Pushing the Limits

The San Lorenzo training field glowed under the late March sun, its lush green grass a stark contrast to the dusty lots of Bajo Flores. Lucas Altamirano, fifteen and still reeling from his first day at the club's youth academy, stood among the other boys, his red and blue training kit clinging to his lanky frame. The crest on his chest was a symbol of pride, but it also felt like a challenge he wasn't sure he could meet. Yesterday's medical exam had laid bare his strengths and weaknesses: six feet tall, a natural for headers, but with too little muscle and even less finesse. Today, he'd have to prove he belonged in a world of polished forwards, far from the gritty defender he'd been.

"Gallego" Insúa, the head coach, stood at the center of the pitch, his weathered face as unyielding as the concrete stands looming behind him. His whistle glinted like a warning. "Technique today," he growled, his voice slicing through the humid air. "Control, passing, finishing. Forwards don't just run—they think. Show me you're worth my time." The boys nodded, fanning out for the first drill: controlling a long ball under pressure. Lucas's stomach churned. As a defender, he'd relied on instinct, his height a shield against attackers. But here, every touch was a test, and he was already faltering.

The drill began, and Lucas's lack of skill was painfully clear. A ball soared in, high and curving, but he misjudged its spin. His touch was clumsy, sending the ball skittering across the grass like a startled animal. Roberto Pérez, the slick-haired boy who'd mocked him at the tryouts, let out a sharp laugh. "Nice one, Flaco," he called, his voice dripping with scorn. Lucas's cheeks burned, his pulse hammering in his ears, but he reset, jaw tight. Another attempt, another miss. The other boys—sleek, confident, their cleats gleaming—made it look effortless, their touches light and precise. Lucas felt like he was sinking, each error pulling him deeper into doubt.

The next drill was passing in tight spaces, a maze of cones demanding accuracy. Lucas's passes were heavy, veering off course, drawing a scowl from Insúa. Pérez, quick and sharp, darted through the exercise, his ball pinging like a metronome. During a water break, he sauntered over, his smirk cutting. "Why're you even here? This isn't Bajo Flores. You're not fooling anyone, playing forward like that." Lucas's fists clenched, anger flaring hot in his chest. He wanted to shove back, to say something, but Insúa's whistle snapped them back to work.

The morning culminated in a shooting drill, and Lucas's hopes sank further. His shots were a mess—wild ones sailed over the stands, weak ones rolled tamely to the keeper. Pérez's strikes, crisp and deadly, earned murmurs of approval. Lucas's frustration boiled, his dream of wearing San Lorenzo's colors slipping like sand through his fingers. But the final exercise was crosses, a chance to attack high balls. His heart lifted. This was his domain. As a defender, he'd mastered aerial duels, his height a weapon. A winger lofted a perfect cross, and Lucas timed his leap, the world slowing as he met the ball. His header cracked like thunder, rocketing past the keeper into the net. The boys fell silent. Insúa's eyes narrowed, a grunt escaping him. "Not bad, Altamirano." Pérez's smirk vanished, and Lucas's chest swelled, a flicker of triumph cutting through his doubts.

At the midday break, Lucas slumped onto the grass, his throat raw as he gulped water. The heat pressed down, the distant hum of Buenos Aires blending with the chatter of teammates. Alexis Cuello, his best friend, dropped beside him, his grin as bright as the sun. "Don't let Pérez get under your skin, Flaco," he said, nudging Lucas's shoulder. "He's just noise." Lucas stared at his mud-streaked boots, his voice low. "It's not just him, Alexis. You make this look easy. I'm… I'm failing." Alexis shook his head, his eyes warm. "Remember that night in Bajo Flores? You kept heading till your legs gave out, till the streetlights flickered off. That fire in you—it's why you're here. Don't lose it." Lucas's lips twitched, a memory surfacing: the two of them, kids in a dusty lot, chasing a dream under the stars. Alexis was right. San Lorenzo had chosen him for a reason.

The afternoon session was brutal—sprints that burned his lungs, tackling drills that bruised his shins, more passing exercises that exposed his flaws. Lucas's touches improved slightly, but he was still trailing. As the boys packed up, Valentina Herrera, the assistant coach, called him over. Her dark eyes were steady, her voice firm but kind. "You've got heart, Altamirano, but your technique's raw. You're not a forward yet. Use your height, your instincts from defending, while you learn. It's a long road, but don't quit." Lucas nodded, her words sinking deep. For the first time, a coach saw something in him worth shaping, and it lit a spark of hope.

As dusk fell, Lucas lingered on the field, the stadium lights buzzing to life. His body screamed—muscles aching, kit soaked, lungs raw—but his mind was alive. He thought of his father, Raúl, his quiet voice echoing: "If you don't try, you'll regret it forever." Lucas tightened his fists, a vow forming. He'd train harder, push further, become the player San Lorenzo needed. He had to.

But as he turned to leave, Insúa's voice cut through the twilight. "Altamirano," he said, his tone sharp as a blade. "We don't hand out spots here. Want to stay? Earn it." Lucas's heart sank, doubt creeping in like a shadow. He forced a nod, muttering, "Yes, sir," but the words haunted him as he walked away. Earn it. Could he?

[End for chapter 4]