The ball betrayed me again, skidding off my boot in a passing drill as Alexis Cuello danced past, his touch so clean it seemed the ball obeyed his will. San Lorenzo's Juveniles pitch, nestled in the shadow of the Nuevo Gasómetro, was a far cry from Bajo Flores' cracked asphalt, but I was still a stranger here—a defender in a forward's kit, my feet stumbling through a game others had mastered. Alexis, my brother from those dusty streets, made it look effortless, his brilliance a beacon I chased and a weight I carried.
The whistle blew, ending practice, but my work wasn't done. Sweat stung my eyes as I jogged to Alexis, juggling a ball with that easy grin. "Hey, Alexis," I said, wiping my brow. "Got time for some extra work? I need to break this defender's mindset. Your moves, your space… I'm still raw."
He caught the ball, his grin widening. "No Ronaldinho tricks today, Flaco?" His jab at my botched step-overs stung, but his warmth softened it. "Alright, let's do it. What's the plan?"
Our extra sessions became my salvation. While others hit the showers, we claimed a corner of the pitch, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the manicured grass of San Lorenzo's training complex. Alexis, patient as ever, guided me through drills—quick feints, close-control dribbling, bursts into space. "Anticipate, Flaco," he'd say, his voice steady. "See the space before it opens. Believe you can beat your man." He'd demonstrate, his feet a blur, leaving me awestruck.
My lanky frame felt like a burden next to his fluid moves. My feints ended in stumbles, my dribbles more wrestle than dance. Years as a defender had wired me for caution—block, clear, protect. My passes shied from risk, choosing safety over creation. But Alexis never wavered. "Lower your center," he'd urge. "Feel the ball, inside and outside of your foot. It's you." He broke moves into steps, cheering small wins—a sharper touch, a cleaner turn.
I soaked up his words, drilling until my lungs burned and my legs screamed. I was rewiring my brain, trading a defender's shield for a forward's blade. "How do you know when to go?" I panted after a sprint. Alexis grinned. "You feel it. Their hips lean, you cut the other way. Trust your gut." I nodded, burning his instincts into mine.
One evening, we worked on one-on-one duels, the pitch quiet under the fading light. Alexis played defender, daring me to beat him. I faked left, cut right, my step-over smoother than before. He lunged, but I slipped past, firing a shot that clipped the post. "¡Eso, Flaco!" he shouted, tackling me with a laugh. "You're getting dangerous!"
Pérez, the wiry kid who'd taunted me since tryouts, lingered nearby. "Dangerous? He's still half a defender," he scoffed, his smirk sharp. My jaw tightened, but Alexis waved him off. "Ignore him, Flaco. Keep that fire." I reset, channeling Pérez's jab into my next move, nutmegging Alexis with a quick flick. He whooped, unfazed. "Cheeky, Flaco!"
We moved to a small-sided scrimmage, just us and a few cones for goals. Alexis fed me a pass, and I trapped it, cleaner than ever. Pérez jogged over, uninvited, stealing the ball with a hard shoulder. "This ain't Bajo Flores, Altamirano," he said, smirking. "You're in San Lorenzo's juveniles now. Step up or get left behind." I chased back, sliding clean to win it, then whipped a pass to Alexis, who scored with a curl. "That's it, Flaco!" he yelled, fist pumping.
Coach Herrera, watching from the sidelines, blew her whistle. "Good hustle, Altamirano," she called, her voice firm but approving. "But don't drop so deep. You're a forward, not a sweeper." Her words stung, a reminder of the gap I was closing, but her nod fueled me.
Weeks passed, our sessions stretching into dusk. The sun painted the sky orange and purple, the groundskeepers flicking off floodlights. We'd drill until darkness fell, the rhythmic thud of the ball our only sound. "Time's up, Flaco," Alexis would chuckle as the last light died. "Unless you're a bat now."
I laughed, freer each time. Progress was slow—my touches heavy, my runs off-beat—but these moments with Alexis were gold. I was starting to see the game through a forward's eyes, shedding my old skin. The azulgrana crest, stitched into my bag, felt like a badge of my fight, a nod to San Lorenzo's legacy of turning Bajo Flores kids into stars.
Back home, Mamá noticed the change. "You're carrying yourself taller, Luca," she said, her needle pausing mid-stitch. "That pitch is making you strong." I smiled, thinking of Alexis, the Juveniles, the dream driving me. San Lorenzo's youth academy was no guarantee—only the best would climb to the reserves, then the first team, maybe even the Primera División. But I was in the fight, every drill a step toward that dream.
One evening, as we wrapped up, Pérez jogged over, his voice low. "Nice hustle, Altamirano," he said, eyes glinting. "But tomorrow's scrimmage with the reserves? They'll crush you if you hesitate like that." He walked off, his words a blade.
Alexis nudged me, grinning. "He's just rattling you, Flaco. You've got this." But as we left the pitch, Bajo Flores alive with night sounds, Pérez's warning sank in. The reserves were older, sharper, their boots heavy with experience, a step from pro contracts in the Primera División. They trained on the same fields where San Lorenzo's first team chased glory, their game unforgiving.
Coach Herrera approached, her clipboard tucked under her arm. "Altamirano," she said, her gaze piercing. "Tomorrow's not just a scrimmage. It's a chance to show you belong in this academy. Don't let those reserves outwork you." Her words landed like a challenge, heavy with expectation.
I gripped my bag, the crest under my fingers, and felt a fire ignite. Tomorrow wasn't practice—it was a test of how far I'd come. With Alexis by my side and the pulse of Bajo Flores in my veins, I'd face the reserves head-on, ready to prove I was more than a defender playing pretend.
[End for Chapter 5]