The First Step

The morning sun hung low over Bajo Flores, casting a golden glow through the towering gates of San Lorenzo de Almagro. Lucas Altamirano, still reeling from his unexpected selection, stood among a dozen other boys, their faces a mix of nerves and excitement. At fifteen, he felt the weight of his patched sneakers and borrowed shin guards, but the fire inside him burned brighter than ever. He'd made it—against all odds, he was here, in the heart of the club he'd dreamed of since he was a kid kicking a deflated ball in the streets.

Valentina Herrera, the assistant coach, led the group through the club's sprawling facilities, her ponytail bouncing with each purposeful step. "This is your new home," she said, her voice firm but warm. "Respect it, and it'll make you." The boys followed, wide-eyed, as she pointed out the gym with its gleaming equipment, the locker rooms with polished wooden benches, and the recovery rooms that smelled faintly of antiseptic. Lucas's heart raced. This was a world apart from the dusty lots of Bajo Flores, a place where dreams felt tangible.

They stopped at the equipment room, a space lined with racks of red and blue kits, the San Lorenzo crest embroidered on every piece. Lucas's breath caught as Herrera handed him a training jersey, shorts, and socks, all crisp and new. He ran his fingers over the crest, the fabric soft against his calloused hands. "Put these on later," Herrera said, her sharp eyes scanning the group. "You represent San Lorenzo now. Act like it."

The group was ushered into a cavernous waiting room, its walls adorned with photos of past legends—players who'd lifted trophies and etched their names into the club's history. Lucas sat on a plastic chair, clutching his new kit, his mind racing. I'm really here. The thought was dizzying, almost unreal. Before he could dwell on it, the door swung open, and Mazza Tomas, the head physical trainer, strode in. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his presence commanding silence.

"Welcome to San Lorenzo," Mazza said, his voice a low rumble. "As a professional club, we have standards. Before you step on that field, every one of you gets a full physical and medical check. We need to know what you're made of—strength, stamina, weaknesses. No exceptions." He pointed to a hallway leading to the medical wing. "Let's move."

Lucas's group was herded into the medical room, a sterile space with white walls and humming machines. A doctor in a crisp coat called his name, and Lucas stepped forward, his heart pounding. The exam was thorough—height, weight, heart rate, lung capacity. The doctor scribbled notes, pausing when he measured Lucas. "Six feet even," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Tall for your age. Good for headers." Lucas nodded, a flicker of pride sparking in his chest. His height had always been his edge, the one thing that made him stand out.

But the doctor's next words tempered his confidence. "Muscle mass is low, though. You're lanky—too lanky. You'll need to bulk up if you want to compete here." Lucas's face flushed as the doctor jotted down more notes. Low muscle mass. The words stung, a reminder of his limits. He wasn't the polished forward San Lorenzo expected, not yet. But he'd work for it. He had to.

After the exams, Herrera led the boys to a training field, its grass so green it seemed to glow. The stands loomed empty, but Lucas could almost hear the roar of a crowd, the pulse of a match. Herrera stopped at the edge of the pitch, her voice steady. "And finally, here's where you'll train for the next few years. This is where you earn your place." In the distance, a figure stood with hands behind his back, dressed in a San Lorenzo tracksuit, a whistle dangling from his neck. "Gallego" Insúa, the head coach, exuded authority even from afar.

Insúa's voice cut through the air like a whip. "Quick, quick, quick!" he shouted, his tone sharp and militaristic. "Move it! Warm up before the day's gone!" The boys scrambled, dropping their bags and jogging to the center of the field. Lucas's legs felt heavy, his nerves buzzing, but he fell into line, mimicking the stretches of the others. Insúa paced like a general, barking orders. "Faster! You're not here to stroll!"

The training began with relentless drills—sprints, passing, tackling. Lucas's lack of skill as a forward showed immediately. His touches were clumsy, the ball slipping away when he tried to control it. A boy with slicked-back hair—Roberto Pérez, Lucas would later learn—snickered as Lucas misjudged a pass. But Lucas gritted his teeth, focusing on what he knew: pressure, positioning, using his height. When a high ball came in, he leaped, his header clean and powerful, earning a grunt from Insúa. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Hours passed in a blur of sweat and effort. Lucas's lungs burned, his muscles ached, and his jersey clung to his skin, soaked through. The drills were brutal, designed to weed out the weak. But with every sprint, every tackle, Lucas felt a spark of joy. He was here, on this field, wearing San Lorenzo's colors. He belonged.

As the session ended, the boys collapsed onto the grass, panting. Lucas lay back, staring at the fading sky, his chest heaving. He was exhausted, his body screaming, but a smile tugged at his lips. For the first time in his life, he felt like he was exactly where he was meant to be. The crest on his chest, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the distant whistle of Insúa—it was real. He'd made it through the first day, but a quiet voice whispered in his mind: This is just the beginning. Can you keep up?

[End for chapter 3]