The stadium emptied the way a tide pulls back from shore. Not all at once, not cleanly, but in reluctant layers. First the loudest voices vanished. Then the flags stopped moving. Then the air itself seemed to exhale, as if the night had been holding its breath for ninety minutes and finally allowed itself rest.
In the dressing room beneath the stands, Valencia Juvenil A sat in the aftermath.
Sweat clung to skin that had not yet cooled. Socks were peeled off slowly, as if the legs inside them needed convincing that the work was truly finished. Boots lay scattered across the tiled floor, some upright, some collapsed like they had given everything they had to give.
The scoreboard above the tunnel still glowed faintly in memory.
UCAM Murcia Juvenil A 1
Valencia CF Juvenil A 3
A win. Away. Opening day.
And yet no one celebrated the way people imagined victories were celebrated.
This was not fireworks.
This was breathing again.
Álex sat on the bench closest to the lockers, shoulders slightly hunched, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as if they were holding something fragile. His jersey clung to him, the number on his back still unfamiliar, still feeling borrowed rather than owned. His chest rose and fell unevenly, not from fatigue alone, but from something deeper. Something quieter.
He kept replaying moments.
Not the goal. Not yet.
The first touch.
The way the ball felt when it reached his feet in senior academy football.
He had been afraid it would feel heavier.
It hadn't.
Around him, the room slowly came alive.
Laughter broke out near the showers, sharp and sudden. Someone slapped another player's back a little too hard. The sound echoed. A few voices rose in overlapping stories, each retelling the same counterattack from a different angle, each version slightly more heroic than the last.
Jaume sat across from Álex, towel draped over his shoulders, hair darkened by sweat, eyes still bright. He caught Álex looking and raised his eyebrows, a silent question.
Álex nodded once.
That was all they needed.
At the far end of the room, Paco Cuenca stood with his arms crossed, leaning lightly against a locker. He did not speak immediately. He watched.
He watched how players cooled down.
Who talked too much.
Who said nothing at all.
Who stared at the floor like they were still running inside their own heads.
When he finally stepped forward, the room quieted without him asking.
That alone said everything.
"Well," Paco said, his voice calm, grounded, not raised. "You survived the first storm."
A few smiles flickered.
"Away match. Opening day. New season." He paused, letting the words settle. "This is where teams learn who they are."
He walked slowly, boots clicking softly against tile.
"We did not control everything. We did not dominate every phase." His gaze swept the room, briefly resting on the defenders, then the midfield. "But we stayed alive when it mattered."
His eyes stopped on Álex for half a second longer than the rest.
"And we were brave."
The word hung in the air.
"Tomorrow," Paco continued, "you rest. Full day. No gym. No pitch. No meetings."
A ripple of surprise ran through the room.
"Recovery is part of development," he said. "Your bodies and your minds need to remember this match without being drowned by the next one."
A few players nodded. Some looked relieved. Others looked almost disappointed.
Paco straightened.
"Enjoy the win. Respect the work. We train again the day after tomorrow."
He clapped once, sharp and decisive.
"Good job."
That was it.
No speech about destiny.
No threats.
No promises.
Just trust.
The bus ride back to Paterna was quieter than the ride to Murcia.
Night pressed against the windows, broken only by passing streetlights that slid across faces like slow-moving thoughts. Some players had headphones on, heads tilted against the glass. Others leaned back with eyes closed, legs stretched into the aisle.
Álex sat by the window, seatbelt loose across his waist, his forehead resting lightly against the cool glass.
He watched the road blur.
His phone buzzed once in his pocket.
He did not check it.
Not yet.
He wanted to hold the silence a little longer.
The goal replayed itself anyway.
The misplaced pass.
The interception.
The sudden emptiness of space opening like a door that had been waiting for him.
Jaume's movement.
The timing.
The sound of the net.
But more than that, he remembered the moment before stepping onto the pitch.
The commentator's voice, distant but clear, floating down from above.
"The youngest player in the league this season…"
"…MIC Tournament MVP…"
"…one to watch…"
He had felt smaller then.
Now, strangely, he felt taller.
When the bus finally rolled into the academy grounds at Paterna, the night had fully claimed the sky. The familiar gates opened slowly, headlights washing over the training pitches, the buildings standing quiet and watchful.
This place had seen generations arrive full of hope.
It did not promise anything.
That was its honesty.
Players filed out one by one, stretching stiff legs, adjusting bags over shoulders. A few exchanged quiet jokes. Others offered tired fist bumps before peeling off toward their respective dorms.
Álex walked more slowly.
Every step felt heavier now that adrenaline had drained away.
The academy building loomed ahead, lights glowing warmly behind glass. He swiped his card at the entrance, the soft beep sounding almost ceremonial, and stepped inside.
The corridors smelled faintly of detergent and grass.
Home.
His room was exactly as he had left it.
Bed neatly made.
Desk tidy.
Boots lined carefully beneath it.
A small Valencia scarf pinned above the headboard, edges slightly frayed.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle fully.
Only then did he take out his phone.
Two missed calls.
Both from home.
He swallowed.
Then he pressed call.
It rang once.
Twice.
"Álex?"
His mother's voice came through instantly, warm and tight all at once, as if she had been holding it together just long enough for him to answer.
"I'm here," he said softly.
"Oh thank God," she breathed. "We were watching every minute. Your father nearly broke the sofa when you scored."
In the background, he could hear his father's voice, half-laughing, half-shouting something about positioning and timing.
Álex smiled, a real one this time, the kind that reached his eyes.
"I didn't start," he said, as if that still mattered. "I was on the bench."
"And you changed the game," his father said, now closer to the phone. "Do you know how rare that is?"
Álex sat down on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear.
"I was scared," he admitted. "When I came on."
There was a pause.
"That means you cared," his mother said gently. "Fear doesn't mean weakness. It means you understood the moment."
He stared at the floor, tracing invisible lines with his foot.
"I kept thinking about all of you," he said. "About home. About when I was little and used to play in the street."
His father chuckled softly.
"You still play like that," he said. "Just with better grass."
They talked for a long time.
About the match.
About the formation change.
About schoolwork waiting back home.
About food.
About rest.
Not once did they talk about contracts. Or fame. Or the future beyond the next training session.
When the call finally ended, Álex lay back on his bed, phone resting on his chest, staring up at the ceiling.
The academy was quiet now.
Tomorrow would be a day off.
No alarms.
No drills.
No shouts.
Just time.
And somewhere deep inside him, beneath the fatigue, beneath the pride, beneath the lingering echo of the crowd, a new certainty took root.
He belonged here.
Not because of one goal.
Not because of one assist.
But because when the noise faded, when the lights dimmed, when the night closed in, he was still standing.
And ready for whatever came next.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:Someone told me that although my novel is great, it doesn't has the soul feelings that should be there, so I look for ways to correct my writing while continuing the novel.
I have to come back from Chapter 40 to tell you guys that from Chapter 40 everything has changed.
I could change everything from now but it will takes times and delay the story so don't let me spoil it for you guys once you get to chapter 40, you would see the changes and if it isn't enough just tell me, your support is everything I need and keeps me going also please support me with your power stones, it motivates and encourage writers to keep pushing.
If you support me power stones, I will be grateful, also thank you @DaoistEaepgl for your power stones yesterday I really appreciate.
I have applied for a contract, hopefully I am being given on my first submission and if not, I hope you guys are still here for.
Finally I will be dropping a new apocalypse novel by early February or mid February, it is titled Deadlight Protocol:The Last Irregular
So until then, Adios(Spanish) , Odabo(Yoruba)