The academy hostel never truly slept.
It simply changed shifts.
By six in the morning, the loudest sound wasn't voices.
It was footsteps.
Some were slow, dragging across the corridor after yesterday's match. Others were quick, belonging to players who somehow woke up with endless energy every day. A bathroom door opened. Water splashed against a sink. Someone cursed quietly after stepping on a charger cable left on the floor.
Then came the soft vibration of an alarm.
Bzz... Bzz...
A hand emerged from beneath a blanket and silenced it before it could ring a third time.
Álex opened his eyes.
For a few seconds, he simply stared at the ceiling.
His room wasn't large.
A single bed.
A desk tucked beneath the window.
A wardrobe with just enough space for academy clothes, school uniforms and a few outfits from home.
Pinned above the desk was a photograph taken before he left Seville.
His parents stood behind him.
His mother smiled warmly into the camera.
His father rested a hand on his shoulder.
He hadn't realised how often he looked at that photograph until living hundreds of kilometres away from it.
He sat up slowly.
"..."
Every muscle in his legs protested.
His calves felt tight.
His lower back ached.
Even lifting his arms above his head reminded him of the three defenders who had tried to wrestle him off the ball yesterday.
He smiled.
Pain wasn't always a bad thing.
Sometimes it was proof.
He swung his feet onto the floor.
Cold tiles.
Still half asleep, he stretched before walking toward the window.
Outside...
Paterna was beginning to wake.
The training pitches glistened under the early morning dew.
Groundskeepers were already at work.
Sprinklers rotated lazily across the grass that, in a few hours, would be covered by academy players chasing the same impossible dream.
Álex rested one hand against the glass.
For a moment...
He allowed himself to think about yesterday.
Not the goals.
Not the applause.
Not the headlines that were probably being written already.
His mind returned to the seventy-sixth minute.
He remembered losing the ball under pressure.
The pass had been slightly delayed.
His body shape had been wrong.
He'd recovered...
But he shouldn't have lost it in the first place.
"...Too slow."
He whispered it to himself.
Not with frustration.
With honesty.
Football never stopped teaching.
He turned away from the window and reached beneath his pillow.
His notebook.
It wasn't expensive.
The corners had already begun to bend.
Several pages carried faint grass stains from being thrown into his kit bag after training.
He opened it.
Every match had its own page.
Not statistics.
Lessons.
He found yesterday's date.
The page remained mostly empty.
His pen hovered above the paper.
Then...
Matchday Four
Things I did well
• Stayed calm after they came back into the match.
• Trusted my first touch.
• Didn't stop asking for the ball.
He stopped writing.
Read it once.
Then continued below.
Need to improve
• Release the ball quicker when surrounded.
• Use left foot more often.
• Scan before receiving under pressure.
He stared at the final point.
Scan before receiving.
Paco had repeated those words almost every training session.
Football wasn't played with your feet first.
It was played with your eyes.
He closed the notebook.
Yesterday had already become yesterday.
That was enough.
A loud knock echoed through the corridor.
"Breakfast in fifteen!"
Someone shouted it loudly enough for the entire floor to hear.
Another voice answered immediately.
"We know!"
"No, you don't!"
Laughter followed.
Álex couldn't help smiling.
He grabbed his academy tracksuit and stepped into the corridor.
The hostel looked alive now.
Older players crossed paths carrying towels around their necks.
Someone sprinted past because they'd overslept.
Carlos Alós walked calmly in the opposite direction, already fully dressed.
Nothing ever seemed to rush Carlos.
At eighteen, he was one of the oldest players in Juvenil A.
He noticed Álex.
"Mornin'."
"Morning."
Carlos looked him over briefly.
"Sore?"
Álex nodded.
"A bit."
Carlos chuckled.
"Good."
"...Good?"
"If you're never sore after ninety minutes, you probably didn't work hard enough."
With that, he continued walking toward the stairs.
Simple.
No speech.
No praise for the hat trick.
Just football.
The smell reached them before the dining hall came into view.
Fresh bread.
Scrambled eggs.
Coffee.
Orange juice.
The academy nutritionists didn't joke around.
Neither did the players.
Especially not Yaroslav Boyko.
The striker was already halfway through his breakfast when Álex entered.
Boyko looked up.
"...Finally."
"You started without us."
"I started ten minutes ago."
Iván Mejía pointed dramatically across the room with a slice of toast.
"There he is!"
Several heads turned.
"The superstar has arrived."
Álex rolled his eyes.
"I'm just here to eat."
"Listen to him," Hugo Guijarro laughed. "Scores a hat trick and suddenly he's humble."
A milk carton flew through the air.
Without thinking, Álex caught it cleanly with one hand.
Javi Torres clicked his tongue.
"Still sharp."
"You threw it badly."
"I was testing you."
"You missed."
"I didn't."
Javi dropped into the chair opposite him wearing the smug grin only someone three months older could produce.
"Respect your elders."
Álex looked up.
"...You're older by ninety-two days."
"Ninety-three."
"You counted?"
"I've always counted."
The table erupted into laughter.
Johan Villa walked over carrying his breakfast tray.
Fifteen years old and convinced those extra months made him infinitely wiser.
He shook his head dramatically.
"You two argue like brothers."
"We're not arguing," Javi replied.
"I'm educating him."
"About what?"
"Life experience."
Álex looked at Johan.
"He turned fourteen three months before me."
Johan blinked.
"...That's your life experience?"
"It counts."
"No, it doesn't."
Boyko swallowed another mouthful before joining in.
"You three are children."
"We know," Javi answered.
"You remind us every day."
Carlos Alós arrived last.
Coffee in one hand.
Notebook in the other.
He surveyed the noisy table.
"...Eat."
Instantly, everyone quietened.
Not because Carlos was captain.
He wasn't.
But when the oldest player in the squad spoke with that tone...
People listened.
The silence lasted approximately six seconds.
Then Mejía leaned toward Álex.
"...So."
Álex sighed.
"...What?"
"Can you score another hat trick this weekend?"
Before Álex could answer...
Carlos took a sip of coffee without looking up from his notebook.
"Wrong question."
Everyone looked at him.
He closed the notebook.
"The question isn't whether he can."
A pause.
"It's whether the next team lets him."
The laughter disappeared.
For the first time that morning...
Nobody had an answer.
Because everyone in that room knew something had changed after Matchday Four.
Álex wasn't a surprise anymore.
From now on...
Every opponent would arrive with Number 27 already circled in red.