost invisible increments.
During gym sessions, Álex worked under supervision, focusing on core stability, balance, and controlled strength. No heavy lifting yet. Everything precise. Measured.
"Your power will come," the conditioning coach told him. "Don't rush it."
On the pitch, however, there was no waiting.
Shooting drills became a personal obsession. Paco increased the frequency deliberately. Quick-release shots from the edge of the box. Arriving late into space. One touch to set, one to strike.
Álex missed more than he scored.
At first.
Then the rhythm came.
He began to understand angles instead of force. Placement instead of power. How to use the defender's movement to open a corner of the goal for just long enough.
Each clean strike felt like a quiet confirmation.
Evenings were spent in recovery. Ice baths that stole breath. Stretching routines that demanded patience. Video sessions that replayed moments Álex hadn't even realized he had influenced.
"You see this?" Paco asked once, pausing footage mid-frame.
Álex leaned forward.
"You didn't touch the ball," Paco continued. "But you pulled two players with you. That created the overload."
Álex nodded slowly.
"This level," Paco added, "is about effect, not appearance."
That sentence stayed with him.
As the final days before the season approached, tension thickened. The opening fixture loomed closer, spoken of less and felt more. UCAM Murcia away. A hostile ground. A physical opponent. A test of nerve as much as technique.
The squad gathered one afternoon for a longer meeting. Paco stood at the front, arms crossed.
"This season," he said, "will not be kind."
No one laughed.
"You will win games you don't deserve. You will lose games you control. Injuries will happen. Doubts will arrive quietly."
He paused.
"What matters is how you respond between moments."
Álex felt his chest tighten, not with fear, but with focus.
That night, he called home.
The call was not dramatic. No tears. No speeches.
Just voices.
His mother asked if he was eating properly. His father asked if he was sleeping. Estrella demanded to know if he would score on television one day.
Álex laughed, the sound easing something inside him.
When he hung up, he sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, boots resting neatly below, academy badge stitched proudly into the fabric.
Tomorrow would bring another session.
Another correction.
Another test.
The whistle had not yet blown.
But the game had already begun.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The next chapter will be the first match of the season. Thank you all for your support so far, but please support me your power stones.