The morning air was cool, crisp and filled with an energy that Santiago Cruz could feel in his bones.
Today was the day. Today, he left behind everything he had ever known and stepped into a world where only the best survived.
The streets of San Isidro, the small village where he first learned to dribble between scattered rocks. The matches played in dusty alleys, with plastic bottles and oranges when footballs were too expensive.
The tournament in León, where he had proven himself, where the crowd had chanted his name. "Cruz! Cruz! Cruz!"
All of it had led to this moment. And now, it was time to go. Santi stood in the center of the small motel room, checking his bag one last time. His boots. His gear. His memories.
Felipe, sitting on the bed with his legs stretched out, was scrolling through his phone, looking as relaxed as ever.
"You ready?" he asked without looking up. Santi zipped his bag shut and slung it over his shoulder.
"More than ever."
Felipe smirked. "Good," he said, standing up. "Because once we step out of this room, there's no turning back."
Santi met his gaze. "I don't want to turn back," he said firmly. Felipe's smirk widened.
"Then let's go."
The bus ride to Mexico City was long but Santi barely noticed the hours passing.
He sat by the window, watching the landscape change from small villages and open fields to highways and towering city buildings.
That wasn't just a trip. It was a journey into a world he had never known.
The Club América training complex in Coapa was more than just a football academy. It was a proving ground. The place where raw talent was shaped into professionals.
And also the place where dreams were crushed. Santi clenched his fists as the weight of it all settled on his shoulders.
"I don't just want to survive. I want to dominate." Felipe, sitting beside him, must have sensed the intensity in his eyes. He nudged him.
"Stop overthinking," he said. "You're gonna be fine." Santi exhaled slowly.
Fine wouldn't be enough. At Club América, he had to be unstoppable.
The moment Santi stepped off the bus, he felt it. The weight of where he was. The expectation. The history.
He had seen videos of the academy and had dreamed about walking through these gates.
But seeing it in person? It was something else entirely.
Massive banners lined the entrance, featuring Club América legends; players who had started their journeys there and gone on to become icons of Mexican football.
Players whose names were spoken with reverence. And now, Santiago Cruz was there. Walking through the same doors. Felipe glanced at him. "Take a good look," he said. "This place makes legends… or destroys dreams."
Santi clenched his jaw. "I know which one I'm going to be." As they walked through the complex, Santi could feel the eyes on him.
Some players glanced at him, then turned away, uninterested. Others held their stares longer, silently evaluating him. A few smirked, as if saying, "Another one? Let's see how long he lasts." Santi ignored them.
He had seen that before. Football wasn't just about skill but it was about respect. And respect? That had to be earned.
Ahead of them, a group of players was warming up; sharp touches, rapid movements and intensity in every action.
These weren't kids playing for fun. They were fighting for their futures. And tomorrow, Santi would have to fight for his.
Felipe led him toward the main training area, where a tall, serious-looking man stood with his arms crossed.
Coach Herrera; a former professional. A legend in Mexican football. And the man who would decide Santi's fate. Felipe approached him.
"This is the kid," Felipe said.
Herrera raised an eyebrow, looking Santi up and down.
"That's what they all say," he muttered.
Santi held his stare. "I'll prove it," he said.
Herrera smirked. "Good," he said. "Because we don't waste time here. Get changed. Your trial starts now."
Santi blinked. No introduction. No warm-up. They were throwing him in immediately. Felipe chuckled, slapping him on the back.
"Welcome to Club América, kid."
Santi barely had time to process what was happening before he was standing on one of the main training fields, surrounded by players who had been there for years.
No friendly greetings.
No introductions.
Just competition.
The assistant coach blew the whistle.
"We start with possession drills," he announced. "Two teams. One-touch passing. If you lose the ball, you run."
Santi stepped onto the field, scanning his teammates. Some looked indifferent. Others looked like they wanted to destroy him.
The drill started fast. The ball zipped across the field.
Pass. Move. Pass again. No time to settle. The pressure was immediate.
Santi had barely received his first pass when a defender lunged at him.
He reacted on instinct then a quick flick, slipping the ball past his opponent. The team kept possession.
Felipe, watching from the sideline, smirked. But the real test was coming.
Coach Herrera suddenly changed the drill.
"Now," he said, "three defenders. Limited touches. If you panic, you lose."
Santi barely had time to prepare before the ball came flying toward him.
One defender charged but Santi feinted left, then cut right. Another one rushed in but Santi used a body feint, shifting the ball between his feet and keeping it moving.
But the third? He didn't go for the ball. He went for Santi. A hard shoulder, a shove and then Santi stumbled, lost control and the ball was gone.
The whistle blew.
"Lose the ball, you run!" the assistant coach barked.
Santi clenched his jaw and started sprinting around the field.
Welcome to professional football. Felipe met him after the session.
"Long day?" he asked. Santi let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah."
Felipe smirked. "Good," he said. "Because that was just the warm-up."
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Tomorrow?" Felipe continued. "You train with the first-team prospects. The best of the academy. No second chances."
Santi squared his shoulders.
"Good," he said. "Because I don't need one." Felipe grinned. "That's what I like to hear."
Santi looked at the Club América crest, shining under the stadium lights.