Chapter 3: The Bus Station
The streets of Barrio Sur were still waking up as Santiago made his way toward the bus station. The sun was a pale disk rising behind the city's skyline, casting long shadows over the crumbling buildings and narrow alleyways. Santi clutched a small bag slung over his shoulder—his only possessions: a pair of worn-out boots, a change of clothes, and a tattered photo of his family.
His heart was pounding. Leaving the neighborhood felt like stepping off a cliff. Every corner he passed, every familiar wall covered in graffiti, felt like a piece of his identity. He glanced up at the overhanging balconies where laundry swayed in the morning breeze, wondering if he'd ever see them again.
Javier had been out all night. His mother had hugged Santi tight before he left, whispering, "Cuidate, mijo. Show them what you're made of."
But she hadn't cried. Not in front of him.
As he neared the bus station, Santi spotted a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed. Carlos Benitez, the scout, was waiting, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. He glanced up as Santi approached, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You're on time," Carlos said, flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his shoe. "That's a good start."
Santi nodded, unsure of what to say.
Carlos gestured toward the idling bus behind him, its windows fogged with condensation. "This is your ride. The club's academy is an hour outside the city. We'll get you settled in, and then training begins tomorrow."
Santi hesitated. For a brief moment, he thought about turning back. But then he saw the other kids milling around the station, some of them carrying football gear. They looked focused, determined. And Santi realized he couldn't let fear stop him.
He climbed onto the bus.
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The Ride
The bus rumbled along uneven roads, passing from the congested heart of Buenos Aires to the sprawling outskirts of the city. Santi sat by the window, watching the landscape change: graffiti-covered walls gave way to open fields and factories, and eventually to neatly trimmed trees and paved roads.
Carlos sat across the aisle, typing on his phone. Occasionally, he glanced at Santi, but he didn't speak. Santi didn't mind; his nerves were already frayed, and he wasn't sure he could manage a conversation.
The other passengers were boys around his age, all headed to the same destination. Some sat in groups, talking animatedly about their favorite players or matches. Others sat alone, headphones in, eyes focused on the horizon.
Santi felt out of place. His clothes were shabby compared to theirs, his boots barely held together with tape. He pulled his bag closer to his chest, hoping no one would notice.
As the bus rolled to a stop in front of a massive wrought-iron gate, Santi caught his breath. Beyond the gate lay a pristine training facility: lush green pitches stretching as far as the eye could see, rows of dormitories, and a sleek modern building with the Club Atlético Lanús crest emblazoned on its facade.
"This is it," Carlos said, standing. "Welcome to your new home."
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The Academy
Stepping off the bus, Santi felt like he'd entered another world. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and leather, and the morning sun glinted off the polished windows of the academy building.
A tall man with a whistle around his neck approached the group. He had a commanding presence, his sharp features framed by streaks of gray in his hair.
"Line up!" the man barked.
The boys scrambled into a row, their chatter silenced. Santi found himself standing between a stocky kid with a buzzcut and a lanky boy with sharp cheekbones who sneered as he looked Santi up and down.
"I'm Coach Herrera," the man said, pacing in front of them. "I've been with Lanús for over twenty years, and I've seen hundreds of players come through this academy. Most of them don't make it. But those who do become legends."
His gaze swept over the group, sharp as a knife. "If you're here for glory, you're in the wrong place. This isn't about fame or money. It's about hard work, discipline, and sacrifice. If you can't handle that, there's the gate."
No one moved.
"Good," Herrera said. He turned toward Carlos, who handed him a clipboard. "Room assignments are posted in the dormitory. Training starts tomorrow at six sharp. You'll eat, sleep, and breathe football while you're here. Let's see who's got what it takes."
As Herrera dismissed the group, Santi felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Carlos, his expression unusually serious.
"Listen, kid," Carlos said quietly. "You've got talent, but that's not enough. These boys are hungry, and they'll do whatever it takes to stand out. Watch your back."
Santi nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.
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Settling In
The dormitory was a long, sterile hall lined with bunk beds. Each bed had a small locker beside it, and the walls were bare except for motivational posters with slogans like "Dream Big, Work Hard."
Santi found his assigned bed near the back of the room. He opened his locker, placing his bag inside, and carefully arranged his boots on the shelf.
As he sat down, the boy from earlier—the one with the sharp cheekbones—plopped onto the bed across from him.
"You're new," the boy said, his tone clipped.
"Yeah," Santi replied cautiously.
"Where you from?"
"Barrio Sur."
The boy snorted. "Figures. You don't look like you belong here."
Santi bristled but held his tongue.
"I'm Martín," the boy continued, smirking. "Remember the name. You'll be seeing a lot of me on the pitch."
Before Santi could respond, another voice interrupted. "Leave him alone, Martín."
A stocky boy with buzzcut hair stepped forward, his tone firm but friendly. "Ignore him," he said to Santi. "He's just mad because his dad bribed his way in, and he's still trash."
Martín glared but didn't respond. The stocky boy held out a hand to Santi.
"I'm Lucas. You?"
"Santiago," Santi replied, shaking his hand.
"Well, Santiago," Lucas said with a grin. "Welcome to the jungle."
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End of Chapter 3