Exactly two months had passed since Santi first stepped into the academy with nothing but a bag of clothes, a pair of boots and a quiet hunger that no one could measure. A hundred early morning drills, countless games and sprints. And now after a grueling match against Tigres, there was no training, just rest.
The dorm room was still dark when Santi's eyes blinked open. For a moment, he didn't move. His muscles were sore and his legs heavy. The weight of yesterday's match still clung to his body like a soaked jersey.
He turned over slowly, let out a tired sigh, then sat up and planted his feet on the cool floor. The room was quiet except for the occasional stir from one of the other beds.
He dragged himself to the sink at the far corner of the room, reached for his toothbrush and stared into the mirror. His face looked tired but alive. That kind of exhaustion you earn.
After brushing his teeth and splashing water on his face, he pulled on some joggers and a hoodie. He wasn't planning anything intense but a light jog couldn't hurt. Just a way to keep the blood moving.
Outside, the early morning air was sharp but fresh. A couple of the boys were already stretching near the dorm steps. Charlie waved him over.
"You still alive?" Charlie smirked.
"Barely," Santi replied, managing a small grin.
They jogged slowly around the compound. Nothing serious, just laps, short stretches and light conversation. The talk inevitably circled back to the Tigres game. Charlie was still buzzing about his goal.
"I should've had two," he said. "That first one? The keeper was lucky."
"You were too hyped," Santi said. "But it was your game."
After about thirty minutes, they all headed back inside. Warm showers and towels slung around shoulders. The aches were beginning to fade.
In the cafeteria, trays clattered and the smell of eggs, toast and oatmeal filled the air. The boys gathered around tables, laughing, eating and still talking football.
Toro piled up two plates. "Recover like a beast," he said. Ríos looked half-asleep, stirring his orange juice with a spoon. Solano, as usual, sat straight-backed, already talking about the next opponent. "No slip-ups. Not after what we've built."
By mid-morning, the group dispersed. Some headed to the recovery room for ice baths, massages and compression gear. Others moved toward the lounge, booting up the PS5 for FIFA.
Diego and Ochoa argued over which team to pick. "You always use PSG," Diego complained.
"It's because I score with Dembélé. Get better."
A few boys went to the pool for light swimming, floating lazily under the sun. The mood was relaxed. No pressure. Just a rare off-day.
Santi, after grabbing a banana and protein bar from the snack table, climbed back into his bed. He lay there, staring at the ceiling as his mind drifted.
So much had happened in three months. From the boy who had arrived quietly, unsure of his place, to the player making a name for himself.
He thought about the games. The goals. The nights spent practicing free kicks alone. The moments of doubt. And then… the future.
Would he be scouted? Could he make the leap to a bigger club in Europe? He wasn't the loudest or flashiest but he had that fire. And people were noticing.
He reached over to his bag and pulled out his phone, watching clips of old matches and slow-motion replays of his assists. The corners of his mouth lifted.
Later that afternoon, after some rest, he laced up his boots again and walked to the practice pitch. No coaches. No team. Just him and the ball.
He began juggling with steady and smooth touches. The kind of rhythm that only came after hundreds of hours.
He dribbled across the field, imagined defenders in front of him, worked through quick step-overs, flicks and soft touches, then stopped for a breather.
Then he heard it. A voice.
"Santiago!"
He froze and turned slowly. There, just outside the fence was a small figure in a bright dress waving both arms.
"Lupita?" he said, stunned.
Behind her were his parents. His mother with her eyes glistening and hands raised to her mouth and his father, standing tall, nodding with pride.
Santi's heart leaped into his throat. He jogged toward them, then sprinted the last few meters.
He hadn't seen them in months, not since he left San Idriso, that quiet village with no solid signal, where letters arrived late and calls dropped after two seconds.
Now they were here. And everything stopped.
Santi reached the fence and wrapped his arms around Lupita, lifting her off the ground as she giggled uncontrollably. She clung to his neck like she never wanted to let go.
"You got taller!" she beamed.
"And you got heavier," he joked, though the lump in his throat made it hard to speak.
His mother stepped forward, brushing tears from her cheeks as she touched his face. "Mijo… look at you. You're glowing. You're really glowing."
Santi turned to his father, who stood with his usual calm but this time with a soft pride in his eyes.
"You've made us proud, son. The whole town's been talking about you. People walk around asking, 'Did you hear what Santiago did?' The day you scored against Chivas, our neighbor banged on the door screaming like Mexico had won the World Cup."
Santi's eyes watered. He hadn't even known they were watching. In that remote part of San Idriso where network was scarce. Communication was a luxury. He assumed silence meant nothing got through. But clearly, word of his rise had traveled.
"I didn't know…" he muttered, swallowing back emotion.
"We knew you were doing something special," his father said. "You just needed a chance. And now look at you, playing with heart. Representing us all."
His mother pulled him into a hug, clinging tightly. "Every night, I prayed you were eating well. Sleeping enough. That you weren't lonely."
"I'm good, mamá. I really am," Santi whispered.
They stood there like that for a while, the family reconnected on the edge of a football pitch under the soft afternoon light. The same field where Santi had spent countless hours alone now held something more meaningful: home.
Lupita tugged on his arm. "Do you score goals every day?"
Santi chuckled. "Not every day. Some days I help others score. That counts too."
"Are you famous now?"
"Not yet. But maybe one day."
She nodded like she already believed it.
They sat on the bleachers near the training ground, his mother passing him some tamales she'd packed for the trip. The taste of home hit immediately, and his stomach growled. He hadn't realized how much he missed this; flavors from childhood, the scent of his mother's cooking and the ease of sitting next to his dad without needing to say anything.
They talked for an hour about life in San Idriso, the neighbor's new goat and how the schoolteacher cried when she found out about his goals on TV. Lupita wouldn't stop asking about the dorms, the games and the players.
"Is it scary when everyone's watching you?" she asked.
Santi paused. "Sometimes. But I try not to think about them. I just think about why I started."
After a while, his dad spoke.
"You remember when you were eight," he said, not looking at him, "and you tied rags together to make a ball?"
Santi smiled. "Yeah. I kept patching it until it was more string than cloth."
"You ruined your only good shirt that year." His father continued.
Santi laughed. "And I got whooped for it."
His dad finally looked up at him, a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Worth it though."
They sat quietly again, the sounds of distant traffic and birdsong filling the gaps.
His dad went on. "You know, I didn't understand why you spent so much time kicking that thing. Thought maybe you were avoiding chores. But one day, I saw you playing with the older boys. They were bigger. Rough. And you just kept going. They knocked you down and you got up like nothing. That's when I knew. It wasn't just a game to you."
Santi stared at the pitch. "I think… back then, it was my way of escaping. It felt like the only thing I had control over. Just the ball and me."
His father nodded. "I know. And now… look at all this. You have a team. Coaches. Facilities. Shoes made just for football. We didn't even dream this far."
Santi didn't say anything. He felt it all pressing down at once. The road behind him. The distance from home. The pressure ahead.
"I get scared sometimes," he admitted. "Like… what if I don't make it? What if this is as far as it goes?"
His father sat up straight, turning fully to face him. "Then you give it everything while you're here. You make it count. Not every story ends in Barcelona. But every day you get to do what you love, that's already something."
Santi nodded slowly.
His dad continued. "Look, mijo. I didn't come all this way to give you false hope. You know how hard life is. You've lived it. This dream? It's not handed out. It's earned. With sweat. Sacrifice. Heart. But you…." he tapped Santi's chest gently, "…you've already shown more hunger than boys twice your age."
Santi looked down, quiet. "Sometimes I feel like I have to carry all of San Idriso with me."
"You don't," his dad said. "But you do carry yourself. And that's enough. We're proud of you. Whether you make it to the national team or come home and coach the kids back in town… we're proud."
Santi's throat tightened again.
"I didn't know if you even knew what I was doing."
His father smiled. "We didn't always hear your voice but your name kept showing up. People with better network and more radios, they brought stories. A goal here. An assist. That free kick against Chivas? I heard it gave an old man in town a reason to smile for a week."
Santi let out a shaky breath. "I miss you guys."
"We miss you too. But don't come back too soon, okay? Keep making us miss you." They both laughed at that.
Down the row, his mom wiped at her eyes. "You boys and your serious talk."
"I like serious talk," Lupita said.
Santi pulled her close. "When you get older, I'll tell you all about what it's like in the academy. But for now, just know your big brother's trying."
"You're doing more than trying," she said proudly.
They sat there for a while longer. Talking about old neighbors. About the stubborn donkey that kept escaping its pen. About the woman who used to sell tamales and now tells everyone she taught Santi how to run.
Eventually, it was time. The sun had nearly set. The team dorms were calling. The bus for his family wouldn't wait.
At the gate, his mom kissed his forehead and hugged him so tightly that it hurt. Lupita squeezed him and handed him a little folded note she made. "For when you feel sad," she whispered.
His father embraced him last. Just a solid, firm hold.
"No matter what happens, Santi, you're already a man we're proud to call ours."
Santi couldn't hold it back anymore. He nodded, jaw clenched, eyes burning. "I'll make it," he whispered.
"We know," his father said. "We know."
And then they were gone, walking away down the road. And Santi stood at the gate, alone again. But not empty.