The sun had barely risen over Nido Águila but Santiago Cruz was already awake, lacing up his boots.
His body was sore from yesterday's trial. His muscles ached from the intensity of playing with the best youth talents in Mexico. But the pain didn't matter. Because today? Today, he would train with the academy's elite; the starters. The ones closest to breaking into Club América's first team.
The ones who were already seen as future professionals. The ones who didn't want an outsider taking their spot. Santi's stomach twisted but not with nerves. With hunger.
This was the fight he had been waiting for. And he wasn't going to waste it.
Felipe met him outside the dorms, leaning against the wall with a cup of coffee in hand.
"You slept?" he asked. Santi shrugged. "A little." Felipe smirked. "Liar."
Santi exhaled sharply, stretching out his arms. Felipe studied him for a second before speaking again.
"You know what today is, right?" Santi nodded. "My first real test." Felipe shook his head.
"Wrong." Santi frowned.
Felipe took a slow sip of coffee before continuing.
"This isn't a test," he said. "Tests have second chances. This? This is survival."
Santi clenched his jaw. Felipe's smirk faded.
"These guys aren't just talented," he said. "They're killers. They don't care how skilled you are. They care about one thing; can you take their spot?"
Santi's hands curled into fists. "Then I'll make them care." Felipe chuckled.
"Good," he said, patting Santi's back. "Let's go."
The main training pitch at Nido Águila was already buzzing with energy. The academy's elite players were warming up, moving with effortless sharpness.
Santi recognized some of them.
Luis Solano; a creative midfielder with a reputation for humiliating defenders.
Javier Ochoa; a deadly winger with speed to burn.
Andres "Toro" Vargas; a towering center-back, known for his aggressive tackles.
These weren't just top players. They were the best in the country at their age level. And now?
Santi was standing among them. Coach Herrera walked onto the field, arms crossed.
"Alright, listen up!" he barked. "We have a new player joining us today."
Some of the starters barely looked at Santi. Others smirked, exchanging glances. Herrera turned to him.
"Cruz, right?" Santi nodded.
"Good," Herrera said. "Because today, you're either one of them or you're nobody." The players chuckled, a few shaking their heads.
Santi ignored them. He wasn't here to be liked. He was here to earn his place.
Herrera wasted no time.
"Four-on-four, tight space," he announced. "One-touch passing. You lose the ball, you defend."
Santi was paired with three other academy players. Across from them?
Solano. Ochoa. Toro. And another starter.
Santi clenched his fists. This wasn't a drill. This was a battlefield. The whistle blew and chaos erupted.
The ball zipped between players. The touches were sharp. Movements were lightning-fast. Santi barely had time to adjust before Luis Solano attacked him directly.
A quick turn. A flick of the ball. Suddenly, Solano was gone and Santi was chasing.
He pressed hard, trying to close the space but Solano was too smooth.
One pass. Two passes. Then a killer through-ball and Santi's team lost. Coach Herrera's whistle cut through the air.
"Defenders, switch!" he shouted. Santi exhaled and moved to the defensive side. This was not going to be easy.
For the next ten minutes, Santi struggled. Every time he touched the ball, pressure collapsed on him instantly. Every time he tried to make space, someone shut him down.
The intensity was unlike anything he had ever faced. And that's when he realized that they weren't playing fair.
The starters were targeting him. Anytime the ball came his way, someone threw in a hard shoulder.
A nudge. A late bump after he passed the ball. At first, he thought it was just aggressive play.
But then, Toro Vargas; the towering center-back stepped in late and shoved him just as he was turning. Santi stumbled, barely keeping his balance.
The ball rolled away. Laughter. Toro grinned, shaking his head.
"Too slow, rookie," he muttered. Santi clenched his jaw. He knew what was happening. They wanted to break him.
Wanted to test if he really belonged there. Wanted to see if he would crack. Santi exhaled.
"Alright."
If they wanted to play dirty? Then he would show them why he was there.
The next time the ball came to him, Santi didn't rush. He didn't panic. Instead, he let the pressure come. Toro charged again, this time Santi was ready.
As the ball rolled toward him, he did something unexpected. He let it pass through his legs. A dummy.
Toro lunged in and suddenly realized there was no ball to take. Santi spun around him and exploded forward, collecting the ball on the other side.
The entire drill stopped for a half-second. Even Coach Herrera raised an eyebrow. Santi smirked. Toro? He didn't look so confident anymore.
The session continued but now Santi had found his rhythm. When Solano pressed him, he used quick one-touch passes to escape.
When Ochoa tried to trap him, he used a sharp body feint and broke free. The pace was relentless but Santi adapted.
And then, he saw his chance. Ochoa lost possession for the first time and the ball rolled toward Santi.
A defender was closing in fast. Santi acted on instinct. A quick tap forward. Then, a lightning-fast elastico, shifting the ball from one foot to the other. Gone.
Gasps from the sideline. Felipe smirked. Coach Herrera, for the first time all morning, nodded. Santi exhaled. He wasn't just keeping up anymore. He was winning.
Coach Herrera blew the whistle.
"Alright," he said. "Enough drills. Let's see if you can handle a real game."
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead. He had survived the small-sided battles.
But now? Now he was about to face the starters in a full-field scrimmage.
Felipe, standing near the coaching staff, muttered under his breath. "Let's see what you've got, kid."
Santi took a deep breath. That was it. Time to prove he belonged there.
The players spread across the field, shaking out their legs and rolling their shoulders. This wasn't a simple training drill anymore.
This was a battle for respect. Santiago Cruz stood in the center of the field, staring across at the academy's starting team.
They were bigger. Stronger. Smarter. And if there was one thing he had learned from the small-sided games?
They wanted him to fail. But Santi? He had never backed down from a fight.
Coach Herrera paced along the sideline, arms crossed.
"Two teams. Eleven vs. eleven. Normal rules. But understand this!" he paused, letting his eyes scan the field.
"This isn't about talent. It's about who wants it more." Santi tightened his fists.
The whistle blew. The game had begun. The ball zipped across the field; fast, controlled and precise.
Santi's team? They were good. But the starters? They were different. Their chemistry was flawless. They moved like a unit, their passes smooth and their positioning perfect.
For the first ten minutes, Santi barely touched the ball. Anytime his team won possession, they lost it seconds later. It was frustrating. It was exhausting.
But Santi knew one thing, he had to stay patient. "The moment will come," he told himself. "And when it does, I have to take it."
Then, it happened. A mistake. One of the starting team's midfielders miscontrolled a pass and the ball rolled loose.
Santi reacted first. He sprinted forward, closing the space before anyone else could. A defender rushed in, fast and aggressive. Santi didn't hesitate.
A quick touch forward. Then—a sharp body feint.
The defender lunged but Santi slipped past him effortlessly. The field opened up.
For the first time, he had space to create something. He lifted his head. Diego, the tall striker was making a run. Santi didn't just think, he acted.
A perfectly weighted through-ball, splitting two defenders. Diego took one touch and then blasted it into the bottom corner. "GOOOOOOOAL"
A few heads turned toward Santi. Coach Herrera scratched his chin, watching closely. Felipe, on the sideline, nodded to himself.
"That's more like it."
That goal changed everything. Santi's team started playing through him. The confidence grew. And the more he touched the ball, the more dangerous he became. Every pass was crisp.
Every turn was sharp. Every movement was calculated. The starters? They noticed. And they didn't like it.
The scrimmage was almost over. The score was tied 1-1. One last play. One last moment.
Santi's team won the ball back and it was sent straight to him. A defender immediately pressed him hard.
Santi absorbed the contact, shielding the ball, feeling the defender's weight behind him. Then, a sudden spin. A sharp touch forward. Gone.
Santi exploded into space. Two more defenders closed in fast. A split second to decide. A normal player would pass.
Santi? He wanted more. He wanted to end the game. With a flash of movement, he flicked the ball up with his left foot and then twisted his body.
The ball hung in the air. And then, BICYCLE KICK.
The sound of the ball cracking off his boot echoed across the field. Everyone watched. The goalkeeper dived but it was unstoppable. The net rippled. The field erupted.
Santi sat up from the turf, breathing hard. And then, he heard it.
"CRUZ! CRUZ! CRUZ!"
Some of the players from his team were chanting his name. Even the starters looked… impressed. Felipe whistled from the sideline, shaking his head.
Coach Herrera? He just smiled. The whistle blew. The scrimmage was over.
The players gathered near the sideline, waiting for Herrera's final words. He scanned the group, eyes resting on Santi for a moment longer than the others.
Finally, he spoke.
"Good session," he said. "Some of you showed me why you belong here. Some of you showed me why you don't."
The players shifted slightly. Herrera turned toward Santi.
"You," he said. Santi tensed.
"You play with confidence. With creativity. With balls." A few chuckles from the team. Herrera smirked.
"That's good," he said. "But don't think for a second that you've made it." Santi nodded firmly.
"I don't," he said. Herrera's smirk widened. "Good answer," he said.
Then, turning to the team, he clapped his hands once. "Session over! Back here tomorrow, same time!"
The players dispersed, some still throwing glances at Santi. Some impressed. Some threatened. Santi felt every single one. Good. Let them watch.
As Santi walked off the field, Felipe met him near the tunnel. He said nothing at first, just shaking his head. Then, finally.
"A bicycle kick?"
Santi smirked. "Felt right." Felipe chuckled.
"You know," he said, "I was worried you'd need time to adjust." Santi raised an eyebrow.
"And now?"
Felipe's smirk faded slightly, his expression more serious. "Now," he said, "I think you're gonna be a problem for a lot of people here."
Santi glanced back at the field, at the players walking away, some still whispering about his goal. He liked that.
Felipe patted him on the back.
"Get some rest, kid," he said. "Because tomorrow? They're coming for you."
Santi just smiled. "Let them."