The stadium lights reflected off the damp pitch, casting a sheen over the grass as the players took their positions. On the left wing, Ruben Vargas bounced on his heels, eyes scanning the opposing full-back with a quiet confidence.

Coach’s voice had rung clear before the match: "Exploit the space. Be unpredictable. And if you get the chance—take it."

Now, with the ball at his feet and a defender squared up in front of him, Vargas gave a faint body feint to the left, then exploded to the right, cutting past with ease.

“Too slow,” he whispered under his breath as he whipped in a cross that curved like a ribbon—perfectly onto his striker’s head.

Minutes later, a loose ball came his way at the edge of the box. He didn’t hesitate. A sharp first touch, then a curling shot that kissed the underside of the crossbar before hitting the net.

The crowd erupted. Vargas jogged back, barely smiling, pointing to the badge.

“I told you,” he muttered to a teammate, “just feed me the ball.”