Soccer Boy

The motel room felt different today. It wasn't bigger or smaller but something about it felt heavier.

Santi sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the worn-out floorboards, his cleats resting beside him. His fingers absently traced the laces but his mind was far away.

His body still ached from yesterday's match; his legs were sore and his lungs still tight from the intensity. But that pain was nothing compared to the one in his chest. His name hadn't been on the list.

He had fought for every ball, played with his heart and even scored a goal. And yet, nothing. What else could he do?

Across the room, Felipe sat at the small wooden table, sipping from a cheap plastic cup filled with black coffee. The scent was sharp, almost bitter, mixing with the stale motel air.

"You didn't sleep," Felipe said without looking up. Santi exhaled sharply. "Didn't need to." Felipe smirked. "Liar."

Santi didn't bother denying it. He had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, replaying the match in his head. Every touch, every pass and every moment he could have done more. His uncle took another slow sip of coffee before setting the cup down.

"What's the point of today?" Santi asked, his voice flat. Felipe raised an eyebrow. "What kind of question is that?" Santi rubbed a hand over his face. "I played my heart out and it still wasn't enough."

Felipe studied him for a moment. Then, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Are you quitting?" Santi's head snapped up. His eyes flared.

"No." Felipe smirked. "Good. Then put your damn cleats on."

Santi clenched his jaw. Day Two. Another chance. He wasn't leaving this tournament without a fight.

The stadium buzzed with energy. The sun had barely risen but the fields were already alive with movement. Players warmed up in small circles, passing the ball with crisp and precise touches. Coaches barked instructions.

The scouts were back in their shaded seats, clipboards in hand and their eyes scanning the field like hawks searching for prey. Some of them already had favorites.

They whispered names. Marked certain players. Those kids; the ones from top academies, the ones with coaches who had spoken to scouts beforehand and they were the ones expected to shine.

Santi? He was just another body on the field. And that meant he had only one option. Force them to see him.

Santi's team for today's match had a few familiar faces; Marcos, the tough defender from Guadalajara and Joel, the fast winger who had scored from his pass the day before.

But there were new players, too. A lean, sharp-eyed midfielder with quick feet approached him.

"I saw you play yesterday," the boy said. Santi raised an eyebrow. "And?" The boy smirked. "You played good."

Santi exhaled. "Not good enough." The midfielder chuckled. "Then play better." Santi nodded. That was exactly what he planned to do.

The referee's whistle pierced the air, and the match exploded into motion. Santi locked in immediately. No hesitation. No slow start. He had 20 minutes to prove himself again. And this time, he wouldn't waste a second.

The midfield battle was brutal. Players pressed hard, tackled harder and fought for every inch of space. The tempo was even faster than yesterday.

Santi could feel the intensity in the air, everyone there knew that if they didn't stand out, they were done.

A defender cleared a loose ball, sending it high into the air. Santi tracked it instantly, sprinting into position. As the ball dropped from the sky, two players rushed toward him. One was bigger and stronger. The other was faster.

Santi had neither advantage. So he used his brain.

At the last second, he let the ball bounce once and then, instead of controlling it, he flicked it over both their heads with a soft touch. The crowd gasped.

Both players scrambled but Santi was already gone. He sprinted forward, the ball glued to his feet, scanning the field. A third defender closed in fast. Santi took a quick glance up.

Joel was making a run down the wing. Perfect. Santi let the defender commit then, with a simple body feint, he pretended to cut inside.

The defender bit, shifting his weight and in that split second, Santi flicked the ball the other way with the outside of his foot. Clean. Smooth. The ball rolled perfectly into Joel's path.

Joel took off down the sideline, blazing past his marker. Santi didn't stop, then he sprinted forward, demanding the return pass. Joel saw him and sent the ball curling into the box. The goalkeeper rushed out. Santi had one chance.

Instead of waiting for the ball to drop, he leaped forward, twisting his body mid-air….A bicycle kick. His foot connected cleanly. The ball rocketed toward goal. The crowd screamed!

But the keeper somehow, impossibly reacted just in time, tipping the ball over the crossbar. A fantastic save. The crowd applauded!

Santi landed on the ground, breathing hard. So close. He had them but missed.

Minutes later, Santi won a foul just outside the penalty area. It was the perfect distance, about 25 yards out, slightly to the right.

The defenders argued, trying to stall. The referee sprayed the white line. Santi stood over the ball, his heartbeat steady. The wall was set. The goalkeeper adjusted his position.

Santi could hear Felipe's voice in his head "Make them remember your name." He took three steps back. Breathed in.

And struck the ball cleanly. The technique was perfect with his body angled just right, his foot hitting the ball with precision, sending it curling over the wall.

The goalkeeper reacted late. The ball dipped at the last second and swerved into the top corner, unstoppable. The net snapped. The stadium erupted.

"Gooooooal!"

Santi stood frozen, taking in the moment. His teammates surrounded him, grabbing his shoulders and shouting his name. That was it.

He turned toward the stands and saw the scouts looking at him. Some were whispering now, pointing at his name on their notes. They saw him. Finally.

Santi played with more confidence now. Every touch had a purpose. Every pass was intentional. A defender charged toward him at full speed but Santi saw him coming.

He let the ball roll just past his right foot then, in an instant, he cut left, spinning away from the challenge with a silky La Croqueta.

Another gasp from the crowd. Another scout leaning forward in their seat. But Santi wasn't done.

The ball came back to him near the corner flag. Two defenders trapped him against the line. No way out. Or so they thought.

With a quick flick of his right foot, he popped the ball over their heads and spun around the other side, leaving both of them in his dust.

A defender lunged, desperate to recover but Santi nutmegged him without even breaking stride. The crowd roared! Even some of the opposing players shook their heads in disbelief. He wasn't just playing anymore. He was putting on a show.

When the game ended, Santi walked off the field feeling something different. He knew he had played well yesterday. But today? Today, he had been undeniable.

But before he could approach the list board, a voice called out his name.

"Cruz!" Santi turned.

He saw an older man standing near the edge of the field, arms crossed. Santi had seen him, not a scout, not an agent. But a retired coach; One of the men invited to observe and to give insight on young talent.

The kind of man who had seen thousands of players over the years. Santi wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped closer.

"You played well," the coach said. Santi nodded. "Gracias." The man studied him carefully.

"Talent is nothing without work," he said. "You know that?" Santi nodded. "I do." The man narrowed his eyes.

"Then prove it. Every single day. Success is never given on a silver platter. You take it." Santi felt those words in his chest.

The coach turned to leave but before he walked away, he added "Keep pushing, Cruz. Some of them see you now." Then he was gone. Santi stood there, his heart pounding.

Some of them see you now. It wasn't enough. Not yet. But it was a start.

His heart raced as he approached the board where the names of the standout players would be posted. This had to be it. They had seen him. They had written notes. They had whispered his name.

He scanned the list line by line. His pulse pounded. And then his name wasn't there. Again.

Santi felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him. This wasn't possible. Not after today. Not after everything he had done.

His breath came fast, his vision blurring slightly as the weight of it crushed his chest. Had all of this been for nothing? The goal? The skills? The hard work?

A hand clapped onto his shoulder. Felipe. "Let's go." Santi turned to him, rage and frustration burning in his eyes.

"Are they blind?" he snapped. "I gave them everything today." Felipe didn't react. He simply nodded toward the field.

"Who did you play against today?" Santi frowned. "What?" Felipe's expression was calm but serious. "Who was on the other team?"

Santi hesitated. He hadn't paid attention to names. "Exactly," Felipe said. "Because it doesn't matter." Santi clenched his jaw.

"You think you earned it today," Felipe continued "but the truth is, you only made them notice you." Santi stilled. Felipe nodded toward the stands, where the scouts were still gathered.

"Tomorrow, you make them remember." Santi let out a slow breath. He had fought. He had bled for this moment. And he was still invisible. Fine.

Then he would give them no choice. Tomorrow, he wouldn't just play well. Tomorrow, he would make them write his name down.