The sky outside the dorms was still laced with early-morning gray when Santi's eyes blinked open. He stared at the ceiling for a second, listening. Charlie was already muttering something in his bed across the room.
"I swear this mattress gets harder every day. It's like sleeping on regrets."
From the other side, Ochoa groaned. "That's because you're built soft."
Santi chuckled quietly and sat up. The room was slowly coming to life. Beds creaked, blankets were pulled off and a few boys were shuffling to the sinks. Someone's towel fell from their bunk with a loud smack.
"Whose towel?" Diego said, still lying down.
"Mine," Ríos grumbled. "And if you step on it with those fungus feet, we fight."
Charlie rolled off his bed like he'd been thrown. "Good morning, beautiful people. Who's ready to run until our souls beg for mercy?"
"That's poetic," muttered Lucho, brushing his teeth. "Put it in a book."
Santi reached for his toothbrush. At the sink, he and Diego stood side by side, brushing in silence for a moment before Diego said, foamy-mouthed, "I had a dream we were playing in the Copa del Futuro and I missed a penalty by hitting it into the parking lot."
"You better keep that dream to yourself," Santi mumbled. "If you do that in real life, you're sleeping outside."
Behind them, Charlie stuck his toothbrush in his mouth and spoke around it. "I had a dream that I scored a hat trick and celebrated by climbing the goalpost like a monkey."
"You don't need to dream that. You do it in FIFA all the time," Ochoa said, voice flat.
They finished up and filed out into the early morning chill. A soft breeze brushed through the trees. The sky was a deep, pale blue, not quite daylight but already stretching toward it.
"Two laps," Solano called. "Keep it light."
"I'm keeping it imaginary," Charlie said. "My spirit will run. My body stays behind."
The group started jogging around the dorm compound. Some were still yawning, others already laughing. Santi kept a steady pace beside Diego.
"Copa's three days away," Diego said between breaths.
"Yeah," Santi replied. "It's coming fast."
"Think we're ready?"
"We have to be."
They passed the dorms, looped around the training block and slowed near the cafeteria.
"Whoever serves those boiled eggs better smile today," Charlie said. "I'm gonna need motivation."
"You need Jesus," Ríos muttered.
The cafeteria smelled like toast and warm beans. The boys slid their trays down the line with scrambled eggs, oatmeal, whole wheat toast, grilled plantains and fruit. Protein and carbs. Standard fuel for a long training day.
Santi grabbed his tray and sat down. Diego, Charlie and Ochoa followed.
Charlie stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth. "Let's talk Copa."
"Let's talk about you chewing like a cow," Ochoa replied.
"No, but seriously," Charlie said, mouth still half-full. "Copa del Futuro. We win it, we play against Europe. As in, real European academy teams. We could be playing Ajax, Dortmund or PSG. Actual people that exist in FIFA."
Diego shook his head. "You're excited now. But wait till coach makes you run suicides."
"He better let us celebrate if we win that thing," said Ríos, joining the table. "I'm talking music. Pizza or maybe a pool."
"You're not even allowed to celebrate until you stop passing like a penguin," Solano said, sitting beside him.
That brought the table into another round of laughs.
"Jokes aside," Santi said, "we have three days. Three. That's nothing. If we're not sharp now, we'll show up flat."
Solano nodded. "He's right. One lazy session and it's over. This tournament isn't just for bragging rights, it's about exposure."
Charlie leaned over. "You gonna pull out the bicycle kick again, Cruz?"
"If the ball's right, maybe," Santi said with a small grin.
The sun had climbed now, warming the air but the players didn't feel it. They felt the pressure. Herrera stood in the middle of the pitch with cap low and clipboard in hand. He was serious and he meant no joke.
"On the line!" he barked.
Warm-ups began. Jogging. High knees. Side shuffles. Short sprints. Then the tempo increased: agility ladders, quick-feet drills and passing circuits.
No one was slacking. The focus was locked. Felipe had set up multiple stations around the field. Everyone rotated through: finishing, positioning, one-touch passing, aerial duels and counterattacks.
On the far side, Santi and Diego worked on the trivela. Over and over again.
"Outside of the foot," Santi explained, "but don't force the curve. Just guide it."
Diego messed up a few times, it had too much power and not enough control but eventually started to get the feel. One strike curved beautifully into the net.
"Okay," Santi said. "Now make that repeatable."
Meanwhile, Ochoa and Valdez drilled penalties. Ochoa dove left, right and then guessed high. Valdez placed his shots with cool precision.
Charlie watched from a distance. "If this goes to shootouts, I'm pretending I pulled a hamstring."
"Then I'll take your spot and finally be useful," Ríos called out.
In the middle of the pitch, Solano fired quick passes into rebound boards, switching feet and angles. Toro and Lucho battled shoulder-to-shoulder in positioning drills.
Herrera barked constantly. "Focus, Ríos! Follow through, Diego! That pass was soft, Solano—harder!" No one was safe. But no one complained. This was what mattered.
The Copa del Futuro. Three days away. Every drill. Every touch. Every instruction carried more weight now.
After nearly two hours, Herrera blew the final whistle. The players gathered around him, soaked in sweat, chests heaving and eyes tired but alert.
He stood still for a second, letting the silence settle. "You think this was tough?" he asked. "You think today was about survival?" No one answered.
"This was nothing." A beat passed.
"You win Copa del Futuro, you play against one of Europe's best academies. You go from here," he pointed at the field, "to the radar. To the scouts. To real opportunities." They were listening now.
"But only if you show up. Show hunger. Show grit. If you want to jog through this tournament then don't show up. If you want to fight? Good. That's the only way this happens."
He looked at Santi, then Solano, then the others. "You've got three days. Start acting like it." The players didn't nod or clap. They didn't need to. They turned and walked off, slow and serious. No one joked now.
They knew what was coming. And they were ready for war.
As the players filed off the pitch, their bodies told the story with soaked shirts, grass stains on socks, tight hamstrings and bruised shins but no one complained. No one limped off like they had an excuse. Every single one of them wore the weight of Herrera's words like a second jersey.
Santi walked alongside Diego and Solano, their steps quiet and their minds running faster than their legs.
"You think it'll really be a European team?" Diego asked, wiping the sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt.
Solano nodded. "Felipe doesn't play with hype. If they say there's a match lined up, there's a match."
Santi didn't say anything at first. His chest was still rising and falling hard, heart pumping but not from exhaustion, from focus.
"If we win," he finally said, "that game might be the one that changes everything."
Charlie walked up behind them, his hair sticking up in five different directions. "If I score in that game, I'm getting a tattoo of the moment."
"You won't even make the squad if you keep tripping over your own feet," Ochoa said, passing by with a towel slung over his shoulder.
Charlie smirked. "If falling was a sport, I'd be captain." Behind them, Valdez and Toro were debating tactics.
"I'm telling you," Valdez said, "we have to draw defenders wide. Make space inside for Cruz or Diego."
"I'll do that," Toro replied, "if you promise not to chip it into the stands again."
"Bro, that was one time."
Santi half-listened but mostly, he was already picturing the Copa: walking into the stadium at León, the buzz in the air, the nerves twisting in his stomach. The kind of match where your entire journey walks onto the pitch with you.
As they entered the locker room, Felipe was waiting with towels and a clipboard, jotting notes. He looked up.
"Well done today. You boys didn't waste time." Herrera walked in just behind them. His voice was low now, but firm.
"Recovery, rest and eat clean. I don't want dead legs on the first day. You've earned this chance but it means nothing if you don't finish the job."
They nodded, some sitting heavily on the benches and others dropping to the floor and laying flat.
Santi leaned against the wall with his head tilted back and eyes closed for a moment. He felt the ache in his calves, the tightness in his shoulders but beneath it, he felt a pulse of something deeper. Three days to the tournament.
Copa del Futuro. A shot at something bigger than they'd ever touched. And he wasn't just playing for himself anymore. He was playing for his family, his name, his story.