The dorm stirred earlier than usual. A strange mix of nerves and focus filled the air. There were no sleepy groans, no rolled-over yawns. Today was different. Today felt like the final warning shot before the war began.
Santi's eyes opened before the alarm. 6:10 a.m.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, hearing only the low buzz of silence. But within a few minutes, the dorm began to stir.
Charlie was first out of bed, a rare occurrence. "Today's not for playing around," he said, stretching with a grunt. "This is the final exam before León."
Diego rolled out of his bunk, rubbing his eyes. "And I didn't study."
"You never study," Ochoa said from across the room, already lacing his training shoes. Laughter bubbled in the corners, but no one lingered. The energy was nervous, serious and focused.
Steam filled the bathroom mirrors as the players filtered in one by one. The sound of running water, zippers and locker doors opening created a rhythm of readiness.
Santi stood under the cold spray, water cutting across his shoulders. His eyes were closed. No thoughts, just calm. His body hurt from yesterday's solo session but it was a good kind of pain.
As they dressed in clean training gear, the conversations picked up.
"What boots are you wearing today?" Diego asked Charlie.
"The ones that scored in my dream last night," Charlie said. "Top corner. Keeper didn't even move."
"Yeah?" said Ríos. "Did you also dream about missing from two yards?"
"I don't miss from two," Charlie shot back. "I miss from ten. Big difference."
The cafeteria smelled of warm toast and scrambled eggs. The trays clattered a little louder this morning, not from noise, but of tension.
Santi sat beside Diego and Solano. The table was quieter than usual.
"Get enough sleep?" Solano asked.
"Enough to know what I have to do," Santi replied.
Charlie plopped into the seat across from them with a plate full of toast and eggs. "I'm eating like I'm playing ninety today."
"You're not," said Ochoa, walking past. "You're eating like you're watching from the bench."
"Keep talking," Charlie replied, stuffing his face. "When I score in León, I'm not passing to any of you."
The team laughed but they all felt it, that quiet pressure. The tournament was two days away. Today's session? The last real tune-up.
Felipe passed by the table, clipboard under his arm. "Finish up and get ready. Coach wants full intensity today."
By 8:45, the locker room buzzed with snapping shin pads, tightening laces and the hiss of velcro gloves. Jerseys clung tighter. Socks were pulled higher. It felt more like game day than training.
"Feels like we're dressing for war," Diego muttered.
"We are," Solano said.
Outside, the sun was already climbing and the grass was freshly cut. Everything looked sharp.
Herrera stood at midfield, whistle in hand and eyes as sharp as ever. No cap today. Just him and his stare.
"Let's get to work," he said, voice low but commanding. "Two hours. No jokes. You mess up in León, you come off. No second chances."
The team started with a 15-minute warm-up; Jogging laps around the pitch in silent. The tempo increased every lap. Charlie and Ochoa started laughing about something early on but Herrera cut them off with one sharp look. It wasn't that kind of session.
After three laps, Herrera barked: "High knees. Go!"
The line of players moved in sync, legs pumping fast. Then: butt kicks, side shuffles, open the gate then close the gate.
Next: ladder drills. Quick feet through the rungs. Forward, backward and side-to-side.
"Light on your toes!" Felipe called out. "Eyes forward!"
Players transitioned straight into dynamic stretching; hamstrings, quads, calves and groins. No break.
Next came sprint sets. Herrera walked them through the cones.
"Explode on my whistle. I want zero hesitation."
Four sets of 60-meter sprints. No rest between reps. Santi took off fast, keeping pace with Ríos and Toro.
"You call that speed?" Ríos challenged Toro.
"I'm not sprinting," Toro said calmly. "I'm cruising."
Next: 20-meter shuttle sprints. Directional change on a dime, lateral movements and backpedals into sprints.
Several players stumbled in the first round. Not Santi, he cut clean lines through the grass, his body leaning low with each turn.
"You're moving like this isn't your first tournament," Felipe said as Santi passed him.
Santi didn't respond. He just nodded and lined up again.
After sprinting, Herrera slowed it down but not by much.
"Touch and control. Juggling. Five minutes, then we rotate."
Players spread out across the field. Balls popped into the air. Santi started juggling with his right foot. Then the left, then alternating. He moved into thighs, shoulders, then chest to head to shoulder and back to foot.
He caught it behind his neck, dropped it to his heel and flicked it up again.
"Show off," Diego said beside him, struggling to keep it above his knee.
Santi grinned. "Keep going. Don't think. Just move."
Charlie, meanwhile, misfired a ball that ricocheted off his shin and hit Ríos.
"That was a pass!" Charlie said.
"That was a lawsuit," Ríos muttered.
After that, they switched to rondos. 3v1 inside tight cones, high speed. One-touch only. Santi, Diego and Solano rotated seamlessly, pinging the ball between them with soft angles and clever weight.
Herrera paced between groups.
"Don't wait for pressure. Move before it finds you." The group rotated.
Next: two-touch, with increasing pressure. Players started barking at each other, constructive and sharp. The pace picked up.
"Talk! Talk!" Herrera demanded.
"Back to me!" Santi called.
"Switch it!" Solano barked.
Then came the "pressure box"; two players inside, four outside. Two-touch limit. Rotate after a turnover.
Charlie turned it over three times in five minutes. "I thought we weren't keeping score," he muttered.
"You thought wrong," said Felipe.
"Form two lines," Herrera called. "One ball. You pass, he finishes."
Santi and Diego paired up.
Santi rolled a clean ball across the edge of the box, Diego met it first time and side-footed just wide.
"Again," Herrera said.
Another rep. This time, Diego buried it.
Next: quick combinations. One player at the top of the box, laying it off. The midfielder takes a touch and strikes.
Solano hit one top corner. Then another.
"Save some for León!" Ochoa shouted.
Charlie stepped up next. One step, two, and fired wide. "Just practicing my goal kicks," he said.
Felipe rolled his eyes. "Less comedy, more finishing."
Santi stepped up, received from Diego, touched once and unleashed a left-footed curler that smacked the inside of the post and in.
Herrera didn't say anything, just marked it on his clipboard.
The final stretch; Two teams. Compact field. One-touch encouraged. No coaching allowed.
The game was intense. Solano controlled the tempo, shouting instructions. Diego made a backheel flick to Charlie, who hit the target.
Toro made a crunching tackle on Ríos, stood him up and helped him back up in the same motion.
"You alright?" Toro asked.
Ríos nodded. "Yeah. You?"
Toro just grinned.
Santi floated between the lines, he found space near the left channel, took a through pass from Diego and nearly chipped the keeper. Just over.
"Next one goes in," he muttered to himself.
A minute later, Herrera blew the whistle.
The team gathered at the sideline, breathing hard, shirts soaked, hands on hips. Some knelt and others paced.
Herrera didn't yell now. He didn't need to. He stood at the center of the group.
"This isn't training anymore. This is preparation. León doesn't care what your story is. It doesn't care where you're from. It only knows one thing, who's ready?"
He looked at each of them. "You mess up at the tournament? You get subbed. You don't fight for every ball? You sit. You don't play for the badge, you go home."
Then he paused. "But I've seen enough. I know you're ready. What matters now is who you choose to be when the pressure hits." He turned and walked off the field.
"Stretch, recover. No excuses. Not now!"
The boys didn't speak for a moment. Then Ríos broke the silence. "Let's win the whole thing." No one disagreed.