Newest Talent

The city of León was still alive outside the small motel room. Cars honked in the distance. Street vendors shouted their final sales. Laughter and music drifted from the nearby plazas.

But inside, everything was silent. Santiago Cruz lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

His body ached, exhaustion pulling at his muscles but his mind wouldn't rest.

The tournament was over. And he had won. Not just a spot at Club América's youth academy. Not just the Best Player of the Tournament award. He had won his future.

And yet, something inside him whispered, that was only the beginning.

The pressure wasn't gone. It was just shifting. Before, he had to fight for a chance. Now, he had to fight to keep it.

Because if there was one thing harder than getting noticed, it was proving you deserved it.

Felipe sat on the other side of the room, sipping coffee from a paper cup and watching Santi with a smirk.

"You know, kid," he said, setting the cup down, "most people would be celebrating right now." Santi turned his head, exhaling deeply.

"I'm not most people," he said. Felipe chuckled. "Yeah, I figured that out already."

He reached into his bag, pulled something out and tossed it onto Santi's bed. A brand-new smartphone. Santi sat up, blinking.

"What's this?" Felipe leaned back in his chair.

"Your new best friend. You're about to enter a whole new world, Santi. You need to study. Learn from the best. And now, you can."

Santi picked up the phone, turning it over in his hands. He had never owned a phone like this. Felipe smirked, nodding toward the screen.

"Go on. You have Wi-Fi now. Welcome to the 21st century."

Santi spent the next few hours completely locked in. He wasn't texting. He wasn't scrolling through nonsense.

He was studying and watching.

Cristiano Ronaldo; his discipline, his relentless work ethic and his hunger to always be the best.

Messi; his dribbling, his balance and his ability to glide past defenders like a ghost.

Ronaldinho; his joy, his creativity and the way he made football feel like magic.

Neymar; his fearlessness, his footwork and his ability to humiliate defenders with his skill.

Pele; the greatest of them all, the man who didn't just play football but he defined it.

Santi wasn't just watching highlights. He was breaking down movements. Rewinding step-overs. Analyzing body feints. Studying the angles of their shots, the timing of their dribbles and the way they controlled space.

He wasn't watching to be entertained. He was watching to learn. To take their best moves and make them his own.

Somewhere between watching Pele's legendary goals and Neymar's flashy footwork, a thought struck him.

He had spent years dreaming of being like the legends. But that wasn't enough.

He didn't want to be the next Pele. Or the next Ronaldo. Or the next Messi.

He wanted to be the first Santiago Cruz. The name that kids in Mexico would chant one day. The name that future players would study.

The name that would be remembered. His fingers clenched around the phone.

It wasn't about talent anymore. It was about obsession. About becoming more than anyone had ever imagined.

And he had two days before stepping into the toughest environment of his life. He wasn't going to waste a second.

Felipe leaned against the motel wall, arms crossed as he watched Santiago Cruz with quiet admiration.

Most kids would be out celebrating after a moment like this. They would be soaking in the victory, bragging and dreaming about fame and fortune.

But Santi?

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, eyes glued to the screen of his new phone and watching football like it was a sacred scripture.

His fingers twitched slightly as if imagining himself doing the same moves. His mind wasn't in the motel room. It was already on the field. Already at Club América.

Felipe smirked to himself. "This kid is destined for greatness."

Santi barely blinked as he watched the legends of the game.

Cristiano Ronaldo; power, speed and relentless drive. The video showed him training at 4 AM, perfecting his finishing and sculpting his body into a machine.

Santi sat up straighter.

"If I want to be the best, I have to work like that."

He switched to Lionel Messi; grace, balance and pure genius. The way he slalomed past defenders like they were standing still.

Santi rewound clips, watching his touches frame by frame. "How does he move like that?"

Then Ronaldinho; the magician and the entertainer. Santi smiled as he watched him pull off insane elastico flicks, making defenders look foolish while playing with a joy that few others had.

"I don't just want to be great," Santi thought. "I want to make people love the way I play." He watched Neymar's fearless skills, his quick cuts and flashy tricks.

He studied Pele's finishing; the precision and the deadly instinct in front of goal.

Every move. Every feint. Every small detail, Santi absorbed it all. Not just to copy. To build his own style.

After hours of watching, Santi finally leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. He could feel it.

The fire inside him. The hunger. He didn't just want to be the next big thing. He didn't just want to be compared to legends. He wanted to be the first Santi Cruz.

In a country where the streets were filled with kids dreaming of being the next Chicharito or Cuauhtémoc Blanco. He wanted to be something different. Not just a goal scorer. Not just a flashy dribbler. Not just a hard worker.

A player that no one had ever seen before. His own name. His own legacy. The first of his kind.

Felipe finally pushed off the wall, walking toward Santi's bed.

"Alright, genius," he said. "You've been staring at that screen for hours. What exactly are you learning?" Santi looked up, his eyes still burning with focus.

"That I have a lot of work to do," he said simply. Felipe raised an eyebrow.

"You just won Best Player of the Tournament. You're about to join one of the biggest academies in Mexico. And you think you have work to do?" Santi nodded.

Felipe studied him for a moment, then laughed.

"That's good," he said. "Because Club América doesn't care about what you did yesterday. Only what you do next."

Santi sat up. "What's next?" Felipe crossed his arms.

"In two days, we leave for the academy." Santi nodded. He already knew that.

Felipe smirked. "But before then, we train."

Santi's heart jumped. He had spent the whole day pushing himself in the match, then hours learning from legends. But he wasn't tired. He wanted more. Felipe walked toward the door, grabbing his jacket.

"Come on," he said. "I know a place." Santi didn't ask questions. He just followed.

The field outside León was old, hidden between rundown buildings and abandoned warehouses.

The artificial turf was torn in places, the faded white lines barely visible under the dim floodlights.

But to Santiago Cruz? It was perfect. Felipe had brought him there for one reason, to test him. No scouts. No cameras. No crowd chanting his name.

Just him, the ball and the game. Felipe stood a few feet away with arms crossed and watching.

"Alright, kid," he said, rolling the ball toward him. "Let's see what you've learned." Santi took a deep breath, then stepped forward.

Felipe was no ordinary coach. He had played professionally. He had been where Santi wanted to go.

And if Santi thought this was going to be easy, then he was wrong.

The moment he touched the ball, Felipe closed the space instantly. No time to think. No room to breathe.

Santi cut left but Felipe followed. He tried a body feint but Felipe didn't bite.

Santi spun, shielding the ball and trying to create an opening but Felipe slammed into him knocking him off balance.

"Too slow," Felipe muttered. "At Club América, defenders will eat you alive if you take that long."

Santi gritted his teeth. He reset. Took a step back. And tried again. This time, he reacted faster. Instead of waiting for Felipe to press, he attacked first.

A quick touch, a sudden drop of the shoulder and then an explosive burst forward.

Felipe reached but Santi was gone. He flew past him, cutting toward the goal with his body moving on instinct.

One-on-one with the keeper. Without thinking, Santi flicked the ball up, then volleyed it into the top corner. The net rippled.

Felipe let out a small chuckle.

"Better," he said. "But we're just getting started."

For the next two hours, Felipe pushed him like never before.

Short sprints to build explosiveness. Tight dribbling drills to sharpen his control under pressure. Passing sequences to make his decision-making faster. Everything was about preparing him for what was coming.

Club América's academy wouldn't care about his potential. They wouldn't care about his story. All they would care about was what he could do when the ball was at his feet.

Felipe barked instructions, correcting every mistake.

"Don't just pass…..pass with purpose."

"Faster, faster! Club América doesn't wait for slow players!"

"Defenders are coming! Move the ball before you get killed!"

Santi's legs burned. His lungs ached. But he refused to stop. He had two days before stepping into the most competitive environment of his life. Every second mattered.

After a brutal session of skill drills, Felipe suddenly shoved him to the ground. Santi hit the turf, surprised.

He looked up. Felipe stood over him, smirking.

"Welcome to professional football," Felipe said. "You think defenders are gonna let you play pretty?"

Santi pushed himself up, brushing dirt off his shorts.

"Get up," Felipe said. "Again."

Santi barely had time to react before Felipe knocked into him again. This time, Santi held his ground. He planted his feet, bracing against the impact and shielding the ball with his body.

Felipe pushed again but Santi didn't fall. Instead, he spun away, dragging the ball with him. Felipe nodded.

"Good. Now do that against guys twice my size." Santi exhaled, sweat dripping down his face. He was ready for whatever came next.

Just when Santi thought they were done, Felipe set up one last drill. A 10-meter box.

One rule: Santi couldn't leave the space. Felipe? He could attack from any angle. Santi had to keep possession. Had to escape tight spaces. Had to survive.

The moment the drill started, Felipe was on him. Fast. Aggressive. Unforgiving. Santi's touch had to be perfect.

A second too slow and Felipe was already lunging. A pass too soft and Felipe was cutting it off. Santi had to use everything he had learned.

Messi's quick turns. Ronaldinho's flicks. Neymar's balance. Every touch had to be pure, clean and precise.

And after ten exhausting minutes, he lasted. Felipe finally stepped back. He nodded. Then smiled.

"Alright, kid," he said. "Now you're ready."

The night air was cool against Santi's sweaty skin as they walked back to the motel. His legs felt like lead. His muscles ached. But inside? He felt stronger than ever.

Felipe walked beside him with hands in his pockets.

"How do you feel?" he asked. Santi took a deep breath.

"Like I belong here," he said.

Felipe chuckled. "Good answer."

They reached the motel and before going inside, Felipe turned to him.

"Listen," he said. "You're about to enter a world where every kid thinks they're special. Every single one of them has talent. Every single one of them wants to make it." Santi met his eyes.

"But you?" Felipe continued. "You have something different. Something they can't teach." Santi waited. Felipe smirked.

"You have the hunger." Santi clenched his fists. He did. And in two days, he was going to show Club América exactly what that meant.

Santi sat outside the motel, staring up at the stars. Two days. Forty-eight hours.

That was all that separated him from stepping into the most competitive academy in Mexico.

He thought about home. His mother. His father. The fields where he had first kicked an orange instead of a football.

He wasn't just playing for himself. He was playing for everyone who had ever believed in him. Felipe stepped outside, standing next to him.

"Excited?" he asked. Santi exhaled. "I'm ready." Felipe nodded.

"You've trained like a madman for two days. You've learned from the best players in history. But do you know the most important thing you need to bring with you tomorrow?"

Santi looked up. Felipe smirked. "Confidence." Santi clenched his fists. He wasn't scared. He wasn't nervous.