The sun hung lower in the sky as Santi stepped onto the empty training pitch with a ball tucked under his arm. The air was cooler now, a soft breeze rolling across the field. Most of the players were resting in their dorms but he had something else in mind.
With a deep breath, he dropped the ball to his foot and started juggling.
One… two… three…
His touch was soft and controlled. He let the ball bounce once, then flicked it up again. His mind wasn't just there, it was in the videos he had just watched of Lamine Yamal. The way the young Barcelona prodigy carried himself on the ball, the way he played as if he belonged at the highest level, even at his age.
Santi closed his eyes for a moment, picturing it. Then he exploded into movement.
He flicked the ball into the air, caught it on the top of his foot and rolled it forward with a smooth sideways flick between both feet, Iniesta's signature move.
He did it again, this time faster. Then he shifted into step-overs, fast, sharp and fluid. The way Cristiano Ronaldo used to do in his early days.
Santi's heart was pounding, his legs moving on instinct. He rolled the ball back and executed the Maradona turn.
He darted forward, flicking the ball past an imaginary defender with an Elastico.
Every move and every trick, he chained them together like a rhythm, like music.
This is it, he thought. This is how I play. Fast, fearless and expressive.
His hunger only grew. He took a few steps back, placed the ball down and prepared for a free kick.
He breathed in. Then struck it with the outside of his foot. The ball curved beautifully, whipping into the top corner.
Santi grinned.
"Perfect!" A voice called from behind.
"You know, you could've just taken a nap like the rest of us."
Santi turned to see Ochoa jogging onto the pitch, grinning. He was already in his boots, ready to train.
Santi smirked. "And miss out on this? No chance."
Ochoa laughed. "Alright, let's put in some work."
For the next hour, the two trained together, pushing each other.
Ochoa practiced his finishing with powerful strikes and precision shots.
Santi worked on his weak foot, hitting volley after volley. They took turns delivering crosses, testing each other's headers.
The session stretched on as sweat dripping and exhaustion taking place. But neither wanted to stop.
Unbeknownst to them, Felipe was standing near the entrance of the field, watching. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.
This was the difference. Some players had talent and some had discipline. But few had the kind of hunger that made them train when no one was watching.
Felipe nodded to himself. "This kid is special."
After an hour and a half, they finally stopped. Santi collapsed onto the grass, panting. Ochoa dropped next to him with hands behind his head, staring at the sky.
"That was insane," Ochoa said between breaths.
Santi chuckled. "Yeah… but we're gonna be even better tomorrow."
Ochoa groaned. "You really don't stop, huh?"
Santi shook his head, smiling. "Not until I'm the best."
They lay there for a few moments, just breathing and feeling the moment.
The sky was turning orange as the last bit of sunlight painted the clouds.
Finally, they got up, stretched and started walking back to the dorms.
Santi took a long, cold shower. His muscles ached, but it was the kind of pain that meant he was improving.
Afterward, he dried off and pulled on a fresh shirt before sitting at his desk.
Still feeling inspired, he opened his phone and played the Lamine Yamal documentary again.
His eyes burned from exhaustion but he didn't care. He watched as the young star, only 17, played on the biggest stages, taking on world-class defenders without fear.
Santi clenched his fist. "He's young but he belongs there. Just like I will."
This wasn't just a dream anymore. It was a plan.
The dining hall was still buzzing but the energy had started to settle as plates emptied and players leaned back in their chairs. The smell of roasted chicken and warm bread still lingered, mixing with the faint scent of fresh oranges from the juice bar.
Santi sat quietly, picking at the last few bites of his meal as his mind ran faster than he wanted it to. Across the table, Charlie and Ríos were debating whether it was smarter to play short corners or whip the ball into the box every time.
"Bro, it's all about delivery," Ríos argued, tapping his fork against his plate. "If you can put the ball in the right spot, a tall defender doesn't stand a chance."
Charlie shook his head. "Nah, short corners create chaos. You pull a defender out, make space and boom. Goal."
Ochoa laughed. "Man, you sound like analysts. Just cross the ball and hope for the best." More laughter followed but Santi wasn't listening. He was thinking about tomorrow. Tigres U19.
It wasn't just any game. It was personal for Charlie. The club that abandoned him. The team that never gave him a chance.
Charlie had never really opened up about it but everyone knew the story. He had been part of their youth system until they decided he wasn't "good enough." Instead of fighting for him, they let him go.
And now, he was going to face them. Santi could see it in his eyes all week; the fire, the hunger and the need to prove something.
The match wouldn't just be another game. It would be a statement. And Santi wanted to make sure Charlie didn't fight that battle alone.
The hallways echoed with voices and laughter as the team walked back to their dorms, their stomachs full and their spirits high.
Charlie pushed open the door, tossing his training bag onto his bed before stretching his arms with a loud yawn. "If I don't sleep at least eight hours, I swear my legs are gonna betray me tomorrow."
Toro smirked. "So you're saying you're getting old?"
"Bro, I'm saying I'm carrying all of you," Charlie shot back.
Ríos grinned. "You're carrying us? We'll see tomorrow. I better not catch you slipping when their striker comes running at you."
Ochoa jumped in. "Imagine if Charlie scores the winner tomorrow. What a story that would be."
Charlie scoffed, shaking his head. "I don't care about scoring. I just wanna shut them down. Every single one of them."
The room went quiet for a second. They all knew what this match meant to him.
Diego clapped a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "Then let's do it. All of us. We make sure they leave that pitch knowing they made a mistake."
Charlie nodded, his jaw clenched, eyes focused. "Damn right."
The conversation shifted after that with lighthearted banter filling the air again.
Charlie grabbed a ball and started juggling it near his bed. Ochoa laid back on his pillow, scrolling through highlights on his phone. Ríos and Diego were going through Tigres' lineup, arguing about who their most dangerous player was. But Santi stayed quiet.
He sat on his bed, staring at the ceiling as his thoughts still racing.
Tigres was a big match but his mind wasn't just on that. He thought about his family. His parents, who had given everything to make sure he had a chance to chase this dream.
His father, waking up before the sun to work. His mother, always reminding him to keep his feet on the ground and to never forget where he came from.
Were they watching? Would they see him tomorrow? Would they be proud?
He wasn't just playing for himself. He was playing for them. And for Toro. No holding back.
The dorm slowly got quieter as the night stretched on. One by one, the boys settled into their beds as their excitement buried under exhaustion.
Santi pulled the blanket over himself but sleep wouldn't come.
He could hear the faint hum of Charlie's breathing from the other side of the room. The occasional rustling of blankets as someone shifted in bed. But his mind was still on the game.
How would it play out? Would it be a battle? Would Tigres press high? Would there be space to run? Would he get the chance to change the game?
And just thinking about these things, his eyes flickered shut.