Santiago Cruz woke up before his alarm. Not because of nerves. Not because of fear. Because his body knew what today was.
Game day. His first professional match. The start of everything. The dorm was silent, the other players were still asleep but Santi couldn't stay in bed.
He grabbed his phone and checked the time. It was 5:47 AM. Six hours until kickoff.
He swung his legs over the bed, stood up and stretched, rolling out his shoulders.
Felipe's words from last night echoed in his mind.
"You're not just playing a game. You're making a statement." Santi exhaled.
He had trained for this moment. Now, it was time to take it.
By 7:00 AM, the cafeteria at Nido Águila was buzzing. Players sat in small groups, eating quietly and focused.
Some checked their phones. Some listened to music with their headphones in and locked into their own world.
Santi sat with Nico, Diego and a few others, eating a light breakfast; eggs, fruits and toast.
No one spoke much. Because they all felt it. The weight of the match. The anticipation. For some, this was another season opener.
For Santi? This was the first chapter of his career. Across the room, Toro sat with Ochoa and Solano. They weren't looking at Santi. But he knew they hadn't forgotten about him.
Because today, he wasn't just playing against the other team. He was playing to keep his spot.
The team bus pulled into the stadium parking lot at 10:30 AM. Santi stared out the window as they approached the entrance. They were hosting the game at their training facility.
The stadium wasn't massive, not like the senior team's but it was big enough to feel real. The field, the stands and the banners. They were different from training. More intense. More serious.
Fans were already trickling in, wearing Club América colors. Not many, but enough. Enough to remind Santi that people were watching now.
The players stepped off the bus, one by one. Santi adjusted his backpack, feeling the weight of his boots inside. That was it. His first steps into professional football. And he felt ready.
The locker room smelled of fresh jerseys and new cleats. Each player had a spot, their kit neatly folded on the bench.
Santi sat down, tying his laces slowly and carefully making sure everything felt right. Then, Coach Herrera stepped in. The room went silent immediately.
Herrera's eyes scanned the squad. He didn't speak right away. Because he didn't need to. Then finally, his voice cut through the air.
"This is it." The players straightened.
"You've trained. You've fought for your spot. Now, it's time to show what we are."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"The team we are playing today?" he said. "They don't respect us. They think they're better. They think they're stronger. Faster. Smarter."
He looked around.
"They think we're going to lose." A few players shifted. Diego clenched his jaw. Ochoa nodded slightly.
Herrera's voice hardened.
"And what are we going to do about that?" Silence. Then, a voice. Santi spoke.
"We prove them wrong!" Herrera turned toward him. A small smirk.
"That's right," Herrera said. "We don't just play today. We send a message." His tone sharpened.
"We fight for the badge!" The players straightened. Then together, "Fight for the badge!"
Santi felt the words in his chest. That was more than a match. That was a war. Herrera nodded.
"Alright, let's go."
Santi felt his pulse quicken as they walked down the tunnel, boots echoing against the concrete.
The distant roar of the crowd grew louder. He clenched his fists. This was what he had dreamed of. What he had worked for. And now? Now it was real.
The team reached the tunnel exit. The opposing team stood on the other side.
They were facing Monterrey U19.
They were taller. Stronger. Older. But Santi didn't care. Because ability wasn't measured in height. It was measured in what you did when the game started.
A whistle blew. The referee signaled them forward. Santi stepped onto the field and his debut officially began.
He tightened his fists, rolling his shoulders as the teams lined up. His first professional opponent stood just a few feet away, wearing the red and white of their rival club.
Tall and muscular. A defender built like a brick wall. The kind of player who looked at guys like Santi as young, unproven, new kid and thought they could break him. Santi met his stare. Didn't look away. Didn't flinch.
Because this wasn't just another match. This was his moment. The Liga MX U19 League debut. His first official step toward the dream. And nothing, no one was going to take it from him.
Coach Herrera paced behind them with arms crossed and expression was unreadable. He didn't speak for a few seconds. Letting the weight of the moment sink in.
Then, his voice cut in.
"You see them?" The team stayed silent.
"Look at them!" Herrera ordered. "Look at the way they stand. Like they already won. Like they don't even need to play to beat you."
Santi glanced at the opponents again. They weren't nervous. They weren't even focused on Club América. They were relaxed. Smirking. Chatting.
Like this was just another game. Like Santi and his teammates weren't a threat. A slow anger burned in Santi's chest. Herrera stepped forward, lowering his voice.
"They don't respect you," he said. "Not yet." He let those words hang for a moment. Then, sharp as a knife he asked.
"So what are you going to do about it?" Silence. Then, a voice. It was from Diego. "Make them respect us!" Herrera smirked.
Then he turned toward Santi.
"And you, Cruz?" Santi clenched his fists. "I make them remember my name." Herrera grinned. "Good."
Then stepping back, his final words before the match. "We fight for the badge."
Herrera had done his formations already
He played the 4-3-3 formation. He was more focused on defense, high pressing, balanced attack and possession. He had chosen his starters;
Goalkeeper;
(1) Alejandro "Alex" Ramirez
Defense;
(2) Luis "Lucho" Ortega – RB
(4) Andrés "Toro" Vargas – CB
(5) Sebastián Ríos – CB
(3) Ricardo "Ricky" Mendoza –LB
Midfield
(6) Diego Silva – DM
(8) Luis Solano – CM
(10) Santiago "Santi" Cruz– AM
Forward
(7) Javier "Javi" Ochoa – RW
(9) Fernando Valdez - CF
(11) Charlie Domínguez – LW
Solano was the team's captain. The rest were on the bench. Santi wore the 10 jersey. It perfectly suited him because of what he possessed.
Santi straightened, heart hammering. The team answered, "We fight for the badge!" The tunnel echoed with their voices.
And then the signal came. It was time to walk out. The stadium exploded with noise.
It wasn't a full house not like the senior team's matches but the energy was real. Fans were on their feet. Some waved América flags. Some held banners. And above it all, was the sound of the referee's whistle.
Santi stepped onto the field, the bright lights making everything feel surreal. The grass was perfect beneath his boots. The stadium felt massive. And yet, he didn't feel small. He felt ready.
The teams shook hands quickly, the usual pre-match formalities. Then, positioned.
Santi jogged toward midfield, rolling his neck and shaking out his legs. A few yards away, the opposing captain stretched, glancing at Santi.
"You a rookie?" he asked, voice casual, uninterested.
Santi smirked. "Not for long."
The captain raised an eyebrow. "You talk big."
Santi shrugged. "I play bigger."
The opposing captain chuckled. "We'll see." Santi didn't respond.
Because the referee had just stepped into the center circle. And now it was time.
Piiiiiii! The referee's whistle echoed through the stadium. And just like that, Santiago Cruz's debut had begun.
The game started at a different pace than anything he had ever played. Faster. More physical.
Every pass had to be perfect. Every touch had to be clean. There was no room for hesitation.
Santi barely had time to settle into position before the opponents pressed aggressively. Within the first two minutes, a defender clipped his ankle as he tried to receive a pass. No foul. Just a reminder.
"Welcome to the league, kid." Santi gritted his teeth and got up quickly. This wasn't going to be easy. It was a war.
The first twenty minutes was a complete chaos. The opponents were strong, aggressive and quick. Their midfielders didn't give Santi any space to turn.
Every time he touched the ball, someone was already on him. Shoving. Pressing. Tugging at his jersey. Trying to rattle him. Trying to make him panic.
But Santi didn't break. Instead, he adjusted. Faster passes. Quicker movements. He stopped trying to take extra touches and focused on keeping the ball moving.
He was still in the game. But he wasn't making an impact yet. And that? That wasn't enough.
By the 30th minute, Club América was struggling. The opponents had taken control of possession. Their defense was compact. Their midfield was relentless. And up front? Their striker was dangerous.
Twice already, he had gotten past the center-backs and forced the goalkeeper into difficult saves. The pressure was building. Santi knew it. He Felt it.
And just before halftime, it nearly collapsed. A quick counterattack. A through-ball slicing past the América defense. The opponent's striker burst into the box, one-on-one with the keeper.
Santi's heart stopped. Then, a last-second save. The ball was cleared.
But as Santi walked into the tunnel at halftime, sweat dripping, he knew if something didn't change, they were going to lose.
The locker room was silent. Players sat with their heads down, catching their breath. Drinking water. Wiping the sweat from their faces. Then, Herrera slammed his fist against the whiteboard. The room jumped.
"You call that football?" he barked. No one answered.
"You're playing like you're scared," Herrera snapped. "Like they're better than you." Santi exhaled.
Because, so far? They had been. Herrera's eyes hardened. "We fight for the badge. What the hell does that mean if you're playing like cowards?" Silence.
Then finally, Herrera's voice lowered.
"Second half?" he said, eyes scanning the room. "We change this."
His gaze landed on Santi.
"Cruz!" Santi sat up straight. Herrera nodded at him.
"Time for you to show me why you're in the starting eleven." Santi met his eyes and nodded. No words.
Because he already knew what he had to do.
From the moment the second half started, Santi played differently. More aggressive. More confident. He demanded the ball. He fought for every inch of space. He didn't let the defenders push him around anymore.
And finally in the 65th minute, América found their rhythm. A few good passes and a few moments of control. They were starting to push back. But the score was still 0-0 and time was running out.
87th minute. Still 0-0. Santi's lungs burned. His legs ached. But inside? Inside, he felt more alive than ever.
Then the ball came to him in midfield. A bad touch from the opponent. An opening and Santi took it.
He exploded forward. One touch. Two touches. The defenders reacted too late. He was already past the first one.
The second defender lunged but Santi flicked it past him. Then a nutmeg. The crowd roared. Three more defenders collapsed in on him.
Santi felt them closing in. But he didn't slow down. Didn't hesitate. Instead, he baited them. He let them get close. Too close. Then just as they committed, a quick shift of balance and a sudden burst. And gone.
All three defenders were beaten in one move. The stadium erupted. Santi wasn't stopping now. He charged toward the edge of the box, two more defenders scrambling to recover.
And then, the moment came. Diego made a run to the far post. Wide open. Santi didn't even think. He just created.
A perfect trivela pass. The ball curved beautifully around the final defender, curling right into Diego's path.
One touch. A Shot. And then, "GOOOOOOAL!" The net rippled. The stadium exploded. Santi barely had time to react before Diego tackled him in celebration.
Players rushed in, screaming. The fans chanted his name.
"Cruz! Cruz! Cruz!"
Santi closed his eyes for just a second. He had done it. His first real moment. His first real mark on the league. And this?
This was just the beginning. The final whistle blew minutes later. The score was 1-0. Club América had won. A very hard-fought victory. And at the center of it? Santiago Cruz.
As he walked off the pitch, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping, he felt it. A shift. In the way the crowd looked at him. In the way his teammates patted his back. In the way his opponents glanced at him with quiet respect.
They knew. He wasn't just another rookie. He was something more. And this was only the start.
As Santi reached the tunnel, Felipe was waiting for him. Arms crossed and then a small smirk.
"Told you," Felipe muttered.
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Told me what?" Felipe sipped his coffee.
"You made a statement." Santi chuckled.
"Think they'll remember me now?" Felipe grinned.
"They don't have a choice."
Santi exhaled, staring out at the stadium one last time.