The first rays of dawn spilled over the rooftops of Munich, washing the city in soft gold.
Mateo stood at the bus stop, his training bag slung over his shoulder, his brand-new Bayern Munich tracksuit still feeling stiff and unfamiliar against his skin.
Today wasn't a trial.Today wasn't a friendly match.
Today was the beginning.
His first official training session as a Bayern Munich player.
As he arrived at the sprawling training complex, his heart pounded against his chest.
There, near the entrance to the field, he spotted them —two familiar figures waving eagerly.
Lukas and Sebastian.
Both wore the Bayern U17 training gear already, chatting excitedly while stretching.
When they saw him, they broke into wide grins.
"Mateo! Finally one of us!" Lukas shouted, slapping his back hard enough to make him stumble.
"About time you got here," Sebastian said, smirking in his usual quiet way.
Mateo laughed, relief flooding through him.Some things, at least, hadn't changed.
"Let's survive together," he joked, bumping fists with them.
"No," Lukas grinned. "Let's conquer together."
They laughed — but they all knew deep inside:today, the real battle began.
The atmosphere on the field was utterly different from anything Mateo had ever experienced.
There was no small talk now.
No laughter.
No second chances.
The players moved with clinical precision — focused, sharp, deadly serious.
Then, a sharp whistle.
A tall man with a clipboard and cold gray eyes approached — the head coach of the U17s.
Coach Klaus Dietrich.
He barked out names as players gathered into their training groups.
"Becker! Schmitt! Meyer! González!"
Mateo blinked.
He jogged forward at the call, joining the group without hesitation.
"Guten Morgen, Trainer," he said respectfully.
Dietrich gave a curt nod — no more, no less.
"You're late if you're not early," he said in a cold voice.
Mateo glanced at the clock —he wasn't late.
But here, even being on time was being late.
"Understood, Coach," Mateo said firmly.
The session began.
And it was brutal.
Warm-up drills that felt like full sprints.Passing circuits so rapid that a single wrong touch meant immediate failure.One-touch possession games where even half a second's hesitation was punished by losing the ball.
Here, no one cared about potential.
Only execution mattered.
Mateo struggled at first.
His Precision Passing skill helped — he could feel his passes were cleaner, sharper —but the tempo was overwhelming.
Around him, players moved like machines — fast, clean, relentless.
Mistakes weren't corrected kindly.
They were met with sharp whistles and icy glares.
At one point, Mateo fumbled a ball during a rotation drill.
The whistle sliced through the air.
"González!" Coach Dietrich snapped from the sidelines."Focus or go home."
The words hit him like a hammer — but not to break him.
To forge him.
Mateo gritted his teeth and reset his mind.
No fear.No excuses.No surrender.
Slowly — painfully — he adapted.
Faster footwork.
Sharper decision-making.
Crisper passes.
Mistakes lessened.
Confidence grew.
By the end of the grueling session, Mateo's legs felt like lead and his lungs burned — but he was still standing.
And more importantly:
He hadn't quit.
Coach Dietrich gathered the players together.
"Today, you wore Bayern's badge," he said, tapping the crest on his chest.
"Tomorrow, you must prove you deserve it again."
His eyes scanned the group, lingering a fraction longer on Mateo.
"No one is safe here. Not the fastest, not the strongest, not the most talented.""Only the hungriest survive."
As they broke up, Lukas jogged up to him, clapping him on the back.
"You did good, González," he said, teasing him with the new name.
Sebastian smirked.
"Welcome to hell," he joked.
Mateo laughed hoarsely, every muscle aching, but his spirit soaring.
"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else," he said.
Because here, in the heart of one of the world's greatest clubs —
Dreams were forged.And Mateo was ready to forge his.