The ball skidded off my boot, snuffed out by a Sub-17 defender's tackle, as the scrimmage roared around me. San Lorenzo's Juveniles pitch, kissed by late April sun, pulsed with the heat of battle against an older, tighter defense. The Nuevo Gasómetro loomed, its shadow a silent chant of Primera División dreams. I was no longer the green kid from Bajo Flores, but the gap between me and these boys—sharper, savvier—stung. My runs fizzled, my passes went astray, and frustration burned hotter than the Buenos Aires noon.
Weeks of grinding with Alexis, studying Ibrahimović's box craft, had made me bolder. My first touch was cleaner, my headers stronger, but this defense was a wall, tracking my every move. I wasn't Alexis, weaving magic, or Santiago, bulldozing through. I was Luca Altamirano, still carving my place as a forward in San Lorenzo's ruthless academy.
Mateo "El Rápido" Zárate tore down the wing, his step-overs a blur, leaving a defender sprawling before losing the ball to another. His arrogance grated, but his speed was electric. I'd learned to shadow his runs, offering an outlet when his tricks failed. "Keep up, Flaco," he'd grunt, half-smirking, as I jogged back. No tactics talk, just instinct—yet a quiet respect simmered between us.
Santiago "El Tanque" Benítez, our center-forward, was a different beast. Off the pitch, he was soft-spoken, but in the box, he was a titan, winning headers and holding up play. During crossing drills, I mimicked his sly shifts, creating space. "Flaco," he said once, voice steady, "time your run. Hit the ball at its peak." His tips, rare and precise, were gold.
Nicolás "El Cerebro" Fernández, our attacking midfielder, was the team's pulse. His passes carved defenses, his vision uncanny. In drills, I chased his cues, learning to dart into gaps he'd exploit. After practice, we'd dissect plays, his insights opening my eyes to the game's chessboard. "See the space before it's there," he'd say, sketching patterns in the air.
But today's scrimmage exposed my cracks. A pass from Nicolás found me, but my first touch was heavy, the ball stolen by a Sub-17 center-back. Pérez, on our side, scoffed. "Wake up, Altamirano," he muttered, his smirk sharp. I reset, but my next run was cut off, the defense reading me like an open book. Doubt crept in—did I belong here?
Alexis, slicing through the left, fed me a cross. I leapt, channeling Santiago, but my header sailed wide. The whistle blew, ending the scrimmage. My chest heaved, frustration boiling. We'd lost 2-0, and I'd been a ghost.
Coach Herrera pulled me aside, her gaze piercing. "Altamirano, you were lost out there. Hesitant."
"They were too tight, Coach," I said, voice tight. "No space."
Herrera's eyes glinted. "Good forwards make space, Luca. Watch Santiago's diagonal runs, Nicolás dropping deep to pull defenders. You've got the tools—height, strength—but your brain's lagging. Sharpen your tactical eye." Her words stung, but they weren't defeat—they were a call to rise.
That evening, I pored over footage, not chasing goals but studying the dance before them—Lewandowski's sly shifts, Zlatan's body feints. San Lorenzo's academy was a crucible, forging players for the Primera División or spitting them out. I had to hear the team's rhythm, not just play along.
Next day, I trained with Mateo, his speed a blur. "Try to read me, Flaco," he challenged, darting left. My defender's instincts kicked in—I spotted his hip twitch, a tell from years marking wingers in Bajo Flores. I stepped right, stealing the ball. "How'd you do that?" he laughed, surprised. "Just saw it," I said, grinning. That knack for reading players, my quiet edge, was sharpening.
Alexis joined us, tossing me the ball. "Your head's in the game now, Flaco," he said. "That's the striker we need." Pérez, lingering, snorted. "He'll need more than tricks to survive the reserves next week." His jab cut, but I met his gaze. "I'll be ready," I shot back.
At home, Mamá sensed my fire. "You're carrying San Lorenzo's heart, Luca," she said, her needle pausing. Bajo Flores thrummed outside, its streets alive with kids chasing balls, echoing my own hunger. The azulgrana crest on my bag was a vow—to climb, to fight, to belong.
Before practice, Coach Benítez gathered us, his voice gruff. "The AFA youth tournament's coming. Reserves are up first—older, meaner, with scouts watching. Altamirano, you've got potential, but potential's nothing without guts. Show them you're San Lorenzo." His words landed heavy, the weight of the club's legacy.
Alexis nudged me, grinning. "Big moment, Flaco. Let's light it up." Pérez smirked nearby. "Don't choke, Altamirano. The reserves'll eat you alive." His challenge was personal now, a spark to my fire.
As we hit the pitch, Bajo Flores' pulse mingling with the Nuevo Gasómetro's roar, I felt the rhythm of the team—Mateo's speed, Santiago's power, Nicolás's vision. The tournament wasn't just a game; it was my chance to prove I could orchestrate, not just follow. With my growing tactical eye and San Lorenzo's fire in my veins, I'd face the reserves head-on, ready to carve my name into the club's future.
[End for Chapter 8]