The sun had barely risen when alarms echoed through the dorms. One by one, the players groggily stirred from their beds, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Some stretched, others mumbled complaints but all of them knew today would be brutal.
Santi was already up, sitting on the edge of his bed and lacing his boots. His mind replayed yesterday's training, the goals he scored and the mistakes he needed to fix. He was locked in.
Charlie yawned as he stumbled toward the door. "Man, I swear Coach is trying to kill us."
Toro, still half-asleep, smirked. "Then die standing."
The cafeteria was alive with the clatter of trays and the murmur of tired voices. Breakfast was simple but essential with eggs, toast, fresh fruit and protein shakes. No one spoke much because they were focused on fueling up for the intense session ahead.
At the far end of the room, Coach Herrera and Felipe sat together, quietly observing. Felipe leaned forward. "You see how they eat in silence? That's hunger. That's focus."
Herrera nodded. "Good. Because today, we push them harder than ever."
When the players had finished eating, they grabbed their gear and marched toward the pitch, knowing what awaited them.
Coach Herrera stood in the center of the field with arms crossed and eyes scanning his players. The sun cast long shadows over the freshly cut grass. A slight breeze rolled through but the intensity in the air was thick.
"Listen up," Herrera's voice cut through the silence. "The next match is in a few days. If you don't want to embarrass yourselves out there, you'll have to suffer here first. No shortcuts. No laziness. If you train soft, you'll play soft."
His eyes locked onto each player. "Today, we push beyond your limits. Are you ready?"
The team roared back in unison. "We're ready!"
And just like that the training began.
The session started with dynamic stretches; high knees, lunges and arm swings. The usual routine but the pace was relentless. No time to slack.
Next came ladder drills. The players moved through the agility ladder with lightning-fast footwork as their movements were sharp and controlled. Santi was quick but Diego kept pace, challenging him with each step.
"Faster!" Solano barked. As captain, he set the tone, never allowing anyone to slow down.
The team then moved on to cone drills; zigzagging, cutting and accelerating. Speed and balance were everything.
Felipe, watching from the sidelines, turned to Herrera. "This is the difference between good and great. The extra 1%."
Herrera nodded. "And I expect that from Santi."
The players split into groups for rondos, small-sided keep-away games. Five attackers versus two defenders, the goal was simple: keep the ball moving, don't get caught.
Toro and Ríos were the first defenders. Bad luck for the attackers.
Charlie received a pass from Diego but hesitated. That was all Toro needed. With a powerful lunge, he intercepted the ball and sent it flying.
"Too slow," he grunted.
They restarted. This time, Santi took charge. His quick touches and La Croqueta movement left Ríos lunging in the air. He played a no-look pass to Ochoa, who flicked it to Solano.
"¡Vamos!" Herrera clapped. "That's the intensity I want!"
After 20 minutes of nonstop rondos, the players transitioned into a high-pressure scrimmage with small teams playing on a reduced field with limited space. The goal was to think fast and react faster.
The duels were physical. Toro and Ríos didn't hold back, delivering strong shoulder challenges. Charlie determined not to be bullied again, fought back, shielding the ball and muscling his way through.
Santi found himself under constant pressure. He had to be creative, using step-overs, quick turns and drag-backs to escape defenders. He wasn't just training, he was evolving.
Now came finishing drills. Cross and Finish: The wingers; Diego and Charlie whipped in crosses while the strikers and midfielders had to finish.
Charlie curled in a perfect cross. Solano rose high, heading it past the keeper.
Diego cut inside and chipped one toward Santi. Without thinking, Santi leaped into the air and struck it first-time; a rocket volley straight into the top corner. The team erupted. Even Toro clapped.
Coach Herrera smirked. "That's how you punish defenses."
Free Kicks: Now it was time to test precision. Santi, Solano and Ochoa stepped up for free kicks from different distances.
Santi's first attempt curled beautifully into the top left corner. His second was a knuckleball, it dipped and swerved past Ramirez, their keeper.
"You're getting dangerous," Ramirez muttered, shaking his head.
Felipe walked over, giving Santi a nod. "Keep that up and you'll be unplayable."
Just when they thought they were done, Herrera had one more test. The Sprint Circuit.
"This is where we see who has the heart," Herrera said.
The players lined up at the goal line. They had to sprint to midfield and back, over and over with decreasing time limits.
The first few rounds were manageable. But as the minutes passed, their legs burned and their lungs screamed for air.
One by one, players slowed. Some fell. But Santi? He kept pushing.
Toro and Solano kept up, refusing to let anyone outwork them.
Charlie, drenched in sweat, gasped, "How… is Santi still going?"
Santi gritted his teeth, refusing to stop. He wanted to be great.
After the final sprint, Herrera finally blew the whistle. The players collapsed to the ground, panting.
"Good work," Herrera said. "Now… we do it all again tomorrow."
Back in the locker room, as the players recovered, Herrera approached Santi.
"You work harder than most," Herrera said, sitting beside him. "But do you know why I push you more?"
Santi wiped the sweat from his face. "Because you see something in me?"
Herrera nodded. "When I was your age, I had talent. I had drive. But I didn't have the discipline to reach the top. I let distractions pull me away. I became a coach to make sure players like you don't make the same mistakes."
Santi listened carefully. He understood now. It wasn't just about talent but it was about consistency, about the work that no one saw.
"Thank you, Coach," Santi said.
Herrera patted his shoulder. "Go eat. You earned it."
The cafeteria was quieter than usual, the exhaustion from training weighing heavy on every player. Plates clattered, forks scraped and the occasional groan of sore muscles echoed through the room.
Santi grabbed a tray and loaded it with grilled chicken, rice and vegetables. He knew the importance of fueling his body properly, Felipe had drilled that into him. Across the room, Toro and Ríos sat with their plates piled high because their energy drained from their intense defensive battles.
Charlie slumped into a chair beside Santi, stabbing at his food with little enthusiasm. "Bro, I swear my legs stopped working after that last sprint."
Diego chuckled from across the table. "You weren't the only one. I saw Ramirez nearly collapse after his last turn."
From the end of the table, Solano looked up, ever the captain. "No complaints. This is what it takes." His tone was firm but not harsh, he led by example.
Santi chewed thoughtfully, his mind replaying the drills from the morning. The sprints, the free kicks and the endless pressure. He wasn't just training; he was sharpening himself for the next match.
Herrera and Felipe sat at a separate table, keeping a close eye on the squad. Felipe leaned over. "You see them? They're learning. Training isn't just about the body but it's about the mind. Pushing past pain, past exhaustion, knowing there's another level to reach."
Herrera nodded. "And the ones who don't realize that? They get left behind."
As the meal went on, conversations shifted to lighter topics, memories from past matches, stories about family and playful jabs at who had the worst touch in training.
"Definitely Ochoa," Charlie joked, making everyone laugh.
Ochoa shook his head. "You're lucky I don't take that personally."
By the time lunch wrapped up, the team slowly got up, stretching out their stiff limbs. Some players headed for the recovery room while others made their way to the dorms for a short rest.
Santi, however, had other plans.
While most players opted for a nap or an ice bath, Santi found himself back on the field, juggling a ball beneath the afternoon sun. He worked through his usual post-training routine; light dribbling, quick touches and precision passes against the wall. Nothing intense, just enough to keep his mind sharp.
After about twenty minutes, Ochoa wandered onto the field, rolling his shoulders. "Man, you don't stop, do you?"
Santi grinned. "You coming or what?"
Ochoa sighed dramatically but joined in. The two worked on passing drills, low-driven balls and first-touch control. It was simple and effective. The kind of work that went unnoticed but made all the difference on match day.
After an hour, Felipe walked onto the field. "That's enough," he called out. "Recovery is just as important as training."
Santi exhaled deeply, wiping sweat from his forehead. He knew Felipe was right. He and Ochoa made their way back to the dorms, grabbing cold water bottles as they walked.
As he entered his room, Santi felt the exhaustion settle in but it was a good kind of tired, the kind that came from knowing he had given everything.
He collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling his heartbeat slow. The next match was coming fast and he had no intention of slowing down.