The academy lights flickered softly as the evening settled in. The echoes of their training session still rang in Santi's body. But after a shower and a meal, the exhaustion faded into something else. Determination.
Tonight, there was no escape from the game. Even as the rest of the team sprawled out in their dorms, some watching highlights of their favorite players and others talking about life outside the academy, Santi sat on the floor with a notebook resting on his lap.
He flipped through the pages with scribbled notes on movement, passing angles, finishing drills and skill breakdowns.
Each line carried a lesson he had learned. Each diagram marked a mistake he refused to repeat.
His mind was wired differently now. He was no longer playing soccer. He was studying and living it.
Toro glanced over from his bed, shaking his head. "You ever turn it off, Cruz?"
Santi grinned. "Not when there's still work to do."
The dormitory buzzed with soft conversations. Charlie was lying on his bunk, flipping a ball in his hands while Solano was at the table, scribbling something in his notebook.
The air was different tonight. It was more focused and sharp. Tomorrow was another step toward the league match.
Santi stood, stretching his arms over his head. His muscles were still tight from training but pain was just a part of the process now.
"You coming?" Toro asked as he got up, throwing on a hoodie.
"Where?" Santi asked.
"Field." Toro replied.
Santi didn't need to ask twice. The fire never stopped burning.
The floodlights bathed the empty pitch in a cool glow. The world outside was asleep but for Santi and Toro, this was where the real work began.
They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. The ball did the speaking.
Toro focused on footwork and controlling long balls with precision while Santi practiced his finishing with low-driven shots, knuckleballs and curls from outside the box.
Every shot was a message. A message to the world that he was coming. A message to himself that he belonged.
As he lined up for one final strike, he thought of everything that had led him there; the alleys of Mexico, the fruit he used as a ball, the days his father doubted him and the tournament that changed everything.
And then he hit it. A perfect strike. The ball sailed, knuckling through the air before slamming into the top corner. The net rippled and the sound echoed through the empty pitch.
Toro whistled. "If you do that in the game, you're making the highlight reel."
Santi smiled, breathless. He would. But first, there was still more work to do.
Toro jogged over and clapped him on the back. "That's the kind of shot that makes defenders lose sleep."
Santi grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow. His legs ached, his shirt clung to his back and his lungs burned but there was no better feeling.
The field was empty, just the two of them under the cold night sky. The floodlights buzzed softly, casting long shadows on the field. This wasn't an official practice. This was the work nobody saw.
Santi turned to Toro. "One more round?"
Toro smirked. "You know, most people would call it a night after a session like that."
Santi picked up the ball, bouncing it on his thigh. "Most people don't make it."
Toro chuckled and got back into position.
They went through drills at game speed, Toro sending in long passes and Santi controlling and finishing in one touch.
Santi forced himself to react faster, to shift his body with the ball's movement and to make every shot count.
The way his feet moved, the way his body adjusted, it all felt sharper than before.
Toro threw himself into every defensive duel, refusing to make it easy.
"You want to be the best?" he grunted after blocking a shot. "Then beat me."
Santi narrowed his eyes. He took a deep breath, shifting his weight slightly. Toro read his stance and got low, ready to block another shot. But Santi had something different in mind.
He took a sharp touch forward, forcing Toro to close in. Then, a quick elastico. The ball snapped right, then left in an instant, sending Toro stumbling for half a second.
Santi took advantage, cutting inside and curling the ball toward the far post. The shot was perfect. Toro turned just in time to see the net bulge.
Santi let out a breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Toro shook his head, grinning. "That's how you do it."
They stayed out there until their bodies begged them to stop.
Toro finally dropped onto the grass, chest rising and falling. "That's it for me, man. You keep going and you'll wake up half-dead tomorrow."
Santi nodded but his eyes were still on the ball. Toro sat up. "Look, there's a difference between working hard and knowing when to recover."
Santi knew he was right. But stopping was the hardest part. He sighed and finally took a seat beside Toro, stretching his legs. The cool night air wrapped around them and the pitch felt silent except for their breathing.
"You think it's enough?" Santi asked after a while.
Toro turned to him. "What?"
"All of this. The extra hours, the pain, the sacrifices. You think it'll be enough to make it?"
Toro was quiet for a moment. Then he chuckled. "It's never enough. That's why we keep going."
Santi nodded slowly. That's why they were there. That's why they couldn't stop.
Santi lay on the grass, staring at the sky. His breath was still heavy and his chest rising and falling in rhythm with the pounding of his heart. The stadium lights hummed softly, their glow stretching across the empty field.
Toro sat up beside him, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "You're getting there," he said. "That elastico… man, that was something else."
Santi exhaled a short laugh, still feeling the moment in his bones. "Yeah?"
Toro nodded. "Yeah. You're starting to move differently. More instinct, less hesitation." He stretched his arms and groaned. "But you gotta know when to rest."
Santi turned his head slightly. "You rest when you're satisfied."
Toro smirked. "And are you?" Santi didn't answer. Because the truth was, he wasn't. Not yet.
After a few minutes, they picked themselves up, walking toward the bench where their water bottles sat.
Santi took a long sip, feeling the cold water run down his throat. His body ached but the pain was familiar, a sign that he was building something.
Toro sat down, rolling his shoulders. "You know when I first got here, I thought I was untouchable." He chuckled. "Then I met guys who made me look like a statue. They'd go past me like I wasn't even there."
Santi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So what did you do?"
Toro smirked. "I made them feel me." Santi raised an eyebrow.
Toro continued, as his voice quieter now. "I studied them. Watched their patterns, their movements. Learned how to read their shifts in balance. And when I couldn't outplay them, I outworked them." He turned to Santi. "That's what you're doing right now. But you need to find that balance."
Santi sighed, running a hand through his hair. He understood what Toro was saying but stopping still felt like giving up. As if sensing his thoughts, Toro patted his shoulder. "You're not losing progress by resting. You're making sure you can push even harder tomorrow."
Santi nodded, letting the words sink in. Maybe he wasn't satisfied yet. But he needed to be patient.
They grabbed their bags and made their way out of the field. The cool night air felt different now, less like exhaustion and more like clarity.
Santi glanced at Toro. "Thanks, man."
Toro raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
Santi shrugged. "For pushing me. For keeping it real."
Toro chuckled. "That's what teammates do, right?"
Santi smiled. "Yeah. I guess so."
They walked in silence for a bit. The distant sounds of the city hummed around them, a reminder that the world didn't stop for them.
But at that moment, under the dim streetlights, it felt like they were exactly where they needed to be.