The dorms at Nido Águila were still dark when Santiago Cruz rolled out of bed. He wasn't tired. Not when he had work to do.
The Liga MX U19 season was just days away. The starting eleven had been decided. But that didn't mean his spot was safe. It meant he had more to prove.
He grabbed his phone, dimming the screen as he clicked on a video. First up? Cristiano Ronaldo's free kicks.
Santi had studied them before, but today? He looked closer.
The way Ronaldo placed the ball perfectly on the grass. How he stepped back, always the same number of steps. The slow, focused breath.
Then, BOOM!
The ball dipped and swerved into the top corner.
Santi watched it over and over. Memorizing it.
Then he switched to Messi. Not just his dribbling. Not just his goals. His passing. How he bent the ball around defenders with a single flick of his foot. How he saw space before it even existed.
Then, Neymar. The unpredictable movement. The quick flicks. The way he turned defenders into ghosts with his change of pace.
Santi didn't just watch. He absorbed. And today? He was going to practice every single detail.
By the time the first rays of sunlight touched the pitch, Santi was already there. A bag of footballs sat beside him. No teammates. No distractions. Just work. First? The trivela pass.
He set up cones as imaginary defenders and took a step back, watching intently. With smooth contact, he whipped it around the defender.
His first attempt? Too much power. Second? Not enough curve. After ten tries, he nailed it. The ball bent beautifully, curling into space exactly where he had imagined it.
"That's one."
Next? Free kicks. He lined up the ball, taking Ronaldo's stance. Breathed in. Breathed out. And strike. The ball dipped but just wide.
Again. But too high.
Again. Almost perfect.
Then, on his next attempt, it all clicked. The ball soared over the mannequin wall, dipped at the last second and smashed into the top corner. Santi exhaled.
"That's two."
Now, time for dribbling. He worked on Messi's tight control, moving through cones as if they were defenders.
He added Neymar's flicks and body feints, shifting weight at the last second to escape pressure. For over an hour, he trained alone. Because if he wanted to stand out? He had to do more than just keep up. He had to be better.
By the time the rest of the squad arrived, Santi was drenched in sweat. Some players glanced at him. A few muttered to each other. Toro smirked.
"Look at him," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Training by himself like he's some kind of superstar."
A few of the other players chuckled. Santi didn't respond. Didn't even look at him. He just picked up another ball and set it down.
Toro scoffed.
"What's next, Cruz? Gonna start calling yourself the next Ronaldo?"
Santi lined up his shot. Focused. Then, he hit it. The ball curled over the mannequins, bending perfectly into the top corner. Silence.
Felipe, standing nearby, smirked. Toro's expression hardened. Coach Herrera, who had just stepped onto the field, watched the ball hit the net, then turned toward Santi.
"Not bad," he said. Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Not enough," he replied. Herrera raised an eyebrow.
Santi locked eyes with him.
"I need to do that in a game," he said. Herrera nodded slowly.
"Good answer."
Then, after a pause. "You'll get your chance."
In a few minutes, the training began. The intensity was brutal. The pressure was getting worse. The energy was lit.
The ball barely stayed at a player's feet for more than a second before someone was pressing, pushing and fighting for it.
Every pass had to be perfect. Every movement had to be quick. There was no room for hesitation.
Santiago Cruz felt the pressure immediately. Toro was on him constantly, bodying him whenever the ball came near.
Solano moved like a shadow, cutting off angles before Santi could even think.
And then there was Ochoa, darting in with his speed, waiting for Santi to make one mistake so he could pounce.
It wasn't just a scrimmage. It was a battle. And Santi knew exactly what was happening. They were testing him.
Trying to see if he could handle the pace. If he could handle them. He welcomed it.
The ball came to Santi in midfield, fast and bouncing awkwardly. Toro lunged. Santi didn't panic. Instead, he took one soft touch with his thigh to control it, then quickly flicked it to Nico before Toro could react.
Clean. Smooth. Unbothered. The play continued. Santi didn't stop moving. One pass. Then another. Then a quick feint that sent Solano lunging the wrong way. Space opened up. Santi took it.
And then, he saw Diego making a run. This was it. The moment to use the trivela pass.
He planted his standing foot, flicked his right boot around the ball and let it curve. It bent perfectly around the defender, dropping right into Diego's path.
Diego took a touch and fired.
"GOOOOOOAL!" The net rippled.
The sound of the ball hitting the back of the net echoed across the field. For a moment, everything went quiet. Then, whistles from the sideline. Even some of the other players murmured in approval.
Santi exhaled, trying not to show how much it meant. But inside? He knew. He had proved something.
Toro scowled, shaking his head. Ochoa muttered something under his breath. But Solano? He nodded. Not a compliment. Not a surrender. Just acknowledgment.
Felipe watching from the sideline, smirked.
Coach Herrera called out from across the field.
"Good pass, Cruz!"
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead, heart still racing. He wasn't just keeping up anymore. He was setting the pace.
After the scrimmage ended, the players slowly jogged toward the benches. Some grabbed their water bottles. Some just stood there, catching their breath.
Santi sat down, stretching out his legs. He barely had time to relax before he heard a voice.
"You really think you're something, huh?" He looked up. Toro. Arms crossed, eyes sharp. Santi met his stare, calm.
"I don't think," Santi said. "I just play." Toro scoffed.
"You got lucky." Santi smirked.
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe you just weren't fast enough to stop it." A few players nearby chuckled.
Toro clenched his jaw but before he could respond Coach Herrera's voice cut through the tension.
Herrera stood in front of the squad, arms crossed.
"Three days until the first match," he said. His voice was steady. Serious.
"You did well today," he continued. "But it wasn't good enough." Silence.
"You think just because you're in the starting eleven, that means you're ready?" Herrera shook his head.
"It doesn't."
His eyes swept over the players, pausing on Santi for just a second.
"This league?" he said. "It's not like training. It's not like scrimmages. It's faster. Harder. More physical. If you hesitate, you lose. If you get comfortable, you get replaced."
Some players nodded. Others stayed stiff, absorbing the words. Then Herrera smirked slightly.
"But some of you," he said, "are proving that you're ready." His gaze landed on Santi again.
"Let's see if you can keep it up."
Then stepping back,
"Session over. Recover well. Next training, we push harder!"
And just like that, training was done. But Santi knew that the real fight was just beginning.
As Santi walked off the field, Felipe appeared beside him.
"Not bad, kid," Felipe said, his usual smirk in place. Santi glanced at him.
"Just not bad'?" Felipe chuckled.
"Alright," he admitted. "The trivela pass? That was nice." Santi smirked. "Thanks."
Felipe sipped his coffee.
"But," he added, "don't let it get to your head. One good pass doesn't mean you're ready for the league." Santi exhaled.
"I know."
Felipe tilted his head slightly, studying him. "Do you?" Santi's expression hardened. "I do," he said. "And in three days, I'll prove it."
Felipe chuckled again, shaking his head.
"Alright then," he said. "Let's see what you've got." Santi nodded.
Three days. And then? The real test. The first match of the Liga MX U19 League. He had fought for this spot. Now? He had to fight to keep it.