The sun was barely up, but Santiago Cruz was already awake and moving.
There was just one day left before he stepped into Club América's youth academy. One final day before everything changed.
Most players would have spent this day relaxing. Letting their bodies recover.
Enjoying the last few hours before walking into the biggest challenge of their lives. But Santi? Santi wanted more.
He wanted to be sharper, faster and better. Because when he arrived at Club América, he wouldn't just be one of the new players. He wanted to be the player. And Felipe?
Felipe was going to make sure he was ready.
Felipe took him back to the same dusty field outside León. The artificial turf was still worn.
The floodlights were still flickering. But none of that mattered. Felipe set down the ball at midfield and crossed his arms.
"Alright, kid!" he said. "Yesterday, we worked on tight control. Today, we work on everything." Santi grinned.
Felipe set up a cone maze and handed Santi the ball.
"This is about speed but it's also about control," Felipe said. "A fast player without control is just a sprinter. You need to be a footballer."
Santi took off. Sharp cuts. Tight turns. The ball never left his foot. But Felipe wasn't just watching, he was chasing.
Every time Santi got comfortable, Felipe would press him, trying to force mistakes.
"Faster!" Felipe shouted. "You think defenders at Club América are just going to let you dance around them?"
Santi pushed harder, dribbling through the chaos and refusing to lose control. By the time he finished the drill, his legs were burning. Felipe nodded.
"Not bad," he said. "Again."
Next, Felipe made him run first-touch passing drills.
"Club América doesn't waste time with slow decision-makers," Felipe said. "You get the ball, you move it or you lose it."
Santi worked on one-touch passes, long switches and disguised through-balls. Every pass had to be sharp. Precise. Perfect.
Felipe tested him with quickfire commands. "Left! Right! Forward! Back!" forcing Santi to react without thinking.
By the end, sweat was dripping down his forehead but his passing had never felt cleaner. Felipe smirked.
"Now you're starting to think like a pro."
Felipe set up a finishing drill. One rule: No basic goals.
"If you're gonna score," Felipe said, "make it count."
Santi worked on curlers from outside the box; volleys off crosses and tight-angle finishes.
Every shot had to be hit with confidence. Every strike had to look like it belonged on a highlight reel. Felipe wasn't just training him to score.
He was training him to score in a way that made scouts pay attention. And when Santi buried a bicycle kick into the top corner, Felipe just laughed.
"Alright," he said, shaking his head. "Now you're just showing off."
After the morning session, they took a break back at the motel. But Santi wasn't done. He grabbed his phone and started studying again. Felipe glanced over his shoulder.
"Who is it now?"
Santi grinned. "Messi."
Felipe rolled his eyes. "Of course."
For the next two hours, Santi studied movement. Not just tricks but intelligence.
How Messi positioned himself between defenders. How Cristiano timed his runs. How Neymar drew in pressure before exploding into space. How Xavi and Iniesta controlled a game without ever rushing.
Every pause. Every decision. Every movement. Santi absorbed it all. Because he wasn't just trying to be flashy. He was trying to be unstoppable.
As the sun began to set, Felipe took him back to the field one last time.
"This is the last session before you walk into Club América," Felipe said. "So tonight, I'm not your coach." Santi raised an eyebrow. Felipe smirked.
"Tonight, I'm your opponent."
Felipe gave Santi the ball. "One rule," Felipe said. "If you lose possession, you start over." Santi nodded.
Then, Felipe attacked. The first duel lasted seconds. Felipe stepped in aggressively, using his size and strength to knock Santi off balance.
The ball rolled away. Santi gritted his teeth. Again. This time, he didn't try to dance around Felipe. He used his body.
A low center of gravity. A sharp touch to create separation. Felipe lunged but Santi spun away.
Felipe pressed in again, faster this time.
Santi felt the pressure but he didn't panic.
Instead of trying to run, he used his body. He dropped his shoulder, shifted his weight and let Felipe overcommit.
The moment Felipe leaned in, Santi spun away with a perfect La Croqueta. Felipe reached for the ball but it was already gone.
Santi exploded forward, cutting past him and pushing the ball into open space. Felipe stopped, turning slowly. Then, he smiled.
"That's more like it," he said.
Santi's chest heaved with exhaustion but he grinned. For the first time, he wasn't just reacting to Felipe's challenge.
He was controlling it. And Felipe saw it too. Felipe wasn't done.
"You can beat me once," he said. "But what about when the whole team is pressing you?"
Santi frowned. "What do you mean?" Felipe motioned toward the field.
"We're gonna simulate what happens when a player like you gets special treatment," he said. "At Club América, defenders will come at you in twos and threes. You need to know how to escape."
Santi nodded, his heartbeat picking up.
Felipe whistled and suddenly, two older players from a local amateur team stepped onto the field. Santi's eyes narrowed.
"Now," Felipe said, smirking, "let's see if you can survive."
The drill started fast. Santi barely had time to control the ball before both defenders rushed him. They didn't give him space.
Didn't let him breathe. The first one lunged but Santi flicked the ball sideways. The second one pressed but Santi pulled off a quick sombrero flick over his head.
Gasps from Felipe and the players watching from the sideline. But Santi wasn't clear yet.
The first defender recovered but Santi slowed, waiting for him to commit. Then, a lightning-fast elastico. Gone.
Santi cut through the two defenders like a knife. Felipe let out a low whistle.
"Okay," he muttered. "That was filthy." Santi grinned, sweat dripping down his face.
Felipe walked onto the field, shaking his head.
"Alright," he said. "I think we're done here." Santi laughed. "You finally giving up?" Felipe smirked.
"You wish," he said. "But if you play like that tomorrow? You won't just survive at Club América… you'll own the place."
The night air was cool as they walked back to the motel. Santi could barely feel his legs. But inside? He had never felt stronger.
Felipe walked beside him, hands in his pockets. "You did good today," he said.
Santi nodded, still catching his breath. Felipe glanced at him.
"You nervous?"
Santi thought for a moment. Then, he shook his head. Felipe chuckled.
"Good," he said. "Because starting tomorrow, you're not fighting for a contract anymore."
Santi looked at him. Felipe smiled.
"You're fighting for respect." Santi clenched his fists. He understood. At Club América, nobody cared about his past.
Nobody cared about the tournament. Nobody cared about what he had done before. All that mattered was what he did next. And Santi? Santi was going there to dominate.
Back at the motel, Santi sat outside, staring at the stars. Tomorrow, he would leave León. Tomorrow, he would step into the most competitive academy in Mexico.
He wasn't scared. He was sure. He was ready. Felipe came outside, standing next to him.
"You know," he said, "when I was your age, I got an offer to join a big academy too."
Santi looked at him. Felipe smirked.
"But I didn't have anyone to prepare me the way you do," he continued. "I walked in there thinking I was already good enough. That I had made it."
Santi waited. Felipe exhaled. "And I got crushed." Santi's jaw tightened. Felipe turned to him.
"You have talent," he said. "But talent means nothing if you stop growing. If you stop fighting." Santi nodded. "I won't," he said. Felipe smiled.
"Good," he said. "Then tomorrow? You'll be unstoppable." Santi took one last deep breath.