The ball arced through the April sky, a laser from Alexis's boot, slicing past two Sub-17 defenders. San Lorenzo's Juveniles pitch thrummed with the chaos of a full-pitch scrimmage, pitting us against older, tougher boys from the club's higher divisions. The Nuevo Gasómetro's shadow loomed, a silent reminder of the Primera División dreams fueling every kid in this academy. My boots churned the grass, heart hammering—not just from the sprint but from the weight of this moment. I wasn't just Luca Altamirano, the lanky kid from Bajo Flores. I was a forward now, fighting to prove it.
Months of grinding with Alexis, dissecting Ibrahimović's hold-up play, Lewandowski's predatory runs, had sharpened my game. My first touch wasn't clumsy anymore, my passes carried intent, but old defender instincts still whispered—stay back, play safe. Today, facing these Sub-17 giants, I had to silence them and show San Lorenzo's coaches I belonged.
Alexis's pass was pure magic, splitting the defense. My old self would've hung back, admiring the play. But Lewandowski's ghost urged—go now. I timed my run, staying onside, and burst into the box. The Sub-17 keeper, a wiry kid with a rep for lightning saves, charged off his line, shrinking the angle. Weeks ago, I'd have panicked, blasting the ball over the bar. But I channeled Zlatan's ice-cold calm. I took a touch, feigned a shot to the near post, and slotted it into the far corner as the keeper dove wrong. The net rippled, and a roar tore from my chest.
Alexis sprinted over, grinning ear to ear. "¡Eso, Flaco!" he shouted, slamming my fist. Teammates nodded, their eyes grudgingly impressed—a rare win in the cutthroat world of San Lorenzo's youth system. Even Coach Benítez, whose praise was rarer than a clear Buenos Aires sky, barked from the sidelines, "Altamirano, better. You're starting to think like a striker." His gruff words hit like a shot of adrenaline, proof my sweat-soaked hours were paying off.
The scrimmage raged on, a brutal test in the academy's crucible. I held up play, my six-foot-three frame a shield, fending off a burly defender to feed Alexis. My passes cut forward, finding gaps I'd once ignored. But old habits died hard. In a midfield tangle, my footwork faltered, the ball skittering under a Sub-17 midfielder's pressure. Pérez, on our side, smirked. "Still clunky, Altamirano," he muttered, his voice a blade. I gritted my teeth, refocusing.
Alexis whipped a cross, and I leapt, outmuscling my marker with raw power. My header grazed the bar, drawing gasps. "Close, Flaco!" Alexis called, his grin steady. Coach Herrera, clipboard in hand, nodded, her eyes tracking me. Her words—use your tools—echoed, urging me to lean into my height, not chase Ronaldinho's flair.
But mistakes stung. In a counter-attack drill, I dropped too deep, instinct pulling me to defend. Alexis, isolated up top, threw up his hands as the move collapsed. Coach Herrera's whistle pierced the air. "Altamirano!" she snapped. "You're a forward! Find space, make runs, don't retreat!" Her tone was firm, but her gaze held belief, a nudge back to striker thinking.
I jogged back, chest heaving. San Lorenzo's academy was no game—only the best climbed from juveniles to reserves, then the first team. Every scrimmage was a chance to etch your name in the club's legacy, a shot at the Primera División. Bajo Flores, my home, pulsed with that same hunger, its streets alive with kids kicking balls, dreaming of azulgrana glory.
Post-scrimmage, Alexis and I stayed late, drilling one-on-one duels under the fading light. I noticed a Sub-17 defender's habit—leaning left before tackling. My defender's eye, honed in Bajo Flores' dusty games, kicked in. I faked right, slipped past Alexis, and fired a shot that clipped the post. "How'd you see that?" he laughed, tossing me the ball. "Just… felt it," I said, grinning. That knack for reading players, my quiet edge, was growing sharper.
At home, Mamá saw the change. "You're carrying the pitch with you, Luca," she said, her needle pausing mid-stitch. "San Lorenzo's waking your fire." I smiled, the crest on my bag gleaming. The academy was a pressure cooker, but I was rising, each drill forging me closer to the player I could be.
Next morning, Coach Herrera gathered us. "Solid work yesterday," she said, her voice commanding. "But the club's watching. Next week, we face the reserves in an AFA youth tournament showcase. They're older, hungrier, a step from pro contracts. Scouts'll be there. Show them you belong." Her eyes locked on me, a silent dare.
Alexis nudged me, his grin fierce. "Big stage, Flaco. Time to shine." My pulse raced. The reserves were no joke—their boots carried the weight of near-pro dreams, their game a brutal test in San Lorenzo's climb.
Pérez, lingering nearby, scoffed. "You'll choke, Altamirano. Those guys'll see right through your half-baked striker act." His words cut, personal now, but they lit a spark. "Watch me, Pérez," I shot back, voice steady.
As we hit the pitch, Bajo Flores' rhythm echoing beyond the Nuevo Gasómetro, I gripped my bag, the crest under my fingers. The tournament wasn't just a game—it was my chance to prove I was more than a defender's shadow. With Alexis's drills, Herrera's wisdom, and my knack for reading the game, I'd face the reserves head-on, ready to carve my name into San Lorenzo's future.
[End for Chapter 7]