For the first time since arriving at Nido Águila, Santiago Cruz woke up without an alarm. No early training. No Herrera shouting instructions at sunrise. Just silence.
For a split second, he felt disoriented. Then, he remembered. Yesterday, he had played his second Liga MX U19 match. One goal. Two assists. A statement performance.
Santi lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the moment sink in. But even with the satisfaction of victory, his mind was already thinking ahead. He had shown what he could do.
But football didn't stop. And neither could he.
By midday, most of the team had gathered at the training facility. Even on rest days, no one wanted to sit in their dorms all day. The locker room was buzzing with energy.
Laughter, jokes and the sound of victory still fresh in the air.
"¡Míralo, míralo!" Diego laughed, clapping his hands when Santi walked in.
"The superstar has arrived," Ochoa added, smirking.
Toro leaned against his locker, shaking his head. "You score one goal and now you think you're famous?"
Santi smirked. "Not just a goal … but a banger." Laughter filled the room.
"That trivela assist, though…" Solano said, shaking his head. "That was some Quaresma-level stuff."
Even Herrera, who had stepped in to check on the players, gave a small smirk.
"You were good yesterday," he said, voice calm but sharp. "But one game doesn't make a career." Santi nodded. He already knew that.
Because while everyone else was celebrating, his mind was already thinking about the next match.
Some players planned to go out. Diego and Solano were heading into the city for lunch. Ochoa and a few others were going to the beach. Toro was staying behind probably to hit the gym, knowing him.
Santi? He thought about joining them. But instead? He went to the training pitch. Not for a full session. Just to feel the ball at his feet. To remind himself that he was just getting started. And while he was there? He worked on his skills.
Santiago Cruz stood alone on the empty training pitch, rolling a ball under his foot. The sun hung high, heat pressing against his skin. Everyone else was out enjoying their day off but not him. Because yesterday's performance? It wasn't enough.
One great game meant nothing if he couldn't do it again. If defenders were going to press him harder next match, if opponents were going to study his movements, then he had to be ready.
He had to be unpredictable. He had to add more weapons. Santi took a deep breath, set up a row of cones and started dribbling. Not just casually but at full speed.
He imagined defenders closing in. A wall of bodies blocking his path.
His job? Breakthrough.
His feet danced over the ball, instinct kicking in.
He started with the La Croqueta.
A quick shift from left to right, the way Iniesta used to escape tight spaces. He moved sideways effortlessly, pushing the ball between his feet with just enough speed to slip past an imaginary defender.
Then, the step-over.
He swung his right foot over the ball, making it look like he was cutting inside, then exploded in the opposite direction. Defender beaten. But that wasn't enough.
Another one stepped in. Santi reacted instantly, Elastico.
A flick of the foot out, then in, leaving the invisible opponent lunging in the air. It was perfect.
But now? A tougher situation. A defender blocking his way, legs slightly apart. An opening. Santi's mind clicked, nutmeg.
A smooth touch through the gap, then a quick burst past the cones. The crowd wasn't there to cheer but he felt the thrill anyway. He kept moving, no time to stop.
The next cone was a defender sliding in. Santi spun the Maradona Turn. His sole dragged the ball in a full 360°, smoothly escaping the challenge. His heart pounded, sweat dripping but his mind was locked in. He was creating space where there was none.
And when he finally reached the end of the row, he stopped, hands on his knees, catching his breath. That was football. That was what he loved. But dribbling wasn't enough. He needed more.
Santi reset the drill, this time focusing on his first touch. Because against top defenders? The ball had to do exactly what he wanted, instantly. He tossed it into the air and controlled it with his thigh, letting it drop perfectly in front of him.
Then again, this time using the sole of his foot to stop it dead. Killing the ball. Making it obey. He took another pass off the rebound wall, this time trapping it while spinning around. It was the Berbatov Spin.
Stop with one foot and escape with the other. In a real game, that could mean the difference between a defender stealing the ball or Santi breaking free.
And that? That was what he needed. Dribbling got him past defenders. Control kept the ball at his feet. But football wasn't just about beating players. It was about winning games.
And that meant delivering the final pass or finishing it yourself. Santi stepped back, eyeing a training dummy at the top of the box. Time to work on the trivela.
He lined up the shot, planted his standing foot and sliced through the ball with the outside of his foot. It curled beautifully, bending around an invisible defender and straight into the corner of the net. Perfect. He repeated the motion.
Again. And again. The next time he was in a match, running toward the box and needing to create something, he had to be ready.
Because when the moment came? He wasn't going to miss.
Now? A different type of shot. The knuckleball. No spin. No curve. Just raw, unpredictable power.
He stepped up and struck through the ball with precision. The shot dipped violently in mid-air, swerving at the last second. Even if a keeper got a hand on it, the power would send it through. Santi smiled.
That was how he would keep goalkeepers guessing. But there was one more thing he wanted to master. A move that wasn't about power. It was about style.
He set the ball down, took a few steps back, then the Rabona.
His left foot planted and his right wrapped behind it, striking the ball cleanly into the top corner.
Difficult? Yes. Necessary? Maybe not.
But at the right moment, when the cameras were flashing and when the crowd was waiting for magic, he wanted to have it in his locker. Because Santiago Cruz wasn't just there to win. He was there to entertain.
After an hour, Santi was drenched in sweat. He took a sip of water, bouncing the ball under his foot, when he heard. "Really?"
He turned. Felipe stood near the sideline, coffee cup in hand and smirking.
"You seriously don't know how to take a day off, do you?" Santi grinned. "Football doesn't stop."
Felipe shook his head, walking onto the field.
"You handled yourself well yesterday," he said. Santi caught the ball, waiting.
"But now?" Felipe continued. "Now, people are watching." Santi exhaled. Felipe wasn't wrong. He had played one great match.
"Every coach, every scout and every opponent, you're on their radar now." Felipe said. "You're not just some unknown kid anymore." Santi met his gaze.
"And you know what that means, right?" Santi nodded. "It means I have to be even better next time."
Felipe grinned. "Good. Because I'd hate to waste my coffee on someone who's only good for one game." Santi smirked.