The sun had barely risen over Nido Águila but Santiago Cruz was already on the training pitch. The cool morning air carried the faint sound of birds and distant traffic from the city.
Most of the squad was still sleeping, enjoying the morning off after their 3-0 victory the night before.
But Santi? Santi wasn't resting. Not when his name was starting to spread. Not when scouts were talking. Not when every touch, every goal and every movement on the pitch mattered more than ever.
He set up cones, arranging them for tight dribbling drills. Then he started with quick and precise movements; sharp turns, feints and fakes.
Left foot. Right foot. Over and over. Faster. Smoother. He wasn't just training. He was perfecting his craft. Because if defenders didn't know how to stop him before? Then after today? They never would.
Santi was at mid-drill when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Slow and relaxed. Felipe.
Hands in his pockets. Coffee in one hand. That familiar smirk on his face.
"You do know there's a recovery day for a reason, right?" Felipe asked, taking a sip.
Santi didn't answer. Just adjusted his stance and lined up another shot. BOOM! A knuckleball into the top corner.
Felipe let out a short laugh. "Yeah, that's what I thought." Santi walked over, picking up another ball.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
Felipe took a slow sip, watching him carefully. "Because," he said, "word is starting to spread about a certain kid with no weak foot."
Santi froze for a second. Not out of fear. But out of realization. This was happening. Everything he had worked for. The extra hours. The exhaustion. The pain. They were all leading to this moment.
Felipe walked closer, his voice quieter but sharper.
"Scouts talk, Cruz. And you? You're starting to show up on some lists." Santi exhaled.
He had spent his whole life waiting to be noticed.
Now? People were watching. Felipe sipped his coffee again, glancing at him.
"Now the question is…" he tilted his head. "What are you gonna do about it?" Santi met his gaze. No hesitation.
"Train harder."
Felipe smirked. "Good answer."
By midday, the whole squad was on the pitch. And Herrera? He wasn't going easy. "Three wins in a row doesn't mean a damn thing," he barked as the team stretched.
"You think teams will back off now? You think defenders will just let you play?"
His gaze landed on Santi. "You think because you scored a couple of nice goals, people won't study you?" Santi clenched his jaw. Because he already knew, that the better he played, the more people would try to stop him.
And Herrera? He was making sure Santi was ready.
The training began. It was brutal. Tight-space drills. Quick decision-making. One-touch passing under pressure.
If you lost the ball? You Sprint. If you misplaced a pass? You Sprint. Every mistake was punished. Every touch had to be clean.
Santi was getting fouled more than usual. Toro, Ríos and even Solano were going harder than normal.
Because now? Now they weren't treating him like a talented prospect. They were treating him like a player who mattered. And if he wanted to be great? He had to handle it.
Herrera blew his whistle. "Full-field scrimmage. Fast play. No holding back." The match started with a different energy. Toro and Ríos were locking down the defense.
Charlie and Ochoa were pushing forward. Santi? He had a target on his back. Every time he got the ball, pressure came instantly. Toro was on him. Solano was tracking his every move. The space he usually found so easily? It was gone.
This wasn't just training anymore. This was a test. For the first ten minutes, Santi struggled. Every time he tried to turn, a defender was already there. Every time he looked for space, it closed before he could move.
He could feel it, the respect was gone. Now, they were playing him like a real threat. And he had two choices. Complain or adapt. Santi exhaled, rolling his shoulders. Fine.
If they wanted to pressure him? Then he'd play smarter.
Santi started moving differently. Instead of waiting for the ball, he checked in deep, dragging Solano out of position.
Instead of dribbling through defenders, he played quick passes, one-touch, two-touch. Instead of trying to take on Toro directly, he used his movement to shift defenders and create space for Charlie.
And then, his moment came.
The moment Solano lunged, Santi already knew what to do. One quick touch past him, just enough to escape the challenge.
Now? Space. Santi exploded forward. Ochoa spotted him instantly. A perfectly timed through-ball, threading between two defenders.
Santi didn't slow down. Didn't hesitate. One touch to control. Then, BOOM! A low-driven shot, curling inside the far post. The goalkeeper dived but was too late because the ball found its way into the net. Goal!
For a brief second, everything stopped. No one expected him to get through so cleanly. No one expected him to finish with that much precision.
Charlie was the first to react. "Bro," he muttered, shaking his head as he jogged over. "You don't miss, do you?"
Ochoa whistled. "That wasn't just a finish, Cruz. That was a damn statement." Even Toro, who rarely gave praise, simply nodded as he walked past. "Good movement," he said. "Smart play." In football, that was respect. And Santi had just earned more of it.
As Santi jogged back to his position, Herrera blew the whistle. The scrimmage was over.
The squad gathered near the sideline, wiping the sweat from their faces and stretching their legs.
Herrera paced in front of them, his usual intense gaze scanning the squad.
"You think you're good?" he said, voice sharp. "You think that's enough?" Silence.
He stopped, looking directly at Santi.
"You had a good match yesterday," Herrera said. "And you played well today." A pause.
"But good players disappear after one or two games. Great players?" His voice lowered. "They force people to remember their name every time they step on the field."
Santi held his breath. This wasn't just coaching. This was a challenge. Herrera turned away, checking his watch.
"Session's done. See you tomorrow."
And just like that, he walked off. No praise. No congratulations. Just the expectation of more.
As the players headed to the locker room, Santi grabbed his water bottle and poured some water over his face. Then, Felipe appeared. Arms crossed, coffee cup in hand and watching him closely.
"That adjustment you made?" Felipe said. "That's what pros do." Santi took a deep breath, still catching his breath.
Felipe stepped forward. "And that means one thing, Cruz." Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking up. Felipe smirked. "More people are watching."
Santi's heart pounded, not from exhaustion. But from anticipation.
Because now? He had to prove he wasn't just a player with potential. He had to prove he was the real deal.