Back at the dorms, the morning's grind was still etched into every step. The players walked like they'd been through war, they were slow, sun-beaten and quiet. Some peeled off toward the recovery room, where tubs of icy water waited like punishment. Others dragged their bags toward their rooms, slinging sweaty towels over their shoulders.
The sun was rising hard now. Heat shimmered off the concrete outside.
"Too hot to be alive," Charlie muttered as he sat on the bench, untying his boots. "I might ice-bathe my soul."
Santi didn't say much. He followed Solano, Ríos and Ochoa into the recovery room. The metal tubs were already half-filled and the moment Santi dipped his foot in, the cold snapped his senses awake.
"Dios mío!" Ochoa hissed as he slid in beside him. "This should be illegal."
Toro stepped in like it was nothing. "This is the only part of training I like."
"Because you don't have to think," Ríos said. "Your brain freezes before your legs do."
Laughter bounced off the tiled walls. The pain of the cold somehow made them all feel alive again.
Lunch hit differently after a session like that. The cafeteria was quieter than usual not out of mood, just muscle fatigue. Even the chairs seemed to creak in slow motion.
Santi walked in with the others with a tray in hand. Today's menu: whole grain rice, roasted sweet potatoes, grilled chicken breasts and beans. Two types of juice sat at the end of the line, watermelon and mango. Most of them took both.
At the center table, Solano sat like a coach, nodding as everyone sat around him. "Eat well. Load your carbs. No excuses," he said, serious but not overbearing.
"Solano out here acting like our mom," Ochoa joked.
"Yeah," Charlie added. "Next, he's gonna tell us to eat our vegetables and check our posture."
"Do it or I'll make you do planks before bed," Solano replied, deadpan. More laughter emerged.
Santi took his seat, quietly piling his plate. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he smelled the beans. He barely spoke, just nodded along to the conversations and ate like his body was asking for forgiveness.
After eating, the team drifted again, some back to their rooms for a nap and others toward the lounge or recovery spaces.
Ochoa stretched across his bed with a book in one hand and his phone in the other. "Today is strictly low energy. FIFA and protein shakes only."
Toro tossed a towel at him. "You only say that because your passing rating in real life is lower than in the game."
"I don't pass. I shoot," Ochoa replied.
Charlie was already passed out on his bunk, mouth half open with his socks still on.
Santi lay on his bed with arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. For twenty minutes, he didn't move. Not because he couldn't but because his body had finally relaxed. Then he sat up slowly and slipped on a hoodie.
The academy's gaming center was packed with players, the facility was air-conditioned, lined with sleek screens and consoles. Santi had rarely stepped foot inside. In San Idriso, he'd never seen anything like it. He didn't grow up with gaming consoles. He grew up juggling oranges in the fields.
But today, something about it called to him. Not just curiosity, he wanted a different kind of release. Ochoa looked up as he entered. "Well, well. Look who finally joined the modern age."
"I need something that doesn't involve sweating," Santi said, eyeing the controller.
"You sure you can even hold this thing right?" Ochoa teased, handing him a controller.
"I'll manage."
Ochoa picked Liverpool. Santi scrolled quickly, eyes stopping at Barcelona.
"Let me guess," Ochoa said. "You're picking Barça 'cause of Ronaldinho, Messi, Neymar?"
Santi smirked. "I'm picking them because I plan to wear their shirt one day."
Ochoa raised a brow. "Say less."
The game started. Ochoa was confident, but Santi adapted fast, reading movement, timing passes and using the wings. At the 34th minute, he curled a shot with Pedri from outside the box.
"TRIVELA!" Santi shouted.
"What, how?!" Ochoa laughed, shaking his head.
"You showed me that one earlier."
Ochoa scored one late, but Santi held on, winning 2–1.
As the match ended, Ochoa looked at him, still grinning. "You play just like you do on the pitch. Simple, sharp, annoying to defend."
Toro, who had been watching from behind, clapped. "I want you on my team next match."
Santi shrugged, relaxed. "Only if I get to be Messi."
"More like Messi's cousin from the countryside," Charlie shouted from the hallway.
Around 4:30, while most of the academy was still in rest mode, Santi changed quietly into his training gear. The sun had started to lower, casting long shadows across the field. He tied his boots, grabbed his water bottle and stepped onto the grass with his boots laced and his head clear. Alone with no coach, no teammates, just him and his instinct.
He didn't need an audience. The field didn't need to be crowded for it to matter. This was his ritual, his way of reminding himself what the dream cost.
He started with juggling.
First, the ball balanced on his right foot. Pop! Then the left, Pop! He moved into a slow rhythm with alternating touches. One, two, three. Ten. Twenty. Light taps, as if the ball was too fragile to bruise. Then he let it bounce off his thigh, then switched to his right shoulder, left shoulder, chest, then up to his forehead.
One bounce. Then he kept it up using only his head. Tap! Tap! Tap!
His eyes locked upward, adjusting with every touch. Then he tilted his neck, let it drop to his shoulder, flicked it to his knee, and continued.
He was juggling now with everything, with every part of his body. He did that with his head, shoulder, foot and thighs seamlessly. It wasn't showboating. It was sharpening. Every surface of his body learning how to obey the weight, the bounce and the angle of the ball.
At one point, he caught it behind his neck and held it there for three full seconds before letting it fall gently down the curve of his back. As it rolled off, he flicked his heel backward and popped it back into the air, starting again.
Sweat rolled down his cheek. His shirt clung to his back but he didn't stop.
He ran through cone drills next, weaving with the ball as if defenders were on his heels. His steps were light, touches surgical. Step-overs, cut-backs, double drag and elasticos. Every move was done with purpose like he wasn't practicing but auditioning for something bigger than even he could see.
His breath was coming harder now, the sun pressing against his neck, but his focus didn't crack. He started sprinting with the ball, ten meters forward, a quick change of direction, pull-back, spin and restart.
Then he turned to volleys; toss, pops and then struck with all his might. He did that over and over again. He missed a few and scuffed one completely. But he didn't react. No cursing. No frustration. Just reset.
That was the difference now, he had learned to train like a professional and not a kid chasing the wind.
He set up cones in a small diamond shape and began rapid short-touches inside it barely enough space to breathe between movements. His breathing grew heavier, feet quicker and sweat began to drip from his chin.
With his last set, he juggled, sprinted, turned and reset again. It wasn't punishment. It was peace. The kind only people who truly loved the game could understand. He didn't hear the footsteps at first. Not until a shadow joined him on the grass.
"You trying to make the Earth spin faster or what?"
Santi looked up. Felipe was standing just outside the lines with arms folded and watching.
Santi wiped his forehead and caught his breath. "Just… keeping sharp." Felipe nodded, stepping forward.
"I've been watching from the office window for twenty minutes. You don't stop." Santi shrugged. "It's what I know how to do."
Felipe looked out across the empty pitch, then sat down on the bench. He patted the spot beside him.
Santi walked over, sitting quietly.
Felipe spoke first. "Tournament's close now. León isn't going to be easy. The Copa's loaded. Big academies, big players, cameras and scouts."
"I know," Santi said. "That's why I'm out here."
"I figured. But listen, what you're doing now? It's more than extra work. It's identity. Most players don't have that. Not really."
Santi said nothing. He looked down at his hands, still damp with sweat.
"I've coached a lot of boys," Felipe went on. "Many had talent. Some had discipline. Few had both and even fewer had something else."
"What's that?"
Felipe looked at him. "A reason."
Santi didn't answer right away. But then he said quietly, "My family. My town. The way we grew up. I can't forget it. Not now, not ever."
Felipe nodded slowly. "Then that reason will carry you when your legs can't."
The two sat there for a while, watching the sky dim. The field was quiet again. No drills now. No noise. Just the silence of purpose.
Felipe finally stood. "Dinner soon. You've earned it."
As he walked away, Santi stayed seated, staring out at the cones, the grass and the goalposts.
In three days, they'd head to León. The Copa del Futuro. A chance to play against Europe and a chance to prove everything.
But tonight was about the sweat, the silence and the promise made in solitude.