Soccer Boy

The stars hung low in the sky, flickering like tiny promises.

Santiago Cruz sat outside the small adobe house with his bag resting against his feet, listening to the sounds of San Isidro at night; the distant barking of dogs, the quiet murmur of the wind and the rhythmic chirping of crickets.

This was his home. But after tonight, it would no longer be his world. The tournament in León was tomorrow.

And for the first time in his life, he was leaving. His heart pounded with excitement. With fear. With the weight of a goodbye he wasn't sure how to say.

Because once he walked away from this life, he wasn't coming back the same.

Santi felt a small hand tug at his shirt. He turned to see Lupita, standing barefooted in her nightgown with her big brown eyes filled with worry. "You're really leaving?" she whispered. Santi swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yeah."

"For how long?" Santi hesitated. He didn't know. "Not long," he lied. Lupita frowned, crossing her little arms. "That's what people say when they don't come back."

Santi felt something break inside him. He pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. "I'll always come back," he promised. She buried her face into his chest. "But what if you don't?" Santi closed his eyes. "Then I'll send for you."

Lupita sniffled. "Really?"

"Really." Santi whispered.

She pulled back, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Then, she reached into the pocket of her dress and held something out. A tiny, wooden figurine of a soccer player. Santi stared at it.

"I made it for you," Lupita mumbled. Santi took it carefully, his hands suddenly unsteady.

"Now you have to win," she said, her voice shaking. Santi blinked hard to stop the sting in his eyes.

"I will." And this time, he meant it.

Inside, his mother stood by the stove, the firelight flickering against her face. She wasn't cooking. She was just standing there, staring into the flames. As if she were memorizing them. As if she were afraid that if she turned around, her son would already be gone.

Santi stepped forward. "Mamá." She turned. And the second she saw him, her face crumpled. Without a word, she pulled him into her arms. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, she took his hands in hers. Her palms were rough from years of grinding maize. Her touch, familiar and steady.

"Promise me something," she whispered. Santi nodded. "Anything."

She squeezed his fingers. "Don't forget where you come from." Santi felt a knot tighten in his chest.

"I won't," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. She smiled sadly.

"Go," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Before I change my mind."

Santi couldn't speak. So instead, he hugged her one last time. Then, he turned toward the door. And didn't look back.

The marketplace was quiet at this hour. Most of the vendors had packed up, the streets empty except for a few stray dogs sniffing around for scraps.

Santi walked toward Don Chuy's store, where he knew Tavo would be waiting. And sure enough, there he was leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"About time," Tavo muttered. "I was starting to think you changed your mind." Santi smirked. "Not a chance." Tavo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair.

"You know, it's weird," he said. "I always knew you were gonna leave one day." Santi tilted his head. "Really?"

Tavo shrugged. "Yeah. You were never meant to stay here." Santi swallowed hard. Because he had always known that, too.

Tavo reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. A red string bracelet. "For luck," he said, tossing it to Santi. Santi caught it. "You believe in this stuff?" Tavo grinned. "Not really. But you do."

Santi tied the bracelet around his wrist, feeling his chest tighten.

"Don't forget us when you're famous," Tavo joked. Santi smiled. "Never."

They stood there for a long moment, neither wanting to say the real goodbye.

Then, Tavo smirked. "You better not suck in León." Santi laughed. "Watch me."

Then, with one last glance at his best friend, he turned and walked away.

By the time Santi reached home again, his father was waiting. Don Manuel stood outside, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, his father gestured toward the old pickup truck parked nearby. "Felipe's waiting." Santi swallowed. This was it. His father looked at him carefully.

And then, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, he said. "Make it count."

Santi's breath caught. For the first time, his father wasn't stopping him. He was letting him go. Santi nodded.

And without another word, he climbed into the truck. The old pickup truck rumbled over the uneven roads, the morning sun slowly rising behind them.

Santiago Cruz sat in the passenger seat, gripping the small cloth bundle his mother had given him. Inside were warm tortillas, a handful of coins and the tiny wooden cross she had pressed into his palm.

Everything he carried with him was small. But the weight of what he was leaving behind was enormous. He looked out at the fading fields of San Isidro, the endless stretches of dry maize and the distant hills that had once felt like the edge of the world.

For the first time in his life, he was crossing that edge. Felipe, his uncle, drove in silence for a long while, his hands steady on the wheel. The wind whistled through the half-open window, carrying the scent of dust and freedom.

Then, finally, Felipe spoke. "You nervous?" Santi exhaled, staring at the road ahead. "Yes."

Felipe smirked. "Good. That means it matters."

The hours passed slowly. At first, Santi couldn't sit still. His legs bounced restlessly, his hands fidgeting with the red bracelet Tavo had given him.

But as they got farther from home, the nervous energy settled into something heavier. Something like… doubt.

Felipe noticed. "Talk to me." Santi hesitated. "What if I'm not good enough?" Felipe sighed.

"Do you think I'd be driving you all this way if I thought you weren't?" Santi looked down at his hands. "You thought you were good once, too." Felipe stiffened.

A long silence stretched between them. Then, Felipe sighed. "Yeah. I did." Santi turned to him. "What happened?"

Felipe's grip on the wheel tightened. "I played," he said. "I had the talent. The hunger." His voice darkened.

"But I didn't have the right people around me. I trusted the wrong ones. Made bad decisions. And when I failed… I had no one to help me get back up." Santi swallowed hard.

Felipe glanced at him. "That's why I'm here. So that doesn't happen to you." Santi nodded slowly. Because deep down, he understood. Felipe hadn't just come back to San Isidro for a visit.

This was his second chance, too.

When they reached the outskirts of León, Santi felt his world shift. The dry countryside melted into paved streets lined with shops, colorful murals and towering billboards of famous players.

Traffic thickened. The air smelled of street food, gasoline, and opportunity. Felipe smirked. "Different, huh?"

Santi nodded. "It feels… bigger." Felipe chuckled. "That's because it is." As they drove deeper into the city, they passed a massive stadium.

Santi's breath caught. Even from the outside, it looked alive. Flags waved in the wind. Banners of professional teams lined the walls.

And for the first time in his life, Santi saw something he had only imagined. A real field.

Not a dusty alley. Not a patch of dirt behind the marketplace. A real, green, perfect field.

Felipe followed his gaze. "Tomorrow," he said, "you'll be playing on one of those." Santi felt his pulse pound in his ears.

Felipe pulled into a small motel on the edge of the city. It was nothing fancy; chipped paint, an old neon sign that flickered weakly and a single rotating fan visible through the lobby window.

But to Santi, it was perfect. Felipe grabbed his bag from the back of the truck. "Come on."

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and cleaning products. The receptionist barely looked up as Felipe checked them in. The room was small with two beds, a creaky wooden table and a tiny bathroom with a flickering light.

Felipe tossed his bag onto the bed and stretched. Santi dropped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. His body ached from the long drive.

But his mind… his mind wouldn't stop racing. Felipe sat at the edge of his bed, watching him. "You ready?" Santi let out a shaky breath.

"I don't know." Felipe smirked. "That's normal." Santi sat up. "What if I fail?" Felipe leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Then you fail," he said simply. Santi frowned.

Felipe smiled. "But if you don't try? That's worse." Santi thought about that. Because he knew this was his shot.

Maybe his only shot. Felipe patted his shoulder. "Get some rest." Santi nodded. "And remember to pray to God always." He nodded again.

But as he lay down, staring at the ceiling, sleep felt impossible. Tomorrow, everything would change. Tomorrow, the world would know his name.