The sun was setting over Nido Águila, casting an orange glow across the pitch. The pitch wasn't packed but the energy was there and every game mattered.
Santiago Cruz stood near the center circle, bouncing on his toes, rolling his shoulders and breathing in the moment.
Herrera's voice rang in his mind.
"One goal doesn't make a player. One win doesn't make a season." They had beaten Pachuca in the last match.
Now? Now, they had to do it again. Against Atlas U19.
The referee blew the whistle. The game started. For the first 25 minutes, both teams battled hard. Tight midfield duels. Aggressive pressing. No real chances.
Then, Charlie changed the game at minute 27. A counterattack. Santi received the ball in midfield, immediately pressured by two defenders. No space. No time.
So he played it fast, a beautiful pass, curling into an open space on the left wing. Charlie took off, sprinting onto the ball before a defender could react.
One touch. Two touches. The keeper rushed out but Charlie didn't panic. A calm feint and a cut inside, then BOOM! A Low shot into the bottom corner.
GOAL. 1-0. And just like that América took the lead. Santi jogged over, giving Charlie a pat on the back.
"Nice finish."
Charlie grinned, shaking his head. "You see the pass, though?"
Santi smirked. "Yeah, yeah. But the goal still needs a finisher."
Charlie winked. "Don't worry. There's more coming."
And he wasn't lying. Because at minute 54, Ochoa whipped in a perfect cross from the right. And Charlie jumped between two defenders, giving a powerful header. The ball found its way into the net. 2-0. The América bench erupted.
Santi clapped, shaking his head. Charlie was on fire. But the game wasn't over.
The clock ticked down. Five minutes left. The opposing team pushed forward, desperate for a goal. Toro and Ríos stood like a brick wall, clearing everything.
Then, a mistake. Solano won the ball in midfield. One quick glance up. He saw Santi making a run. A sharp ground pass zipped forward, cutting through two defenders. Santi turned instantly and the defenders closed in.
Santi slowed his run. The defenders expected him to pass. They hesitated. That was a big mistake because Santi dropped his right shoulder and then a step-over.
The first defender shifted left. Santi faked right, then another step-over. The second defender lunged, trying to predict his move. Wrong move. With one more step-over, his feet were dancing over the ball now, faster and unpredictable.
Another defender reacted but was too late because Santi had already passed him. A quick acceleration forward and he was in space now.
Santi glanced up. He was just outside the 18-yard box. The goalkeeper adjusted, expecting him to shoot with his right. Everyone knew Santi's right foot was deadly.
But Santi? He had other plans. One quick touch. A perfect angle. Then, BOOM!
His left foot struck through the ball like a rocket. The shot had power. But not just power but precision. The ball swerved, dipped and curved violently in mid-air.
The keeper reacted but too late. All he heard was the sound of the ball rippling the net. BOOM! Into the top corner.
GOAL!
For a split second, everything was silent. Like the pitch itself was trying to process what had just happened. Then, an explosion of sound. The América bench erupted. The crowd roared!
Even Charlie, who had been the star of the match, turned to Santi, eyes wide.
"Wait, hold on…" he muttered, jogging over. "That was your left?"
Santi smirked, catching his breath.
"Yeah?"
Ochoa shook his head, still in disbelief. "That wasn't a weak-foot shot, bro. That was a rocket."
Toro walked over, hands on his hips.
"You sure you're right-footed?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. Santi just shrugged.
Because at that moment, they realized something. He didn't have a weak foot. Every pass. Every touch. Every shot. Left or right, it didn't matter.
Santiago Cruz wasn't just two-footed. He was dangerous from anywhere.
The referee blew the final whistle. 3-0. A dominant win. Santi stood for a moment, chest rising and falling, hands on his knees and his body still buzzing with adrenaline.
The roar of the crowd, the weight of the goal he had just scored and the energy of the match all hit him at once.
Charlie walked over, still shaking his head. "Bro," he muttered, nudging Santi's arm. "You were playing like you got two strong feet."
Santi smirked. "Maybe I do."
Ochoa laughed, clapping him on the back. "You got no weak foot, Cruz. That shot was a damn weapon." Santi looked up at the scoreboard. His goal, Charlie's brace. Another win. Another moment.
But he couldn't let himself enjoy it too much. Because this wasn't the destination. This was just another step.
The players walked toward the bench, wiping the sweat from their faces as their jerseys were soaked and dirty.
Coach Herrera stood there, arms crossed with his usual sharp gaze scanning the squad. Santi braced himself for criticism.
Herrera never gave out compliments easily. But then, a nod. A simple and firm nod in Santi's direction. No words. No big speech.
Just that small gesture of approval. And to Santi? That meant more than any cheer from the crowd.
As the players started walking toward the tunnel, Felipe appeared, leaning against the dugout, coffee in hand and the usual smirk in place.
"You're getting a habit of scoring bangers, Cruz," he said.
Santi exhaled, stretching out his legs. "Not a bad habit, huh?"
Felipe chuckled. "Nah. Not bad at all."
He tilted his head slightly. "But tell me something." Santi raised an eyebrow.
"That left-footed strike," Felipe said, tapping his cup. "You've always had that in your locker?"
Santi thought about it for a second. Sure, he practiced with his left. Sure, he worked on being two-footed.
But this? Even he was a little surprised by how natural it felt.
He shrugged. "Guess I just never had a reason to use it like that before." Felipe nodded slowly.
"Well," he muttered, "you better get used to it. Because from now on?" He sipped his coffee, smirking.
"Teams are gonna realize you ain't got a weak foot. And that?"
He gestured toward the pitch.
"That makes you twice as dangerous." Santi liked the sound of that.
Back in the locker room, the mood was light. Players joked, laughed and tapped each other on the back.
Charlie, still on a high from his brace, sat on his bench, replaying clips of the match on his phone. Toro sat nearby, unlacing his boots.
"Two good games in a row," he muttered, glancing at Santi. "Let's see if you can make it three."
Santi smirked. "You'll see."
Toro gave him a small nod before looking back down. That? That was respect. Santi wasn't just another new kid anymore. He had proven something today.
As Santi left the locker room, stepping out into the warm night air, his mind was already moving forward. One thought, over and over.
"What's next?" Because this? This wasn't enough. He had played well. He had scored. But now? Now, everyone was watching.
And that meant he had to keep proving himself in every single game.
Because the road ahead? It was only getting harder.
And Santi Cruz? He was ready for whatever came next.