Soccer Boy

The tournament in León wasn't just any competition. It was the tournament, a battleground where the best teenage players from the streets of León and beyond came to fight for a shot at something bigger.

Five days. Hundreds of players. A handful of dreams that would survive.

And above them, watching from the stands, were the men who could change their lives. Scouts from Liga MX academies, second-division clubs and even international teams sat in a special section, clipboards in hand and whispering to one another.

Some had their eyes on specific names of kids from well-known academies, the ones already rumored to be the next stars. But others were waiting. Waiting to be surprised. Waiting for someone to force them to take notice.

Santiago Cruz wasn't on anyone's list. But he would be. He had to be.

Santi stood in line, his heartbeat pounding in his ears as an official called out names. Each player was been assigned a team; a mix of street players, youth club kids and unknowns. No chemistry. No trust.

Just five days to prove yourself. The official's voice echoed through the stadium.

"Team Blanco."

"Santiago Cruz."

Santi stepped forward, his fingers tightening into fists. This was real. His teammates were already gathered; a group of boys eyeing each other carefully, silently deciding who was worth respecting.

One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered center-back with a shaved head, locked eyes with Santi.

"You any good?" he asked, his tone casual but testing. Santi didn't flinch.

"Guess you'll find out." The boy smirked. "Good. We need ballers." His name was Marcos, a defender from Guadalajara; tough and confident leader.

Beside him, a shorter, lightning-fast winger cracked his knuckles. "Just give me the ball," the boy muttered. "I'll do the rest."

Santi already liked him. The coach, a retired third-division player with cold, calculating eyes, stepped forward.

"We don't have time to build chemistry," he said bluntly. "Play smart. Show what you can do. That's all that matters." Santi nodded once. He knew what he had to do.

The first match would be a short, intense test. Each player would only get 20 minutes on the field before substitutions rotated in. Twenty minutes to prove you deserved to be here. Twenty minutes to make them remember your name.

Santi jogged onto the pitch. The grass was real beneath his feet; soft and perfect. The sun bore down, heat pressing against his skin.

From the corner of his eye, he saw them. The scouts. Men in sleek jackets. Coaches. Agents. Watching. Studying. Waiting to see who would rise above the rest. Santi's stomach twisted. This was nothing like home.

And the boys around him? They were there to survive.

The whistle blew. The game exploded into motion. Drowning Santi wasn't prepared for the speed. It wasn't like the games in San Isidro, where he could dance around defenders at will.

There, everyone was fast. The pressing was relentless. The space disappeared instantly. For the first five minutes, Santi barely touched the ball.

Every time he tried to find space, another player was already there, shutting him down. He felt like he was drowning.

And then, his moment came. A midfielder on the other team turned to pass but was too slow.

Santi exploded forward. One step. Two steps. He was there before the ball could leave the player's foot. Santi stole it cleanly, his first touch sending it into open space.

A defender lunged. Santi's instincts took over. He feinted left, then flicked the ball over the defender's outstretched foot with a delicate touch.

Gasps from the crowd. The scouts leaned forward. Santi kept going.

A flick over an opponent. A sharp turn that sent another sliding past him. He was dancing now. The ball moved with him, not against him.

A quick look and then, an opening. Santi threaded a perfect pass through a tiny gap, slicing the defense apart.

His teammate, Joel, sprinted onto it. A single strike. Goal! The crowd roared. Santi barely heard them.

His eyes shot toward the stands. The scouts were watching. They had seen him. And that was all he needed.

Santi felt alive. He was proving himself. He could feel the eyes on him. And then, his chance came. A loose ball. A single second. Santi didn't think. He just moved. A drop of the shoulder, a sharp cut inside. The goal was there. One strike. One chance.

He hit it clean and the ball curled toward the top corner, bending perfectly. The goalkeeper dived, fully stretched. The ball clipped the post and flew wide. Santi's heart stopped. He had missed.

The final whistle blew. The game was over. After each match, a list was posted with a ranking of players based on their performances.

The top names were highlighted. Those were the ones the scouts were already interested in. Santi ran to the board with the others, his pulse racing. He scanned the names and looked again. His name wasn't there.

The names of players who had impressed, who had been marked as potential stars but Santi wasn't one of them. A sharp pain twisted in his chest. He hadn't done enough.

He sat alone in the empty bleachers, staring at the field as the last bit of daylight faded behind the stadium walls. The crowd was gone. The players had left.

Only the echoes of the game remained, the distant thump of a ball bouncing somewhere and the soft hum of the stadium lights overhead.

He could still feel the game in his body. The rush of adrenaline. The heartbeat in his ears. The way the ball had moved at his feet like it belonged there.

And yet… It hadn't been enough. His name hadn't been on the list. He hadn't stood out. And in a tournament like that, where scouts were hunting for talent every single second, that was as good as being invisible.

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening into fists. He had come all this way. Fought for this chance.

And now, on the very first day, he was already losing. Maybe… Maybe his father had been right. Maybe this dream was a waste of time. Maybe he should have stayed in San Isidro, where at least he knew what was expected of him.

The thought made his chest tighten. The fields. The land. The endless cycle of planting, harvesting and surviving. Would that be his life? Would that tournament be nothing more than a story he told himself at night, a foolish dream that never came true?

A sharp voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You're thinking too much." Santi looked up. Felipe stood in front of him, hands in his pockets, watching him carefully. Santi let out a bitter laugh. "What else am I supposed to do?"

Felipe sat beside him. They sat in silence for a moment, the night air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and sweat.

Then, Felipe spoke. "You played well today." Santi shook his head. "Not well enough." Felipe sighed.

"You know why you weren't on that list?" Santi clenched his jaw. "Because I wasn't good enough."

Felipe smirked. "No." Santi frowned. Felipe leaned back, stretching his legs out.

"They weren't looking for you today," he said. "They were looking for the kids they already knew." Santi stilled.

Felipe turned to him. "That list? It's for the players the scouts expected to shine. The academy kids. The ones with names people already whisper about." He pointed toward the field.

"You're not on anyone's radar yet." Santi exhaled sharply. "Then how do I change that?" Felipe grinned. "You make them look for you."

Santi stared at the darkened field. The floodlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the perfect grass.

For the first time since arriving in León, doubt crept into his chest. Could he do this? Could he fight for five days straight and prove that he belonged?

He thought of home. His mother, standing in the kitchen, pressing tortillas with her rough hands and whispering "Don't forget where you come from."

His father, standing in the fields, the dirt and sweat clinging to his skin, the man who never said "I believe in you" but let him go anyway. "Make it count."

His sister, Lupita, pressing the tiny wooden soccer player into his palm "Now you have to win." Santi let out a slow breath.

He had made a promise. To himself. To them. And promises weren't meant to be broken. He looked at Felipe. His uncle was watching him closely, waiting. A test. A final question. Are you staying in this fight? Santi clenched his fists. He knew his answer. He stood up.

Felipe's grin widened. "Good," Felipe said. "Now let's get you ready for tomorrow."

Back at the motel, Santi sat at the small wooden table in their room, bouncing a ball off his knee, over and over. Felipe watched from the bed, arms crossed.

"You're still thinking about today," Felipe said. Santi didn't deny it. Felipe leaned forward.

"You want to win, right?" Santi looked up sharply. "What kind of question is that?" Felipe smirked. "Then let me tell you something about how this tournament works."

Santi frowned. "I already know how it works." Felipe shook his head. "No, you don't. Not yet." He pointed at Santi.

"You think this is about talent." Santi nodded. "Isn't it?" Felipe chuckled. "No, kid. It's about survival." Santi stayed quiet. Felipe continued. "Every kid here is talented. They wouldn't be here if they weren't. But only a few will make it through."

He leaned in. "And you know who those kids are?" Santi swallowed. "The ones who impress the scouts?"

Felipe smirked. "No. The ones who refuse to disappear." Santi stared at him. Felipe sat back, letting the words sink in. "You have four days left," he said. "And now the real fight begins."

As Santi lay in bed that night, his body ached and his mind wouldn't rest. The game played over and over in his head. The things he did right.

The things he could have done better. The chance he had missed. But instead of fear, something new grew inside him. Something sharp. Something hungry.

He wasn't leaving this tournament without a fight.