MR. IBARRA

Alonso's legs ached with every step as he made his way home, but the pain felt different this time. It wasn't the sting of defeat but the burn of progress. 

The sky had begun to darken, the orange glow of the setting sun casting long shadows over the streets of Bilbao. Each breath he took was heavy, laced with exhaustion, yet beneath it all, a spark had been lit—one that refused to die.

When he arrived home, he found his mother in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared dinner. The aroma of simmering spices filled the air, wrapping around him like a comforting embrace. 

Lucia sat at the small dining table, her head buried in a schoolbook, her tiny fingers tracing the pages as she whispered the words to herself. She always had a habit of reading aloud in a hushed voice, as if speaking the words made them easier to remember.

His mother turned when she heard the door close behind him. One glance at his exhausted form, drenched in sweat and dust, and she sighed.

"Training?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Alonso nodded, kicking off his shoes. "With Mr. Ibarra."

His mother's brows lifted in surprise. "The old coach?"

"He saw me training alone," Alonso explained, sliding into a chair at the table. "Decided to help."

His mother placed a plate in front of him, the warmth of the food seeping into his fingers as he grasped it. She sat across from him, studying him carefully, her sharp eyes reading more than just his exhaustion. 

"And?"

Alonso took a deep breath, the day's lessons playing over in his mind. "It was hard. He pushed me in ways I've never trained before."

His mother smiled knowingly. "That's how you grow, mijo. The right teacher will challenge you."

Lucia glanced up from her book, her dark eyes wide with curiosity. "Will you train with him again?"

Alonso hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Yeah." There was no doubt in his mind.

 If he wanted to stand a chance against players like Santiago Valverde, he needed every edge he could get.

The next morning, Alonso arrived at the field before the sun had fully risen. 

The city was still waking, the distant sound of cars and early morning vendors setting up their stalls drifting through the air. The cold air nipped at his skin, but he welcomed it—it kept him alert. 

Mr. Ibarra was already there, arms crossed, watching him approach with a sharp gaze.

"You're on time," the old coach remarked.

Alonso nodded, stretching his arms. "I told you I was serious."

Mr. Ibarra smirked. "We'll see."

The session began with conditioning—short sprints, agility drills, and relentless repetition. Alonso pushed through the burn, refusing to give in to fatigue. 

He gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his back as he sprinted back and forth across the field. When they moved on to ball work, Mr. Ibarra focused on refining his technique, making minute adjustments to his posture and foot placement.

"Speed is useless without control," the coach said as Alonso weaved between cones. "Every touch should have a purpose. Precision over power."

Alonso listened intently, soaking in every word. He repeated each drill until his muscles memorized the movements and the ball felt like an extension of himself rather than something to chase after.

As the days turned into weeks, Alonso began to notice the changes. His movements became sharper, his touches more refined. The exhaustion remained, but alongside it grew a quiet confidence.

 Yet, it wasn't just his body that was changing—it was his mindset. He is no longer trained to be better simply. He trained to dominate.

One evening, after an especially grueling session, Mr. Ibarra sat beside him on the worn bench near the field. 

The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of pink and gold.

"You've improved," he admitted. "But football isn't just about skill. It's about intelligence. Anticipation. You need to read the game before it happens."

Alonso wiped the sweat from his forehead. "How do I do that?"

Mr. Ibarra tapped the side of his head. "You watch. You study. Football isn't just played with your feet—it's played with your mind."

That night, Alonso scoured the internet for matches, rewatching games he had once seen for entertainment with a new perspective. He analyzed the way players moved, the way they positioned themselves, and how they anticipated the ball's trajectory. 

He paid close attention to Santiago Valverde, trying to unravel what made him dominant on the field. He took notes, rewound clips, studied every movement like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

The next time he trained with Mr. Ibarra, he found himself thinking ahead, predicting movements rather than simply reacting. The old coach noticed.

"Good," he said with approval. "Now, we take it further."

Mr. Ibarra introduced him to scenarios, forcing him to make split-second decisions. Each drill was a test, a lesson in awareness and adaptability. Alonso failed more times than he succeeded, but he learned from every mistake. 

He hated failing, but he embraced the struggle—it meant he was improving.

As the months passed, his body grew stronger, his mind sharper. His teammates began to notice during practices.

 Where Alonso had once been just another player, now he was different—more composed, more decisive. He no longer hesitated under pressure. He dictated the tempo and controlled the flow of the play.

One day, during a team scrimmage, Alonso found himself face-to-face with their best defender. Instead of panicking, he saw the gap before it opened. A slight shift of his body, a feint, and he was past him before the defender even reacted.

 The ball kissed the net as his shot curled into the top corner.

Silence followed. Then, applause.

Coach Herrera clapped his hands together, grinning. "That's what I want to see!"

Alonso stood there, chest rising and falling, a realization settling deep in his bones.

He wasn't the same player who had walked off the field in defeat against Gustavo Academy.

He was better.

But it still wasn't enough.

As the season continued, Alonso trained harder than ever. He pushed himself beyond his limits, fueled by the memory of Santiago Valverde and the humiliation of that loss. 

He wasn't just training to be better than before—he was training to be unstoppable.

Then, one day, Coach Herrera gathered the team after practice, his expression unreadable.

 "We've been invited to a mid-season tournament," he announced. "Some of the best youth teams in the region will be there."

A ripple of excitement spread through the team. Alonso's heart pounded in his chest.

Then Coach Herrera said the words that sent a shiver down his spine.

"Gustavo Academy will be there."

A hush fell over the group. Alonso clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.

This was it.

The chance he had been waiting for.

That night, as he lay in bed, his mind wasn't clouded with doubt or fear. It was clear, and focused.

The next time he faced Santiago Valverde, he wouldn't just be another opponent.

He would be ready.