The sun hung high over the training grounds as Santi watched his family disappear down the road. His sister Lupita's enthusiastic waves lingered in his mind, her bright eyes full of admiration. His mother's tearful smile and his father's firm handshake echoed with unspoken words. Santi stood motionless, the midday heat pressing down on him until the distant hum of the engine faded into silence.
During lunch, the cafeteria buzzed with the familiar clatter of cutlery and the murmur of teammates discussing the day's training. Santi moved through the line mechanically, selecting grilled chicken, quinoa and steamed vegetables; a balanced meal designed to fuel recovery and performance. He settled at a table with Charlie, Diego and Ochoa.
Charlie, the ever-animated storyteller, recounted a moment from the recent match against Tigres. "Mate, that volley I nearly netted? Inches away! Next time, it's going top corner."
Diego smirked. "Keep dreaming, Charlie. Maybe in FIFA."
The table erupted in laughter but Santi offered only a faint smile as his thoughts were elsewhere. He replayed his father's parting words in his mind: "Stay hungry."
Ochoa noticed Santi's distraction. "Everything okay, Santi?"
Santi blinked, returning to the present. "Yeah, just thinking about the next match. Need to be ready."
Post-lunch, the team dispersed for leisure. Some gravitated towards the recreation room, engaging in spirited FIFA tournaments and ping-pong matches. The room resonated with cheers and playful banter.
Santi wandered in, observing as Charlie and Diego faced off in a heated FIFA game. The digital crowd roared as Diego's virtual striker netted a goal.
"Again, Charlie? Your defense is nonexistent," Diego teased.
Charlie groaned, ruffling his hair. "Rematch. Best of three."
Santi chuckled softly but felt a pull towards solitude. The weight of his father's words pressed on him, urging introspection.
Seeking respite, Santi retreated to his dormitory. The room was dim as the curtains were drawn to stave off the afternoon sun. He lay on his bed, the ceiling fan's rhythmic rotations offering a hypnotic lull.
His mind drifted to San Idriso, the makeshift goalposts, the dusty field and the ragged ball he'd crafted from old socks. He remembered his father's silhouette against the setting sun, watching silently as Santi practiced long after others had left.
"You have what it takes," his father had said earlier that day. "But talent alone isn't enough. Stay hungry."
Santi clenched his fists, a renewed determination coursing through him. He realized that while the academy provided resources and coaching, his inner drive would define his trajectory.
As evening approached, the aroma of grilled fish and roasted vegetables wafted through the corridors, signaling dinner. The cafeteria was less boisterous than at lunch, the day's exertions mellowing the team's energy.
Santi filled his plate with lean protein and complex carbohydrates, mindful of his nutritional needs. He joined a table where discussions centered around the upcoming tournament in León.
"Scouts from Europe will be there," Diego mentioned, his voice tinged with anticipation.
Ochoa nodded. "A solid performance could open doors."
Santi absorbed their words, the magnitude of the opportunity crystallizing in his mind. He envisioned himself on a grander stage, the roar of a larger crowd, the emblem of a prestigious club on his chest.
Finishing his meal, Santi felt a profound sense of clarity. His family's visit had rekindled a flame within him, illuminating the path ahead. He was not just playing for himself but for them, for Lupita's dreams, his mother's pride and his father's belief.
Eventually, he stood up, nodding toward the door. "I'm heading out for a bit."
"Going to hit the pitch again?" Charlie asked, half focused on the screen.
Santi gave a small nod. "Just for a bit."
"Man doesn't stop," Diego muttered, grinning. "That's why he's different."
Before heading out, Santi walked through the recovery room. A few players were already stretched out in ice baths, headphones in and eyes closed. Others were foam rolling or getting a light massage. Solano was getting taped on his ankle, chatting with a physio about tightness in his calf.
"Long season ahead," the physio said.
"Yeah," Solano replied. "But we're not slowing down."
Santi passed through quietly, grabbed his boots and stepped onto the pitch.
The pitch was quiet. The sun was lower now, the air cooler. He started juggling the ball, each touch sharp, light and controlled. One hundred touches. Then two hundred. Then he started dribbling through cones he'd set up earlier in the week with his feet moving fast.
He wasn't doing it for anyone. No coach watching. No teammates. Just him. He remembered watching Lamine Yamal clips the other day; how free he played, fearless, even at the biggest stage. It inspired something in him. Yamal was only a few years older but he played like he belonged. That was what Santi wanted, not just to be great but to belong among the best.
He ran sprint drills, stopped to catch his breath, then repeated them. His legs burned but he pushed through. When he finally stopped, the sky was turning purple. He stood in the center circle, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.
He headed back to the dorm afterward. The hallway to the dorms was quiet when Santi returned. The evening had settled in fully, the golden light replaced by a soft blue darkness outside the windows.
Overhead, the ceiling lights glowed dimly, casting long shadows as he walked. His footsteps were light and tired from the training but his mind buzzed with clarity. He wasn't drained, he was focused.
Inside the dorm, the atmosphere was loose and relaxed. A few of the boys were lying on their beds with their shirts off and legs dangling over the sides as they scrolled through their phones or cracked jokes across the room. Someone had hooked a speaker to a phone and soft reggaeton played in the background.
Ochoa and Ríos were having a half-serious debate about their FIFA ratings, tossing a pillow back and forth across the room. Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor, eating a protein bar, still going over highlights from their last match on his phone.
Santi stepped in quietly, tossed his boots into the corner by his bed and headed straight to the small bathroom for a cold shower. The water hit his skin and the fatigue began to sink in. His legs were sore, his shoulders heavy. But his mind? Clearer than ever.
He dressed slowly after the shower, threw on a hoodie and shorts and returned to the room. The conversations were still flowing. Diego was laughing at something Toro had said and Solano was sitting at his desk writing in a notebook, probably notes from training or thoughts ahead of the tournament. Everyone had their own way of preparing. Everyone had their own version of focus.
Santi lay down on his bed with his arms behind his head. The mattress wasn't soft but it didn't matter. The familiar scent of grass and sweat still clung to him faintly. Across the room, Charlie looked over.
"You good?"
Santi nodded. "Yeah."
"You thinking about your fam?"
Santi turned his head slightly and gave a half-smile. "Yeah. That… and León."
Charlie tossed a rolled-up sock at him. "Just don't overthink it. You're ready."
Santi caught the sock, smirked and threw it back.
The lights dimmed further as curfew neared. Some of the boys put away their phones, others slid on headphones. The music lowered, then stopped altogether.
As some were trying to sleep, a soft snort of laughter broke out. It was Diego, lying sideways on his bed with his phone tilted above his face.
"Bro," he said, voice half-whisper, half-laughing. "Tell me why Charlie runs in FIFA like he's got bricks in his socks."
Charlie groaned from across the room. "Man, I'm done with you. You better sleep with one eye open."
"No, for real," Diego kept going, not missing a beat. "The player you picked looked like he was trying to carry groceries while sprinting."
Laughter erupted from a couple of beds. Even Ríos chuckled under his breath.
"Don't listen to him, Charlie," Ochoa said, barely holding back a grin. "Diego's player got bodied by the ref one time."
"Yo!" Diego sat up. "That was a glitch!"
Solano, still sitting on his bunk, added with a straight face, "So is your pace rating. Glitching between slow and slower."
The room broke again with short bursts of laughter bouncing off the walls.
Santi smiled from his bed. He didn't say anything but the warmth in the air hit him. These weren't just teammates anymore. This was a brotherhood.
Charlie laughed, then raised his hand from his pillow. "Alright, alright. But if I score in the next game, I want Diego to write me a poem. Rhyming and all."
"You got yourself a deal," Diego grinned. "But only if it starts with: 'Ode to a winger who once tripped on grass…'" Even Toro cracked a smile at that one.
The tension of the long day faded into the jokes and the quiet rhythm of a team that had lived through pressure, fought together and now laughed together.
Santi stayed awake with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He thought of Lupita's smile. His mom's tears. The way his dad looked him in the eyes and said, "You've got something special. Don't stop now. You keep pushing mijo and the world will hear your name."