Back at the dorm, Santi's legs felt like bricks but the good kind, the kind earned through work. His clothes clung to him as he peeled them off in the bathroom, his muscles were stiff from the solo training session. The cold water of the shower hit his back and he exhaled hard, letting the chill force him still. With his eyes closed and arms braced against the tile, he let the spray wash away the dust, the sweat and the weight of the day.
Ten minutes later, he stepped out fresh, hoodie pulled over damp hair, stomach rumbling. As he walked toward the cafeteria, he could already hear the laughter echoing down the hallway.
The cafeteria smelled of roasted chicken, garlic rice and sautéed vegetables. Santi grabbed a tray and joined the table where Diego, Charlie, Ochoa, Ríos and Toro were already halfway through their meals.
"You missed Charlie's latest delusion," Diego said without looking up.
"Delusion?" Charlie replied, wounded. "Sir, I said fact. I said I could start at right wing for América tomorrow if Herrera let me."
"Only if the other ten players didn't show up," Ríos said.
"Let's be honest," Ochoa added. "Charlie's idea of tactics is run, trip, apologize."
Even Santi laughed at that one. "Alright, alright," Charlie said, holding up a piece of chicken like a microphone. "Let's go around. Say the club you know you're going to play for in the future. None of this 'hope' stuff. Speak it into existence."
"Oh boy," Diego muttered.
Charlie pointed to Ochoa. "You first."
"Easy," Ochoa said. "Real Madrid. But only if Courtois retires."
"You're not even a keeper," Ríos said.
"I'll adapt."
"Ríos?" Charlie asked.
"Napoli. I want that Italian league smoke."
"Toro?"
Toro shrugged. "Boca Juniors. No joke."
"Respect," Charlie said, then turned to Diego.
"Liverpool," Diego replied. "The tempo. The energy. I want that pressure."
Santi was quiet, still eating. Charlie turned to him. "You, Cruz. Where?"
Santi thought for a second. Then: "Barcelona." A beat passed.
"You gonna reunite with Messi too?" Ochoa asked.
"No," Santi said, smiling. "But I want to play in the same stadium he made magic in. Not just for him but for what it means. La Masia, identity, control and intelligence. Everything I want to become."
The table went quiet for a second, then Charlie leaned back. "Okay. I felt that in my soul."
After dinner, the boys gathered in the dorm. Most sat on their bunks or leaned against walls, they were full from the meal. As their legs propped up, the room lit with soft yellow light and the occasional flicker of a phone screen.
"Crazy to think where we were six months ago," Diego said. "Feels like a different life."
"I was training on gravel back home," said Ochoa. "Real talk. No cleats. Just shoes."
"I used to sneak out to play because my parents didn't think football was a career," Ríos added.
Toro nodded. "Same. My dad said no one from our town makes it out. I want to prove him wrong, but now he's the one reminding me to train."
The conversation drifted. They shared their dreams without hesitation. No mocking. No doubt.
Santi lay on his back, staring up at the bunk slats above. In his mind, León was already there. The Copa. The lights. The nerves. And beyond that, Camp Nou. Not a dream anymore. A target.
Home wasn't far from his thoughts either. Lupita. His mother's tearful smile. His father's proud silence. He was doing it for them too.
As Santi was bothered with thoughts, Charlie sat up suddenly. "Alright, new game. Say it like it's already happened. One sentence, present tense and no jokes."
"What do you mean?" Ríos asked, now perched on the windowsill.
"I'll start. Ready? 'Charlie Domínguez signs with PSG and scores in the Champions League quarterfinal.' Boom."
"Okay, okay," Ochoa jumped in. "'Javier Ochoa makes a last-minute save for Atlético Madrid in the Copa del Rey final.'"
Diego leaned back. "'Diego Silva assists the winner in a Clasico, Camp Nou goes crazy.'"
They turned to Santi. He sat up slowly, thought for a moment, then said, calm and steady:
"'Santiago Cruz plays in El Clásico… and scores in the 90th minute.'" The room went quiet.
"Okay, damn," Charlie muttered. "Why does yours sound like it already happened?"
"Because," Santi said, cracking a small smile, "I've already lived it up here." He tapped his temple.
Laughter returned, but quieter now less silly and more real. The dreams no longer felt distant. They felt close, breathing the same air.
As the lights dimmed and the room settled into its nighttime rhythm; phones charging, beds creaking and the buzz of post-training chatter fading into tired silence, Santi lay back again.
The dorm had gone quiet. That kind of quiet that comes after long days and heavy thoughts. The type of silence that wasn't awkward, it was earned. You could hear the low hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of a bunk shifting under someone's weight. Most of the guys were winding down, each lost in their own rhythm, their own way of dealing with what was coming.
Santi wasn't tired but his mind was wide awake. From the bunk above, Charlie's voice drifted down.
"You think we're gonna pull it off?"
Santi didn't answer right away. He didn't need to. The question hung in the air like something sacred.
"I think," Santi finally said, "we've done enough to deserve it. But we still have to take it."
Diego sat up from his bunk across the room. "You don't win tournaments because you deserve them. You win 'em because you survive them."
"I like that," Toro said from his spot by the window. "Put that on a shirt."
"I'd buy it," Ochoa added, yawning.
Solano, always the last to speak, said from his corner, "Just remember that every other team wants this just as bad as we do. The difference comes from who breaks first."
Santi nodded to himself. He wasn't afraid of the other teams. He wasn't even afraid of the moment. What he feared was being average. Of walking into León with all this fire inside him and not lighting anything.
He wouldn't let that happen.
After a while, the room slipped further into stillness. Charlie was out first as his soft snores signaled it. Diego followed. Then Ochoa. One by one, the voices faded except Santi who stayed awake a little longer.
He reached into his locker and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It was worn, edges softened from being held too many times. A note from his mother, the one she slipped into his bag when he left San Idriso.
"Recuerda de dónde vienes. Nunca dejes de soñar." (Remember where you come from. Never stop dreaming.)
He read it once. Again, then folded it and tucked it back where it belonged.
Then, finally, he turned on his side and closed his eyes.