July 2013 settled in with heavy humidity and the hum of the academy's routine. The dawn light found Lucas already on the pitch—juggling under the floodlights before anyone else arrived. He felt the weight of his mid-season trials still fresh in muscle memory: Boca's relentless press, Independiente's disciplined block, River's elegant precision, and Huracán's burning passion. Each confrontation had taught him something new. Now, he needed to turn those lessons into habit.
The first drill began with tight rondos: six attackers against four defenders in a shrinking square. Sweat dripped from Lucas's brow as he wove passes through a crowded circle, each touch measured. When the ball arrived at his feet, he first shifted his hips, then let it roll across his instep before flicking a one-touch pass that sliced through the middle. Coach Ríos, clipboard in hand, clicked his pen in approval.
"Altamirano," Ríos called. Lucas jogged over, chest rising and falling. "That's the pace you need—thinking as fast as the play moves. Keep it up."
Lucas nodded, a spark of pride igniting under his skin. He returned to the drill with renewed focus, weaving passes that kept the defenders guessing.
---
After water breaks, they moved to four-a-side on a half-pitch. Lucas teamed with Sosa, Vargas, and Duarte against a hungry academy squad. The whistle blew, and chaos erupted.
In the third minute, Lucas collected a diagonal ball at the edge of the box. Two opponents closed in immediately, but he twisted on his heel, lost them with a Cruyff turn, and slipped a pass to Vargas. Vargas's low cross forced a fingertip save. The rebound bounced out; Lucas lunged, sliding in to clear. Coaches on the sideline murmured with approval.
A reckless tackle from behind sent Lucas to the turf. He lay there for a heartbeat, ribcage stinging, but forced himself up. His first instinct was to lash out—old Lucas would have—but he remembered Ríos's words: Purpose over emotion. He dusted off and passed out calmly to Sosa, who nodded, then swept the ball into play.
Ríos whistled. "Discipline under pressure. Exactly what I want."
---
Mid-morning brought a video session. Lucas sat between Duarte and Sosa as clips from the River match flickered on the screen. They watched Enzo Fernández's calm first touch, the way he scanned before he received. Ríos paused on that moment.
"See this? He uses his head before his feet. Remember that," Ríos said. Lucas pressed pause and studied Enzo's stance—hips open, eyes forward.
Then came Lucas's own goal against Huracán. He watched the angle, the timing, the way he struck the ball under pressure. Ríos nodded.
"Instinct and practice combined. Store that feeling."
Lucas's chest tightened. He knew that moment was proof of his growth—born of countless repetitions.
---
That afternoon, they faced the senior squad's bench in a closed friendly. Taller, stronger bodies closed him down relentlessly. In the 55th minute, a charged shoulder to his ribs stole his breath. He reeled, vision blurred, but refused to fall. Instead, he spun away and clipped a precise pass to Vargas, whose strike rattled the post. The bench erupted—applause for the academy boy. Lucas exhaled, satisfaction tempered by relief.
---
The week's final test was a friendly against a local U-19 selection known for speed. Lucas started at the tip of midfield. The U-19s pressed high, turning defense into rapid counters. Early on, Lucas dropped deep to collect a loose clearance and, under pressure, executed a perfectly weighted through-ball to Vargas. The winger's shot curled just wide, drawing coaches forward in their seats.
Later, Lucas intercepted a back-heel from the U-19 captain and drove at pace, weaving through two markers before teeing up Duarte for a finish. The referee's whistle blew—the drill ended, but coaches lingered, studying the replay on their tablets.
---
Evenings found Lucas alone on the empty pitch, juggling until the floodlights dimmed. One night, Miguel, the groundskeeper, found him packing up.
"You're still here?" Miguel asked, leaning on his broom.
Lucas didn't look up. "I'm building something."
Miguel nodded in approval. "Most leave when the lights go out. The ones who stay… they rise."
Lucas tucked the broom's wisdom into his pocket and continued juggling.
---
Rumors began to surface: the first team's form had dipped, the board whispered of change, and some said Coach Ríos might be next in line. Lucas heard it in passing talk—at lunch, in the hallway, under his breath on the bus. Each mention sent a thrill through his chest: his mentor's promotion could mean a door opening for him.
But for now, the pitch was his focus. Each training session, drill, and friendly was another brick laid in his ascent. He carried no arrogance—only a quiet confidence that discipline, hard work, and the lessons of Titans like Enzo and Julián would carry him forward.
---
That night, he returned home to find his parents waiting in the kitchen. His mum had warmed empanadas; his dad set a plate beside his notes.
"How was training?" his mother asked, concern soft in her voice.
"Intense," Lucas said, glancing at his journal. "But I'm learning."
His father paused, eyes on the pen in Lucas's hand. "Keep writing. You'll see how far you've come."
Lucas closed the notebook, fingers brushing the page marked "Discipline is my new weapon." He met his parents' eyes and offered a small smile.
"I will," he promised, voice steady.
---
[End of Chapter 27]