The sun barely peeked over Nido Águila, casting long shadows across the perfectly cut grass.
Santiago Cruz stepped onto the training pitch, his boots pressing into the damp turf. He had barely slept. Not because of nerves but because of hunger.
Yesterday had been a war, and he had come out standing. But this morning? The pressure was even heavier. Because now, they knew him.
No more surprises. No more underestimating him. And he could feel it. Every player watching him. Some waiting to see if he could do it again.
Others waiting for him to fail. And then there were the ones like Toro, Solano and Ochoa who were waiting to make him fail.
Santi clenched his fists.
"Let them try."
Training began with a series of technical drills; sharp passing, tight control and quick touches under pressure.
For most players, warm-ups were just a way to loosen up before the real work started.
But at Nido Águila, everything was a test. Lose focus and you get exposed. Santi noticed two things immediately.
One; He was being watched. Not just by the players. By the coaches. And two; Toro was waiting for his chance.
The first time the ball came to Santi, Toro pressed him hard, too hard for a warm-up drill. A bump to the shoulder. A shove. Not enough to be obvious.
Just enough to make a statement. Santi absorbed it, kept his balance and played the ball cleanly. No reaction. No complaints. But inside? He was memorizing everything. Every little trick. Every little foul.
And when the time came? He'd give it back. After warm-ups, Coach Herrera gathered the players in a tight circle.
His expression was unreadable.
"Yesterday, some of you stepped up," he said.
His eyes passed over Santi for just a second. Then, he threw a curveball.
"Today, we're playing short-sided games," he said. "Three teams. One rule, the winning team stays on the field. Losers? You run."
A few groans from the players. Not Santi. He loved this. Because this wasn't just about skill. It was about survival. And at Nido Águila, if you weren't good enough? You didn't get to play.
Santi was placed with Nico and Diego; his strongest teammates. Across from them? Toro, Solano and Ochoa.
Santi's heart pounded. Of course. They were setting him up. They wanted to break him.
The whistle blew. The game started. The match started at a terrifying pace. No time to think. No time to breathe. Just chaos. Santi had the ball for a split second before Solano pressed him fast and aggressively.
A quick feint, a sharp pass and he escaped. Then, Toro came for him. A heavy tackle. Hard contact. Santi stumbled but stayed up.
He passed the ball cleanly, ignoring the pain in his ribs. More whistles from the sideline. The coaches were watching closely.
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"I need to do more."
Midway through the match, Santi's team won possession deep in their half. He saw space. Made a run. Diego spotted him and played a pass; too hard and too fast. Santi sprinted for it. But so did Toro. Santi had to get there first.
He reached out his foot and miscontrolled the ball. For just a second. But it was enough.
Toro pounced, took possession and played a quick pass to Solano. Before Santi could react, Ochoa was already finishing the play. A sharp shot and a goal. Game over.
And Santi? He was the reason they lost. The whistle blew. And then, the laughter started.
Santiago Cruz's lungs burned as he sprinted around the field but the physical exhaustion was nothing compared to the humiliation boiling inside him.
One mistake. That's all it had taken.
He had lost control of the ball for half a second and now, he was paying for it while Toro, Solano and Ochoa stood on the field, watching.
Every step of the sprint felt like a failure. Toro smirked as Santi ran past.
"Not as special today, huh?" Solano chuckled. "Maybe yesterday was luck."
Ochoa didn't say anything but his smirk said enough. Santi clenched his jaw, ignoring them. He had learned a long time ago that words didn't mean anything. Only the game did. And he had lost. That was the only thing that mattered.
When the sprint finally ended, Santi stood bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath.
But his mind was racing. He could feel the coaches watching. The other players watching. Noticing his mistake.
Maybe some of them had started to respect him after yesterday. But now?
Now they were thinking: "Maybe he's not as good as we thought." Santi's stomach twisted. He had worked too hard to let one mistake ruin everything.
He wouldn't let it. Santi glanced toward the sideline. Felipe stood with his arms crossed, watching.
But unlike yesterday, he didn't smirk. Didn't joke. Didn't even nod. He just observed. Waiting to see how Santi would respond. And Santi knew why.
Felipe had seen hundreds of talented kids. Most of them shined for a day, then collapsed under pressure. Felipe was waiting to see if Santi was just another one of them.
Santi straightened, wiping sweat from his forehead. He wasn't. By the time Santi's team was back in the game, he had one thing on his mind. Win.
The whistle blew and Santi played like a man possessed. His first touch? Perfect. His passing? Sharp. His movement? Flawless.
He refused to make another mistake. And then, his chance came.
Toro rushed in, trying to press him hard. Santi let him come. Then, at the last second he spun away. Toro lunged but the ball was already gone.
Santi played a quick one-two with Diego. Then, he saw it. A gap in the defense. He flicked the ball forward, took a deep breath and struck it cleanly.
The ball curved perfectly into the bottom corner. "GOOOOOOAL!" Silence.
Then the whistle blew. The game was over. Santi's team stayed on the field. Toro's team? Now they were the ones running. Santi didn't smile. Didn't celebrate.
He just walked back to his position. Because this wasn't about revenge. This was about earning his place.
After training, Coach Herrera pulled Santi aside.
"You played well today," Herrera said. Santi nodded, waiting.
"But I don't care about that," Herrera continued. "What matters is what happened before you played well." Santi tensed.
"You made a mistake," Herrera said. "And for ten minutes, you were out. You were watching instead of playing. You let them take control because of one bad touch."
Santi swallowed hard. Herrera stepped closer.
"That can never happen again." Santi felt the weight of the words. One mistake. One moment of weakness. That's all it took to be forgotten.
He nodded. "It won't happen again," he said.
Herrera studied him for a second, then smirked.
"Good. Because tomorrow? The real work starts."
Santi exhaled. Tomorrow. A new day. A new battle. And this time? He wouldn't let himself fall.
As Santi walked toward the dorms, Felipe fell into step beside him.
"Rough day," Felipe muttered. Santi exhaled. "Yeah." Felipe smirked.
"Good." Santi frowned. "Good?" Felipe stopped walking, turning to face him.
"You lost today," Felipe said. "And that's exactly what you needed." Santi stayed quiet. Felipe crossed his arms.
"You wanna play at the top level?" he asked. "Then learn this now, losing teaches you more than winning ever will." Santi clenched his fists. Felipe smirked again.
"The question is, are you gonna let it make you weaker? Or are you gonna use it?" Santi took a deep breath. Then, he nodded.
"I'll use it." Felipe grinned. "That's what I wanted to hear."
Santi stared up at the sky for a moment. Tomorrow, training would start all over again. And this time? He wouldn't be the one running. He would be the one staying on the field.
Because at Nido Águila, there were no second chances. Only survival.
And Santi? He was going nowhere.