The sun hung over Nido Águila, beating down on the training ground. But no one was thinking about the heat. Not today. Today, there were no jokes. No wasted movements. No distractions. Just work.
Coach Herrera's voice echoed across the field.
"One goal doesn't make a player. One win doesn't make a season." Santiago Cruz knew that better than anyone.
He had tasted victory. Now, he needed more. Santi stood at the top of the box, the ball at his feet. A row of cones lined up ahead, defenders waiting to be beaten.
He took a deep breath. Then, he attacked. A quick flick of his right foot; la croqueta. A smooth left-to-right shift between his feet, slicing past the first cone.
Next defender, step-over; he burst forward. A fake to the left, then an Elastico. The ball snapped outside, then inside, the defender completely wrong-footed.
One by one, he ghosted through the obstacles. Like they weren't even there. Because when Santi was in rhythm? The ball moved like it was part of him.
Felipe watched from the sideline, nodding. "Faster, Cruz," he called. "Make it instinct."
Santi pushed harder. Because this? This wasn't just training. This was becoming unstoppable. After dribbling, Santi moved straight to finishing drills.
There were two types of strikers in football. The ones who placed their shots. And the ones who destroyed the net.
Santi? He wanted to do both.
First shot. Knuckleball; his right foot struck through the ball with pure power. The ball swerved in mid-air, dipping just as the goalkeeper reached for it.
GOAL. No spin. No chance.
Second shot; Trivela.
A quick outside-foot strike, curling around the imaginary defender. GOAL.
Perfect placement. Perfect technique.
One by one, he hit every shot. Left foot. Right foot. Power. Precision. Because in real games, hesitation meant failure.
A great player wasn't just about scoring. A great player created goals. Santi set up at midfield. The drill? One-touch passing into tight spaces.
He received a ball from Solano and instantly flicked it wide. Another came, a trivela pass over the top to Ochoa.
Then, a no-look through-ball, splitting the defense. Each pass had to be sharp. Each pass had to be clean. Because at this level? Mistakes got you benched.
While Santi honed his attack, Toro was a force on the other end. One-on-one battles. Aggressive pressing. Bodying strikers off the ball.
At one point, a forward tried to beat him but Toro shut him down instantly. A clean but brutal tackle. The forward hit the ground. Toro just stood over him, offering a hand.
"Too slow," he muttered.
Santi smirked from across the field. Toro wasn't just a defender. He was a damn fortress. And if Santi wanted to beat players like him? He had to train harder.
Coach Herrera's voice cut through the air like a whip. "Everyone on the line!"
The players dragged themselves toward the sideline, muscles aching, lungs burning. But no one complained. No one hesitated. Because here? Complacency meant failure. And failure meant being forgotten.
Herrera scanned the exhausted squad, then smirked.
"You think you worked hard today?" he asked. "Prove it." A pause.
"Ten full-pitch sprints. No walking. No slowing down. If one person falls behind, we restart." Some players sighed. Others cursed under their breath.
Toro cracked his neck. Santi rolled his shoulders. This was the test. The whistle blew and they ran.
The first sprint? Easy.
The second? Still manageable.
By the fifth? Legs burned. Lungs screamed.
By the eighth? Some players started falling back.
Santi pushed forward, sweat pouring down his face. Toro was still beside him. Ríos was struggling but keeping up.
But two players in the back? Slowing down. Herrera's whistle screeched.
"Restart!" Groans filled the air. But they lined up again. Because in Herrera's world, there was no mercy.
The whistle blew and they ran again. Santi's legs felt like lead but he didn't stop. Toro's breathing was heavy but he didn't slow down.
By the tenth sprint, no one had anything left. The squad collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air. Santi's heart pounded. His body ached. But his mind? His mind was sharper than ever.
Herrera paced in front of them with arms crossed and a sharp voice.
"You suffered today," he said. "Good."
He scanned the exhausted squad, his eyes hard. "Because the teams that suffer the most in training?" A pause, then, "They dominate on match day."
His gaze lingered on Santi.
"You want to be great?" Herrera asked. Santi nodded.
Toro wiped the sweat from his face and muttered, "Figures." Santi sat up, heart pounding. Because this? This was exactly what he wanted.
As the squad dragged themselves off the pitch, Santi grabbed his water bottle and poured some over his face. His legs were on fire. His lungs burned.
But inside? Inside, he felt alive. Before he could even catch his breath, Felipe appeared. Hands in his pockets. That usual smirk.
"You still alive?" he asked. Santi exhaled, rubbing his face with his shirt.
"Barely." Felipe chuckled, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
"You looked sharp today," he admitted.
Santi smirked, adjusting his socks. "Just today?" Felipe raised an eyebrow.
"Don't get cocky, Cruz. Keep training like this, and soon it won't just be me noticing." Santi narrowed his eyes.
"What do you mean?" Felipe leaned in slightly. "Scouts talk," he said. "And I think a few people are starting to say your name." Santi froze for a second.
Not out of fear. But excitement. His name? Out there and being talked about?
Felipe took another sip of coffee, glancing toward Herrera, who stood nearby talking to one of the assistants.
"Stay sharp, kid," he muttered. "Because this?" A smirk.
"This is where things start to get interesting." Santi wiped his face with his sleeve, mind racing.
He had spent his whole life chasing this moment. But now? Now, the chase was real. People were watching. And that meant one thing. He had to be even better.