The dorms at Nido Águila were usually quiet after a long day of training. But tonight? Tonight was different.
Santiago Cruz sat on his bed with arms resting behind his head and staring at the ceiling. His legs still ached from training but his mind was restless.
Across the room, Charlie, Toro, Ochoa and Solano were all in various states of relaxation. Some stretching and others scrolling through their phones.
But none of them were asleep. Because nights like these? They weren't just about recovery. They were about something deeper.
The real conversations. The ones where young footballers, chasing the same dream, shared their stories. And tonight, it started with Charlie.
Charlie sat up on his bed, tossing his phone onto the blanket. "You ever think about how we all got here?" he asked, looking around. No one answered at first.
Then Ochoa nodded. "Yeah."
Charlie exhaled. "For me, it wasn't easy," he admitted. "I wasn't supposed to make it." Santi leaned forward, listening.
Charlie rarely talked about his past. "My family's from Monterrey," he continued. "Not poor but not rich either. We got by."
A pause and then he continued. "But football? Football was everything to me." Charlie looked down at his hands, rubbing them together.
"When I was thirteen, I tried out for a club academy, Tigres' youth team."
Santi raised an eyebrow. "Tigres?" Charlie nodded.
"Yeah. I was young, fast and played with fire. I thought I was ready." A small chuckle set in.
"But the coach? He didn't even give me a second look. Didn't think I was good enough." The room stayed silent. "So I left," Charlie said. "Went home. Cried and thought maybe football wasn't meant for me." Santi felt that. The pain of being overlooked.
"But my dad?" Charlie's voice softened. "He told me something that night. He said, "If they don't want you, make them regret it." Charlie exhaled, shaking his head. "Next year, I came back. Stronger, faster and smarter."
He looked up, his eyes burning with determination. "I still didn't make it." The silence again. Then he continued, "But you know what happened?" Santi shook his head.
Charlie smirked. "América noticed me."Tigres didn't want me. Now? Now I play against them." He leaned back, his smirk turning into a grin.
"And when I face them? I make sure they remember my name."
Charlie's story settled over the room. Then Toro spoke. His voice was lower, rougher. "You think that was tough?" he muttered. Everyone turned toward him. Toro leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I'm from Veracruz," he said. "Small town with no future," He paused. "My father worked on boats. He was into fishing; a very heavy labor. That was supposed to be my life." Silence filled the room. Santi couldn't imagine it.
Toro; the toughest and most relentless defender on the team working on boats instead of playing football?
"But I had different plans," Toro continued. "Football was the only thing I was good at. And my old man?" A short laugh settled in. "He hated it. Thought it was a waste of time." Toro's expression darkened.
"So when I told him I wanted to try out for a club academy, you know what he said?" No one answered.
"'You think football will feed you?'" Toro muttered in a low voice. "'You think you're special? You're just another kid who'll end up like the rest of us.'" Santi felt his stomach tighten. He understood that feeling. The doubt. The lack of belief from the people closest to you.
Toro clenched his jaw. "So I left," he said. "Took a bus to Mexico City. Alone. I tried out for América. And when I got in?" He exhaled. "My old man didn't say a word."
Santi swallowed hard.
"Do you ever talk to him?" Ochoa asked quietly. Toro shrugged. "Sometimes." A long pause. Then he looked up.
"But the next time I go home? I'm bringing a contract with my name on it." Santi saw it in his eyes. That fire. That hunger. Toro wasn't just playing for himself. He was playing to prove his father wrong.
After a moment, Solano cleared his throat. "I'll go next," he said. The room turned toward him. "Mine's different," he admitted. He leaned back against the headboard.
"My family isn't poor. They weren't against me playing football." A pause. "But they wanted me to be something else."
Santi raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
Solano sighed. "My dad is a doctor. My mom's a professor," he said. "They wanted me to be a lawyer. A businessman or anything but a footballer." He let out a small chuckle.
"When I told them I wanted to play, they laughed."
Santi frowned. "They didn't believe in you?"
"Oh, they did," Solano admitted. "But they thought it was a waste of potential." He exhaled. "They said, 'You have a brain. Use it for something real.'"
Santi clenched his jaw. He knew that feeling too.
"So when I got into América?" Solano continued. "I had to make a choice. Go to a top university… or come here."
Charlie's eyes widened. "And you chose this?"
Solano nodded. "This is my dream," he said. "So yeah. I chose football," he paused. "And one day? I'll make them understand why."
The room fell silent. Then, all eyes turned to Santi. "What about you, Cruz?" Charlie asked. "How'd you get here?" Santi hesitated. Not because he didn't know what to say. But because his story was still being written. He exhaled, leaning back.
"You already know," he said quietly. Charlie raised an eyebrow.
"Poor kid from León," Santi continued. "Kicked oranges in the street. Had a father who didn't believe in football. Took a chance on a tournament. Now I'm here." The room filled with silence.
Then, "That's it?" Ochoa asked. Santi smirked. "No," he said. "That's just the beginning."
Santi ran a hand through his hair.
"Look, I didn't grow up with much," he admitted. "Football wasn't just a game to me. It was the only thing I had."My father? He thought it was a joke. A waste of time."
Toro exhaled, nodding slightly. He knew that feeling.
"He wanted me in the fields. Helping with the crops, he said that football wouldn't put food on the table." Santi clenched his jaw.
"But my mom?" His voice softened. "She knew…..she saw something in me. Even when I didn't see it myself."
Charlie sat up. "She believed in you?" Santi nodded.
"She didn't say much. But every time I left the house and every time I ran off to play, she never stopped me."
He looked down at his hands. "And when I left for the tournament, when my dad tried to stop me?" A small smirk. "She's the one who told me to go."
Santi exhaled. "I played in that tournament like my life depended on it," he said. "Because it did." Charlie nodded slowly.
"And now?" Santi continued, his voice firm. "Now I'm here. And I'm not going back."
The room was still. Then, Toro spoke. "So what drives you?" he asked. Santi looked up. "Is it proving your dad wrong?" Toro pressed.
Santi thought for a moment. Then he shook his head. "At first, yeah," he admitted. "But now?" He paused. "It's bigger than that."
He sat forward, his gaze sharp. "I play for the kid I used to be. The one who had nothing. The one who dreamed of this moment but never thought he'd get it." His voice was steady now.
"I play because I love this game. Because I want to be great. Not just good. Great."
Charlie nodded. "That's real." Santi leaned back.
"And one day," he said, "when I step onto the pitch at the Azteca in front of thousands?" A smirk.
"My dad won't have to believe in me." He paused again.
"Because the whole world will."
The room was quiet again. Not awkward. Just heavy. Because they all understood something now. Everyone had struggled. Everyone had sacrificed something. And to go far? To make it in football? It wasn't just about talent. It was about who wanted it more.
Toro exhaled. "You wanna know what it takes to go far?"
Charlie nodded. "Tell us." Toro looked at each of them.
"You have to suffer," he said. "You have to fail." "You have to push past everything telling you to quit." He paused. "And if you can survive that?" He smirked. "Then you'll make it."
Santi sat back, his heart pounding. Because that? That was the truth.
And these boys? None of them were done yet.