After the emotional and eye-opening talk earlier that morning, the energy around the academy shifted, not heavier, not tense but quieter. Everyone had something on their mind, even if they tried to hide it behind jokes, food or banter. There was something grounding about hearing a former player talk about the struggle in such raw detail.
The cafeteria was loud and bright, but underneath the surface, conversations had more depth than usual. The trays slid across stainless-steel rails as the boys moved through the line with rice, grilled chicken thighs, sweet potatoes, salad, a piece of fruit and water bottles. The kitchen staff worked like a machine, plating and restocking.
Santi sat down at his usual table, sliding onto the bench next to Diego, who already had his head buried in a mountain of sweet potatoes. Ochoa sat across from them, one hand swirling a fork and the other scrolling through his phone.
Charlie arrived last, his tray heavier than the others. "Double carbs," he declared. "Might do a backflip today."
"You can't even touch your toes," said Diego.
"Stretching is for flexible people. I'm powerful not bendable."
They all burst into laughter. Santi shook his head, smiling. "You're bendable. You bent my locker door trying to open it."
"That's because someone locked it with black magic."
Ochoa, chewing slowly, pointed his fork at Santi. "But for real though… that talk this morning? That hit."
Diego nodded. "Felt like he was talking straight to me."
Charlie wiped his mouth, then added more seriously, "You know what stuck with me? When he said, 'Play for love or the game will leave you.' I felt that."
Santi stayed quiet. He didn't need to say it. He lived it. His whole journey, from San Idriso to this table was built on that exact idea.
As trays were returned and tables cleared, the team splintered into its usual mini-routines.
Charlie stretched and yawned. "Nap time. Wake me up if someone scores a hat trick in their dream."
Diego looked at Santi. "You going to the pitch?"
Santi was already halfway to the exit. "Yeah. Got some things I want to work on."
Ríos, overhearing, shook his head. "He doesn't stop. It's like he's powered by pressure."
"More like purpose," Ochoa added.
The field was empty, silent except for the occasional chirp of a bird overhead. Santi set down a small bag, pulled out his cones and laced his boots tight. He started with a warm-up jog around the perimeter of the pitch, then moved into some ball control, juggling drills: left foot only, right foot only, alternating then thighs, head and back down.
The breeze picked up, rustling the tall trees beyond the fence. Sweat began to form along his brow but his eyes stayed sharp. The air around him felt different, focused and narrow like the world was shrinking down to just the ball and his feet.
Fifteen minutes in, he moved to cone dribbles, close touches, body feints, quick turns and stepovers. Elastico, la Croqueta and dragbacks. He wasn't just repeating drills, he was refining instinct.
From behind, a familiar voice called, "At it again?"
Diego jogged in, already in boots and a fresh kit. "I told myself I'd nap. But I kept thinking about that talk. Couldn't sit still."
They bumped fists, then went straight into one-touch passing drills. It was sharp, snappy and the kind of rhythm that only came with trust.
"Crazy how he just knew what we were going through," Diego said between touches.
"Because he went through it," Santi replied.
"You think we'll make it?"
Santi took a second to answer. "I think we have to earn it. Over and over."
They went another round, then switched to crossing drills. Diego served balls in from the edge of the box. Santi timed his runs, aiming for one-touch finishes. Some he missed and some he buried.
When they finally stopped, they sat down on the sideline, their chests rising and falling.
Diego leaned back on his elbows. "You know what scares me?"
"What?" Santi asked.
"Not being good enough. Giving everything… and still falling short."
Santi nodded. "Then we don't fall short. We work."
By the time they returned, the dorm was buzzing again. Charlie was upright, groggy and wild-haired, arguing with Ochoa about something to do with missing socks.
"Your socks are under your bed, man," Ochoa said.
"That's what they want you to think," Charlie said.
"You need sleep," Ríos muttered.
Santi dropped his boots beside his bed, peeled off his training top and took a quick shower. The cold water shocked his system but it felt good. Clean.
Afterward, the boys gathered in the common area. Ríos had a deck of cards. Diego grabbed a bag of popcorn and Ochoa was already streaming Premier League highlights on the TV.
"Look at that pass from De Bruyne," he said, pointing. "One touch. No-look. Filthy."
"Bruno's was better last weekend," Diego argued. "And don't even start on Ødegaard."
"Midfielders are overrated," Charlie said, tossing popcorn into his mouth. "Just give it to the striker and let the magic happen."
"That's why you're not on the tactics board," Solano muttered.
Dinner was loud again. Pasta, grilled vegetables and plenty of hydration. The staff didn't play around with fueling.
Everyone had taken their EPL debates into full gear now.
"Spurs are cursed," Diego said.
"They are not," Charlie defended. "They're just misunderstood."
"They're allergic to trophies," said Toro, deadpan.
That one got the whole table howling. Even Santi laughed. As dinner wrapped up, Felipe approached from the hallway with arms folded.
"Santi. Walk with me?"
They stepped outside into the warm evening. The academy lights hummed softly and the field behind them was dark now.
"It's been a while since you and I had a real talk," Felipe said. "You've grown. Not just as a player but as a person."
Santi looked down. "I've been trying to keep my head down. Just focus."
"I know," Felipe nodded. "But don't let your focus isolate you. There's a line between hunger and pressure. One fuels you. The other eats you."
Santi exhaled slowly. "I've felt both."
"I believe it," Felipe said. "But you've handled it better than most your age. I watched you today, how you train, how you respond and how the others look at you. You're becoming a leader without even trying."
Santi said nothing but his chest tightened with something heavy and warm at the same time.
"You'll get your chance, Santi. When it comes, take it like you've already been there. And whatever you do, don't stop playing with love."
They walked back in silence for a bit. No rush.
Back inside, the dorm had come alive again. Someone had turned on the music. A few were dancing terribly, Charlie the worst offender. Ochoa was doing fake commentary in a British accent, narrating his own "match-winning" performance in FIFA.
"Ladies and gentlemen, he dribbles past one, past two and he shoots! Oh, it's gone into the wall. It's rubbish but he celebrates like it's a Champions League final!"
The whole room was laughing. Then came the talk of football mentors.
"Who made you fall in love with football?" someone asked.
"Ronaldinho," Ochoa said. "He played like a street kid, even in a stadium."
"Messi," said Ríos. "Always."
"Puyol," Solano said. "No flash. Just respect."
"Chicharito!" Charlie yelled, holding a pillow above his head. "The people's striker!"
Santi didn't speak at first. But then he said quietly, "Myself."
The room quieted a little. Just for a second. Then someone tossed a sock at Charlie and the chaos resumed.
Santi leaned back in bed with arms crossed behind his head. The laughter, the jokes and the energy, it was all around him.
But his eyes were already closed. He didn't even notice the moment he fell asleep. The others kept talking well into the night.
But Santi? He was already dreaming.