Early September 2013 brought a brittle light to the Ciudad Deportiva, the kind that sharpened every shadow and set the dew on the grass sparkling like diamonds. Lucas arrived before dawn, as he always did, his boots unlaced and hanging over one shoulder. His throat still tightened at the thought of the first‐team sessions he had shared with veterans like Buffarini and Torrico, yet each morning he treated those moments as training ground treasure: proof that the gap between dream and reality was closing.
He found Sosa and Duarte by the reserve dugout. Vargas and Cavallaro fell in behind them—five newcomers chosen by Ríos to mix with the senior squad. No promises had been made of matchday spots or contracts; this was still an audition. But as Lucas nodded to each of his mates, he felt the gravity of their task, the unspoken vow to honor every drill.
Ríos appeared in the gloom, clipboard in hand, silhouetted against the floodlights. He gathered the seventeen reserves, then turned his gaze to Lucas and the others. "Today we work on pressing shape," he said, voice calm but charged. "We won't just chase the ball; we'll anticipate space. You five will start with the first team—learn their tempo, match their intensity."
Lucas swallowed, the words reverberating in his chest. He laced up, tugged on his shin guards, and followed Ríos across the narrow road that separated the reserve pitch from the first‐team field. Lucas paused at the gate, inhaled the lar g expanse of perfect turf, and crossed the white line with quiet resolve.
They joined the seniors for warm‐ups: dynamic stretches, lunges, sprint drills that felt twice as demanding at first‐team pace. Lucas mirrored every motion—hips open, knees driven, arms pumping—with a precision born of months of reserve work. As he finished a set of 20‐yard accelerations, he felt Torrico's approving gaze, saw the veteran keeper's head tilt in recognition of his form.
Next came rondos in the center circle: six attackers against four defenders in a tight square. The ball flashed through feet with breakneck speed. Lucas received his first pass under immediate pressure—two midfielders closing in—and executed a perfect one‐touch wall pass to Sosa. The defender lunged and missed; their one‐two sequence continued until Lucas was shepherded out by a crisp interception. He shrugged, smiled, and slipped back into position. The circle never slowed. When a veteran midfielder clipped him accidentally, Lucas fell without protest, then popped to his feet and fed the next attack. Ríos's short whistle marked the end of the drill and the first nod of approval from the coach.
They moved to passing patterns across half the pitch. Wide players exchanged diagonal balls; central midfielders spun triangles to open passing lanes; forwards sprinted onto through‐balls that dissected lines. Lucas tracked every movement, recording angles in his mind: how Buffarini opened his hips before the layoff, how Ortigoza's first touch created vistas of space. At one point, Ortigoza jogged over and passed Lucas the ball. In a hushed aside, the veteran said, "Keep looking before you receive. Space is made in the mind first." Lucas tucked the advice into his pocket as if it were gold.
After the tactical session, first‐team players retreated to the locker room while the reserves returned to their own drills. Lucas jogged back across the field, legs humming with lactic fire. Back under the humbler floodlights of the reserve pitch, he approached finishing circuits with renewed purpose: volleys, headers, placement drills. Each strike of the ball felt like a declaration: I belong here.
As the sun climbed, Lucas and the other four reconvened in Ríos's office above the changing rooms—a modest room lined with ghosts of past jerseys and a single whiteboard. Ríos closed the door and motioned them in.
"Good work this morning," he began, eyes sweeping each face. "But the real test is tomorrow."
Lucas straightened. He had grown used to "tests," but the coach's tone implied something more significant.
"The club board meets after Saturday's match," Ríos continued. "They will decide whether to back the current group or make sweeping changes. I need your heads and your legs in prime condition. If you prove yourselves, I will push for you to join the matchday squads permanently. Does that make sense?"
They nodded in unison, the weight of the weekend resting on their shoulders.
"Tomorrow," Ríos added, "you'll lead thirty reserves into the popular stand at the Gasómetro. Fifty complimentary tickets. You'll guide them, keep them calm, and represent the club's future on the brink of crisis. Understand?"
Lucas's heart pounded. Leading his peers to the stadium was an honor—but also a responsibility: they would see the club at its most vulnerable, and Lucas would be their anchor.
That afternoon, as he walked home through the quiet streets of his barrio, Lucas recapped the day in his notebook:
September 12, 2013: First‐team pace demands split‐second thinking. I held my own in rondos and built patterns in the mornings. Tomorrow, larger tests await—both on the pitch and in the stands.
He closed the book, turning off his desk lamp. Darkness settled in the room, but Lucas felt a light burning within: a promise of what was to come. He whispered the mantra he had lived by since childhood:
> Stay ready.
[End for chapter 28]