The whistle blew for the second half as Leo's team switched ends, now attacking from left to right. The sunlight had softened, casting a golden glow across the training ground, but the intensity on the pitch hadn't faded a bit. If anything, the air felt sharper thick with the scent of crushed grass and sweat.
The opposition restarted with a vengeance. Alejandro drifted wider, trying to bait Emilio out of the center while Carlos and Mateo pushed high.
Leo jogged into position, his head on a swivel. Even before the ball reached him, he was already mapping out the next two moves.
"Check shoulders, Leo! Keep scanning!" the coach barked.
Miguel rolled a short pass to Pedro, who pinged it wide to Nicolas. Nicolas carried it forward before feeding Camilo near the touchline. Camilo faced Fermin, threw a rapid step-over, but his cross was smothered. Throw-in.
Leo darted closer to provide an outlet. Camilo threw it straight to him, but Carlos was already glued to his back while Mateo closed from the front.
"Got you now!" Carlos grunted, leaning his weight into him.
Leo didn't even look back. With a delicate flick of his ankle, he sent the ball around one side of Carlos and spun around the other.
The sideline detonated. "Ay, Dios mío! (Oh my God!) He keeps embarrassing people!"
Space opened centrally. Donato was screaming for the pass, but Leo saw a better lane and drove forward himself. Alejandro stepped up to stop the bleed, but Leo feinted left, cut right, and accelerated. Every movement felt instinctive now.
German finally abandoned his post to confront him. That was the trigger. Leo slipped a perfectly disguised reverse pass to Bautista, who was ghosting behind Fausto.
Bautista controlled, settled, and smashed it home.
3-1.
Bautista sprinted directly toward Leo, laughing in disbelief. "That pass was ridiculous, man! I didn't even have to call for it!"
On the opposing sideline, players were shaking their heads. "Cómo vio eso? (How did he see that?) How do you even see that angle?"
The coach clapped aggressively. "Elite awareness, Leonardo! That's the vision!"
Alejandro kicked the turf in frustration before a quick restart. Desperation began to seep into the blues. Carlos started tackling with a bit more "extra" in his studs, and Mateo began pushing forward recklessly.
It paid off for them. Alejandro found a pocket of space and slipped a needle-threaded ball to Ignacio. Ignacio didn't wait; he hit it early. This time, Miguel's fingertips found only air.
3-2.
"Wake up!" Pedro shouted, his face turning red.
Miguel slapped his gloves together with a thunderous crack. "Stay focused! ¡Despierten! (Wake up!)"
The coach paced the touchline. "No sleeping after you score! Get your heads back in the game!"
Leo gathered the team briefly near the center circle. "Relax. Just keep the ball. We dictate the pace, not them."
The final stretch was relentless. Leo's legs burned, and his lungs felt like they were lined with sandpaper, but the adrenaline acted like high-octane fuel. Emilio won a crunching tackle and released Daniel, who found Leo between the lines.
Turn. Space.
German backed away cautiously this time, terrified of being turned into a highlight reel again. Leo read the hesitation. He faked the outside pass to the wing, then threaded the ball through the eye of a needle to Camilo.
Camilo's shot was parried by Fabian, but Donato was there like a vulture.
Goal. 4-2.
The noise around the pitch was deafening. Even Miguel sprinted halfway out of his area to celebrate. Fatigue was hitting everyone now. At fifteen, the tank runs empty fast when the tempo is this high. Players were doubling over, hands on knees.
But Leo kept moving. He jogged past Alejandro, who was gasping for air.
"You never stop running?" Alejandro panted.
Leo grinned. "Can't. Coach is watching. And I think he's enjoying the show."
Alejandro let out a short, reluctant laugh.
The final fifteen minutes were pure chaos. Space was everywhere. Pedro cleared a ball off the line with a desperate overhead kick, and Miguel made a fingertip save that had the scouts scribbling furiously.
Then came the moment that ended the debate.
Daniel intercepted a pass and found Leo near the center circle. Only Carlos was close enough to pressure. He lunged in aggressively, desperate to reclaim some dignity.
Leo pushed the ball through his legs. A clean, clinical nutmeg.
The sideline went into orbit. "Túnel! (Nutmeg!) ¡No puede ser! (No way!)"
Carlos spun in a circle, looking for the ball as laughter erupted from the spectators. Leo didn't wait for the joke to finish. He drove at the heart of the defense. German stepped out. Emiliano shifted across.
Leo glided diagonally, the ball seemingly glued to his boot, before curling his body into the strike.
Bang.
The ball bent beautifully a perfect arc that tucked into the far top corner. Fabian dived, but he was chasing a ghost.
5-2.
The sidelines actually fell silent for a heartbeat in pure shock. Then, the explosion.
"Qué locura! (That's crazy!) He's definitely getting selected!"
His teammates mobbed him, but the coach simply stood there with his arms folded, a small, knowing smile on his face.
The final whistle blew moments later. Game over.
Players collapsed onto the grass. Sweat dripped from Leo's chin as he walked across the field, his legs feeling like lead. Alejandro approached him first.
"You were on another level today," Alejandro admitted, extending a hand.
Leo shook it, giving a tired shrug. "You pushed me to be. Good game, Ale."
The coach called everyone together. "Listen. Some of you tried too hard to be the hero individually. Others understood the game. Football isn't just tricks; it's movement and decision-making."
He looked directly at Leo. "Leonardo showed composure. He attacked intelligently and worked when we didn't have the ball. That's a footballer."
As Leo stood there, teammates clapping him on the back, the whispers continued around the pitch. But Leo wasn't listening to the crowd anymore.
He hadn't just survived the trial. He had taken it over.