The sun had barely risen over Nido Águila but the training pitch was already alive with movement. No off day. The victory against Cruz Azul U19 was in the past.
And now? Now, the real work began. Santiago Cruz tightened his laces exhaling as he scanned the field.
Players jogged onto the pitch, stretching, passing and adjusting their socks but the mood was different. There was no laughter today. No easy warm-ups.
Because Herrera had warned them yesterday.
"That was one win. Nothing more. If you want to stay at the top, you have to suffer for it." Santi knew what that meant.
Today's session? It was going to be brutal. The whistle blew. "On the line!" Herrera barked. The players sprinted to the touchline, lining up. Herrera's eyes scanned the squad.
"Football isn't just about skill," he said. "It's about endurance, strength and suffering." He pointed at the length of the pitch.
"Thirty sprints. Full speed. No excuses."
Santi set his feet, heart already pounding. That was where we separated the weak from the strong. The whistle blew, they ran. The first few sprints were easy.
The next ten? Burning legs. Tight lungs.
By sprint twenty? Pain. But no one dared slow down. Toro led the pack, his strides powerful, unshaken. Diego and Solano gritted their teeth, pushing forward.
Santi? He wasn't falling behind. Not today. Not ever.
After that, the squad split into groups. Today wasn't just about running. It was about perfecting the details.
Santi jogged to his station, where Felipe was waiting.
"Ball control today," Felipe said, rolling a football toward him. "Mess up, and you start over." Santi caught his breath.
Then, the drill began. One-touch passes into a small target. No stopping. Sole rolls while dodging cones. Smooth and precise. Control the ball in mid-air and turn. Make it look effortless.
Santi lost the ball once. Felipe didn't say a word, just restarted the timer. They ran it again. And again.
By the fifth round, Santi was drenched in sweat but locked in.
The ball moved exactly where he wanted. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Felipe finally nodded.
"Now you're getting it." Santi smirked, but he wasn't done yet.
Next up? The hardest drill of the day. One-on-one battles. No easy defenders. No room for mistakes. It was attack vs. defense. Win and you keep possession. Lose? Sprint back and try again.
Toro stood across from Santi, arms crossed and smirking.
"Let's see what you've got, Cruz."
Santi rolled his shoulders. He wasn't backing down. The ball rolled toward him, the game was on. Toro pressed instantly. Santi feinted left, then dragged the ball back with his right. Toro didn't bite. He adjusted, closing the angle.
Santi flicked the ball up with his toe, applying the Okocha Sombrero Flick. The ball soared over Toro's head.
Santi darted around him, controlling it smoothly on the other side. The squad whistled. Felipe grinned.
Toro? He wiped the sweat from his forehead, shaking his head.
"One more time," he muttered. Santi just smirked. He loved this.
The sun was beating down on the Nido Águila training pitch, sweat dripping from every player. They were exhausted.
The session was over but Herrera wasn't done yet. He paced in front of the team, his voice cutting through the heat.
"Shooting drills," he ordered. "I want every shot on target. No excuses." The goalkeepers lined up. The field players grabbed their spots. Santi stood at the edge of the penalty box, rolling a ball under his foot.
Herrera's eyes locked onto him.
"Hit it clean, Cruz." Santi exhaled. This wasn't just about scoring. This was about perfection.
He took his stance. A short run-up. Left foot planted. And then, BOOM! His right foot struck the ball with brutal precision.
The ball exploded off his foot, rocketing toward the top corner. But this wasn't just any shot. It was a knuckleball. No spin. No curve. Just pure and unpredictable movement like Federico Valvarde's bangers.
The goalkeeper reacted too late. The ball dipped violently, swerving mid-air before crashing into the back of the net. The goalpost shook. The squad whistled. Felipe smirked from the sideline.
"Keep hitting them like that," he muttered, "and we won't need strikers anymore." Santi grinned.
But he wasn't done yet. Herrera stepped forward. "Good strike," he admitted. "Now show me finesse." Santi nodded. He reset, taking his position again. This time, instead of power, he aimed for technique.
A sharp outside-foot strike, the trivela. The ball curled perfectly, bending around an imaginary defender and sinking into the bottom corner. No chance for the keeper. The perfect assist or goal. Herrera nodded, unimpressed but satisfied.
"Again." Santi took five more shots. Five different angles. Five times the ball hit the net. Because this was how a professional trained. No luck. Just repetition.
Just as the drill was wrapping up, Toro stepped up, rolling the ball to Santi.
"Alright, superstar," he smirked. "Let's see if you've got real technique."
Santi raised an eyebrow. Toro pointed to the ball.
"Rabona. No hesitation." The other players turned, interested. A rabona wasn't just a shot. It was a statement. Santi exhaled. Took three steps back. Planted his left foot. Swung his right foot behind it. And struck.
The ball soared toward the goal, clipping the crossbar before sinking into the net. Ochoa whistled.
"Okay, okay… that was cold." Even Toro smirked.
"Not bad, Cruz." Santi just nodded.
Because he wasn't there to impress them. He was there to dominate.
The session ended with players collapsed on the grass, breathing heavily. Herrera stood in front of them, arms crossed.
"You suffered today," he said. "Good."
He looked around.
"Because the teams that suffer the most in training?" He paused.
"They dominate on match day." His gaze lingered on Santi.
"You want to be great?" Herrera said. "Then get used to this." Santi nodded.
Because he was ready for more.
As Santi walked off the pitch, Felipe fell into step beside him.
"Still alive?" he asked.
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Barely." Felipe chuckled.
"You looked sharp today," he admitted.
Santi smirked. "Just today?" Felipe sipped his coffee.
"Keep training like this, and soon it won't just be me noticing."
Santi raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?" Felipe smirked.
"Scouts talk, Cruz. And I think a few people are starting to say your name."
Santi exhaled. His heart pounded, not from exhaustion but from excitement.