The sun burned high over the stadium; its heat pressing down on the field, making the air feel thick and heavy with tension.
Santi stood at the edge of the pitch, rolling his shoulders and feeling the sweat already forming at the back of his neck.
He looked around. The remaining players weren't just trying to impress anymore but they were fighting for their futures.
Some were locked in their own worlds, bouncing on their toes and clenching their fists, their nerves visible in every breath.
Others were too focused to speak, stretching, visualizing every pass, every move and every chance that could change everything. And then there was Santi. Calm and ready.
He wasn't there to fight the game anymore. He wasn't going to chase the spotlight. Today, he would let the game come to him. And when it did, he would take control.
He lifted his gaze toward the stands. The scouts were seated in their shaded section, the VIP area filled with agents, coaches and ex-players.
Some were talking amongst themselves, flipping through notes and checking the list of players already catching attention.
A few glanced at him but most still weren't paying attention. That would change. Today, he would make them see him. Not with desperation. Not with forced moments. But with football.
The referee's whistle pierced the air. And Santi took over.
The ball zipped across the pitch, players moving like waves crashing against each other relentlessly, fast and violently.
The tempo was higher than it had ever been. Everyone was sharper. Stronger. More ruthless. But Santi was untouched.
The ball came to his feet, and his body reacted before his mind even processed the movement. A defender closed in fast. Santi didn't panic. Instead, he waited. Just long enough to let the defender commit.
Then, a sudden Elastico. One flick, two directions and gone. The defender stumbled, completely fooled. Gasps from the crowd. Some of the scouts leaned forward.
But Santi wasn't done. A long ball came flying toward him but he didn't just control it. He made it an art.
He let it drop onto his chest, absorbing the impact like he had done it a million times before. A defender expected him to bring it down. Instead, Santi let the ball bounce once then flicked it over his marker with a soft sombrero touch.
More gasps. More heads turning. Even the opposing players looked at him with new respect. Santi smirked. They weren't just playing against him today.
They were watching him. Santi had always played with passion. But today? Today, he played with control.
Instead of forcing his way forward, he let the ball move naturally. Instead of rushing, he waited for the right moment. He dictated the pace. He controlled the rhythm of the game not by overpowering it, but by guiding it.
And when the defenders pressed high, he used their aggression against them.
A defender lunged in, trying to close him down but Santi waited until the last second, dragging the ball behind his standing leg. And he was gone.
Another defender tried to body him off the ball but Santi let him lean in, then spun away with a perfect La Croqueta, shifting the ball from one foot to the other in a blink.
The scouts in the stands were leaning forward now. They were finally watching.
For the first 20 minutes, the opposing team had no answer for him. They tried to press. They tried to shut him down. But Santi was untouchable.
Every time they thought they had him, he slipped through their fingers like sand. A defender stepped up, trying to steal the ball but Santi nutmegged him without breaking stride. The crowd roared.
A midfielder tried to muscle him off yet Santi let the ball roll, let the pressure come and then spun free like a dancer in motion. More gasps. More heads turning. And then, finally, the moment he had been waiting for.
The game was locked at 1-1.
Santi had been everywhere, pulling strings, controlling play and making defenders chase shadows.
But he hadn't yet made his mark on the scoreboard. Until now.
Joel was making a diagonal run toward the right side of the box. Santi saw it before anyone else. He didn't hesitate.
He let the ball roll just past him then, with a quick flick of his ankle, curved a pass between two defenders, perfectly weighted.
Joel didn't even need to slow down. One touch to control it. One more to set himself. Then, a rocket into the back of the net. The goalkeeper never had a chance. "GOOOOAL!"
The stadium erupted. Joel turned straight toward Santi, pointing at him. Everyone knew. That assist belonged to him. The crowd chanted Joel's name. The announcer called out his number.
Joel's face lit up as teammates ran to celebrate with him. But Santi didn't care about the noise. He just stood there, smiling. Because he understood something now.
Today, he didn't need the spotlight. He didn't need the credit. He had done his job. And Joel's success? That was his success, too.
The final whistle blew and the stadium vibrated with noise.
Players were gasping for breath, some collapsing onto the field in exhaustion, others embracing teammates, grinning and celebrating another battle survived.
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead, letting his lungs take in as much air as possible. This game had been different. Not just for him. For everyone.
The tournament was nearing its final day, and the energy had shifted.
It was no longer about individual moments of brilliance. It was about proving that you belonged there. Santi had done everything today.
He had danced with the ball. He had played without fear. And when his team had needed him most, he had provided the pass that changed the game.
Joel had scored. And that, more than anything was what mattered. But had it been enough?
Santi's chest tightened. Was today finally the day his name would be on the list?
The players gathered near the entrance of the stadium, pushing toward a large board where the officials had just pinned up the updated rankings.
This was the moment every player feared. Or hoped for.
It was silent at first, just the sound of sneakers scuffing against concrete and the shuffling of bodies moving closer.
Then came the gasps. The whispers. The hurried scanning of names. Santi took his time, stepping forward slowly. One row at a time, his eyes ran over the names.
He saw some of the usual ones. Players from big academies. The boys who had already caught the attention of scouts.
Then, he saw it. A familiar name. But not his.
Joel Alvarez – Midfielder.
His stomach clenched. For a second, just a second, he felt that familiar weight pressing down on his chest. But before it could take hold, a voice broke through the crowd.
"SANTI!"
Santi turned just as Joel came sprinting toward him, nearly knocking him over. Joel grabbed his shoulders, eyes wild with excitement.
"My name's on the list!" he shouted, as if Santi hadn't just seen it himself. Santi blinked, processing the sheer joy on his friend's face.
And suddenly, he wasn't disappointed. Not even a little. Instead, he smiled. A real, genuine smile.
"You did it, cabrón!" Santi said, grabbing Joel in a tight embrace. Joel was laughing, almost breathless and shaking his head in disbelief.
"I swear, I thought I was dreaming when I saw it," he said, his voice still electric with excitement. Santi chuckled. "Nah, man. You earned it." Joel took a step back, shaking his head.
"No. We earned it." Santi stared at him. Joel's voice softened.
"You set me up today. That assist? That was yours, bro."
Santi exhaled, his chest feeling lighter than it had all tournament. Because that was different. For the past three days, he had been fighting for himself. Chasing his own success. Chasing his own business name on that board. But today? He had played for something bigger.
And even if his name wasn't there yet…
Joel's was. And that, somehow, felt just as important.
Felipe had been standing back, watching the scene unfold. He didn't say anything at first. Didn't need to. He just observed. He saw Santi's reaction. He had expected to see frustration.
Expected to see the usual fire burning in the boy's eyes. But instead, he saw something else. Growth. Santi had finally learned something he had been missing.
That football was bigger than just himself. Felipe smirked and stepped forward, clapping Santi on the back.
"You're not upset?" Santi turned to him and shook his head. Felipe's smirk grew.
"Good," he said.
Then he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping.
"Because tomorrow, you're next." Santi's heart thumped. Tomorrow. The final day.
His last chance. He took a slow breath. He wasn't hoping anymore. He was certain. Tomorrow, they would write his name down.
That night, the motel room was quieter than usual. Joel had passed out almost immediately, still buzzing from the high of seeing his name on the list.
Santi sat by the window, staring out at the dark sky and listening to the distant hum of the city.
For the first time since arriving in León, he felt at peace. Because he finally understood something.
That the tournament wasn't about one game. It wasn't about one goal. It wasn't even about just one moment. It was about the journey.