July arrived without drama, as if it knew better than to announce itself loudly.
At Paterna, the sun pressed down on the training ground with a patient, relentless heat. The grass no longer sparkled with morning dew; instead, it lay warm and heavy beneath the boots of boys who had already given everything during the season. Sessions were shorter now, sharper but lighter, tuned for maintenance rather than growth. The academy understood rhythm. Push when needed. Release when earned.
Álex felt that release in his bones.
On the morning of July 11, he woke before the alarm. Not from nerves, not from urgency, but from a quiet excitement that sat gently in his chest. Tomorrow, he would turn fourteen. Tomorrow, something would change, even if the world pretended it wouldn't.
He sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the dormitory. A door closing softly. Someone laughing down the corridor. The faint hum of air drifting through open windows. Paterna was familiar now. Safe. Structured.
But today, he was going home.
He packed slowly.
Each item had its place. Training kits folded with care, boots cleaned until the studs gleamed, shin guards tucked into the side pocket of his bag. He paused when his hand brushed against the small notebook he carried everywhere now, the one filled with sketches of passing angles, notes from matches, reminders scribbled in hurried handwriting.
Scan before receiving.
Open body.
Play the third man.
He slid the notebook into his bag and zipped it closed.
At the bottom lay the Valencia scarf his mother had sent him during the MIC tournament, the fabric slightly faded from use. He lifted it, held it for a second, then placed it on top.
Only then did he feel ready.
The train ride to Seville was long enough to let his thoughts wander, but not so long that they turned heavy. Outside the window, the landscape softened into rolling fields, olive trees standing like quiet witnesses to time. The carriage rocked gently, a steady rhythm that reminded him of juggling a ball, one touch flowing into the next.
He leaned his head against the window and let himself breathe.
For the first time in months, football loosened its grip on his thoughts. It didn't leave him. It never did. But it stepped aside, allowing room for memories.
His first pair of boots.
The backyard where he'd broken a flowerpot and blamed the wind.
The hospital ceiling he'd stared at for weeks.
The first time he wore a Valencia kit and felt too small inside it.
He smiled faintly.
By the time the train slowed into Seville, the sun had climbed higher, bathing the city in a warm, golden haze. The air smelled different here. Softer. Familiar. Like afternoons that stretched endlessly and evenings filled with voices drifting from open windows.
When Álex stepped through the front door of their house in Los Remedios, the scent hit him immediately.
Home.
Spices. Cooking oil. Warm bread. The unmistakable comfort of a place that remembered him exactly as he was.
"Álex!"
Abisoye's voice reached him before her arms did. She hurried from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth, and wrapped him in a hug so tight he laughed into her shoulder.
"You have grown," she said immediately, pulling back to look at him properly. Her hands moved to his shoulders, then to the top of his head, measuring him instinctively. "You have taller. I knew it."
Álex shrugged, smiling. "Only a little, mamá."
"Only a little," she repeated, unconvinced. "Hmm."
From the living room, Carlos rose slowly, his movements unhurried but deliberate. He stopped in front of Álex and looked at him for a long moment, eyes sharp, taking in the broader shoulders, the calmer posture, the quiet confidence that hadn't been there before.
"You look quite different," Carlos said finally.
Álex met his gaze. "Good different?"
Carlos smiled, soft and proud. "Yes. Good different."
They embraced briefly, a firm clap on the back, the kind of hug that said everything without needing words.
Before Álex could say anything else, a blur of movement rushed toward him.
"Hermano!"
Estrella collided with his waist, arms wrapped tight around him, face pressed into his shirt.
"Hey!" Álex laughed, steadying himself. "Careful, estrella fugaz."
She looked up at him, eyes wide. "You're tall now. Soon you'll be taller than papa."
Carlos scoffed dramatically. "Impossible."
The house filled with laughter.
The rest of the afternoon unfolded gently, as if time itself had decided to slow down for them. Abisoye returned to the kitchen, Estrella chattered endlessly about school, about a drawing she'd made, about how she told everyone her brother played for Valencia.
Álex sat at the table, listening more than speaking. He noticed everything now. The small crack in the wall he'd never paid attention to before. The way sunlight filtered through the curtains at a certain angle. The comfort of being surrounded by people who loved him without condition.
That evening, after dinner, he stepped out into the backyard alone.
The grass was uneven, imperfect, nothing like the pristine pitches at Paterna. A faint breeze stirred the leaves overhead. Álex dropped the ball at his feet and began to juggle, slow and controlled. Left foot. Right foot. Thigh. Foot again.
The rhythm grounded him.
Tomorrow, he would be fourteen.
He went to bed early, but sleep came slowly.
The ceiling above him felt lower than the one at the academy, closer somehow. Estrella's soft breathing drifted through the wall. Outside, the distant hum of the city settled into a lullaby.
When morning came, it came quietly.
July 12.
Álex woke to sunlight spilling across his room. For a moment, he stayed still, letting the date sink in. Fourteen. It didn't feel different immediately. No sudden growth spurt. No dramatic shift.
But something inside him felt… anchored.
Breakfast was loud and warm. Estrella had made a card covered in stars and crooked letters. Abisoye placed a small cake on the table, candles flickering gently.
"Make a wish," Carlos said.
Álex closed his eyes.
He didn't wish for goals. Or trophies. Or fame.
He wished for continuity.
For the strength to keep walking forward.
He blew out the candles.
The day unfolded with small joys. Messages from teammates. A quick video call from Javi, now deep into under-18 training, grinning as he shouted congratulations. Laughter. Food. Stories.
In the afternoon, Álex slipped away to the backyard again, stretching lightly, running short sprints, keeping his body awake without pushing it. His parents watched from the window without interrupting.
As evening approached, the sky turned amber, then rose, then deepened.
Álex was sitting on his bed, scrolling idly through messages, when his phone vibrated.
An unfamiliar stillness filled the room.
He looked at the screen.
Paco Cuenca.
His breath caught.
He answered immediately.
"Coach?"
"Happy birthday, Álex," Paco said, his voice calm as ever.
"Thank you, coach."
There was a brief pause on the line, not awkward, just measured.
"I won't keep you long," Paco continued. "I wanted to call you personally."
Álex sat up straighter.
"You're fourteen now," Paco said. "As promised, starting next cycle, you'll be called up to train with the under-18 squad."
The words landed softly, but their weight was immense.
Álex swallowed. "Yes, coach."
"You've earned it by proving yourself in the MIC tournament," Paco added. "But listen carefully."
Álex listened.
"Enjoy these next few days," Paco said. "Rest. Be with your family. Let your body and mind reset. Football will wait. It always does."
A small smile tugged at Álex's lips. "I will, coach."
"Good," Paco replied. "We'll speak soon."
The call ended.
Álex remained seated for a long moment, phone still in his hand.
Then he exhaled.
Outside, laughter drifted from the living room. Estrella was probably telling another story. His mother's voice followed, warm and steady. His father's laughter anchored it all.
Álex stood and walked toward them.
Tomorrow, training would resume. Soon, the under-18s would test him. New challenges would come.
But tonight, he was just a fourteen-year-old boy at home, surrounded by love, standing on the edge of something bigger.
And for the first time, he felt ready to step forward.