The scoreboard still read 0-0. The entire stadium was on edge. The rivalry between Club América and Chivas had produced an all-out war on the field; hard tackles, relentless pressing and near misses on both sides. Now, at the final minute, América had won a free kick just outside the 18-yard box, about 25 yards from goal.
The referee's whistle blew, signaling the foul. Santi stood over the ball, his heart pounding but kept a calm face. His teammates took their positions as the Chivas players built a wall.
The Chivas goalkeeper, Javier Ortega, shouted instructions, stretching his arms, shifting his weight and trying to anticipate where Santi might strike.
Toro jogged up to him. "You got this, hermano. Just like in training."
Felipe's words echoed in Santi's head. Be fearless. Visualize it before you take it.
The roar of the crowd dimmed into a distant hum in Santi's mind. He inhaled deeply, stepping back and eyeing the goal. Ortega crouched low, ready to pounce.
Santi had practiced this exact shot a thousand times, the perfect knuckleball, where the ball would dip and swerve unpredictably, leaving the keeper helpless.
He took three steps forward. His left foot planted firmly and his right foot struck the ball cleanly with his laces, hitting the sweet spot.
The ball soared over the wall, spinning and swerving in mid-air. Ortega reacted a second too late. The shot dipped violently, crashing into the top corner of the net.
"GOOOOOOOAL!"
The net rippled as the stadium erupted into chaos. The América bench exploded off their seats as players sprinted towards Santi. Toro was the first to reach him, tackling him in celebration.
The Chivas players stood frozen, stunned. Their keeper knelt, shaking his head, knowing there was nothing he could've done.
Santi threw his fists into the air as his name echoed through the stadium.
"Cruz! Cruz! Cruz!"
Before Chivas could react, the referee had blown the whistle, the game was over and América had won. Santi had just written his name into the rivalry's history.
Then, América's bench flooded the field. After the game, Toro was the first to reach Santi, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "Hermano, you did it!"
Luis Solano tackled them both, laughing. "That was a damn rockazo, man! Ortega didn't even move!"
More teammates joined, piling onto Santi, slapping his back and ruffling his hair. Charlie and Diego lifted him off the ground, shaking him in the air.
On the other side of the pitch, the Chivas players stood frozen. Some had their hands on their hips and others ran their fingers through their hair in frustration. Ortega, the goalkeeper, just sat on the grass, staring at the goal.
Their captain, Emiliano Vargas, marched toward the referee, shaking his head. "That wasn't a foul," he muttered but there was no conviction in his voice. He knew it was.
The Chivas coach kicked a water bottle at the sideline. "We had them!" he barked at his assistant. "We had them the whole damn game!"
But it didn't matter because the scoreline read: Chivas 0 - 1 América
As Santi broke free from his teammates, his eyes found Felipe in the stands. His uncle didn't jump or shout, he just nodded with a proud smile on his face. It was the same look Santi had seen before, back in León, when Felipe first saw him play on the streets.
Santi swallowed hard. This was only the beginning.
The players shook hands, some with genuine respect and others grudgingly. Emiliano gave Santi a curt nod. "Hell of a goal."
Santi smirked. "Hell of a fight."
As they walked off the field, the press was already waiting with cameras, reporters and flashing lights. The América players were swarmed.
One reporter shoved a microphone toward Santi. "Santiago Cruz, that was an unbelievable free kick! What was going through your head?"
Santi wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Just… hit it clean." He grinned. "And hope for the best."
Another reporter asked, "Does this win prove that you belong in the starting eleven?"
Santi chuckled. "It proves I'm just getting started."
The energy in the locker room was electric. Music blasted as players danced and water bottles sprayed in the air. Toro stood on one of the benches with arms raised. "WHO RUNS MEXICO?!"
"AMÉRICA!" everyone shouted back.
Coach Herrera entered, clapping his hands. "Enjoy this win, boys. You earned it."
Then he nodded, "This is what I wanted to see!" A few exhaled in relief.
Herrera pointed at Toro, "You led like a leader."
He turned to Charlie, "You fought every damn second."
He locked eyes with Santi. "And that was one hell of a way to announce yourself, Cruz."
He continued, "You showed Mexico what's coming!"
He paused letting the words sink.
"Rest tonight but tomorrow? Tomorrow we go again!"
Santi grinned but inside, he knew: This wasn't the finish line. This was just the first step.
There was a beat of silence, then Toro raised his fist.
"One, two, three…!"
"ÁGUILAS!" The team roared back in unison.
Charlie and Solano danced near the benches, waving towels over their heads while Diego clapped Santi on the back. "That goal, hermano… you shut them up!"
Luis Solano laughed. "Shut them up? Bro, he ended them. You should've seen Ortega's face."
Santi, still catching his breath, let out a tired chuckle. His body ached but his heart pounded with adrenaline. This was what he had dreamed about; the big moments, the pressure and the celebrations.
After the shouting, the laughter and the post-match analysis, the locker room slowly settled down. Players hit the showers, others stretched and some just sat quietly, absorbing the night.
Santi sat on the bench, staring at his cleats, now stained with grass and dirt.
Felipe had told him this moment would come. The moment where he'd feel it, not just playing for América but belonging.
Toro sat down next to him, nudging his shoulder. "You gonna sit there all night or you coming with us?"
Santi grinned, standing up. "Let's go home and celebrate!"
But deep down, he knew tonight was just the beginning.