By the time training ended, the boys didn't walk off the pitch but they dragged themselves.
Santi could barely feel his legs. His shirt clung to him, it was soaked. His calves throbbed and every breath he took felt like it had to travel through layers of soreness. Around him, it was the same, Diego hunched over, Charlie limped with both boots untied and Ríos sat on the ground refusing to move.
"Are we still alive?" Charlie asked.
"No one here is sure," Ochoa muttered, bent over with his hands on his knees.
Solano, who usually kept his voice strong even after the toughest sessions was silent just breathing.
Without saying a word, Santi headed toward the recovery room. One by one, the rest followed.
The cold air in the recovery room hit them like a shockwave, a welcome one. Santi sat down and stretched his legs slowly before easing into the ice bath.
He didn't yell, didn't flinch but the cold bit deep.
Diego cursed out loud as he lowered himself in. "Who invented this again? This is what betrayal feels like."
Ríos, sitting in the next tub exhaled through gritted teeth. "I feel like my bones are freezing."
Toro didn't flinch. "Good. If it doesn't hurt, it's not working."
Santi leaned with his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. The cold made him sharper and more present. His body had taken a beating but his mind was locked in.
This wasn't punishment. This was an investment.
After twenty minutes, they dried off, changed into fresh gear and walked, still sore to the cafeteria. Their bodies moved slower but their hunger said otherwise.
Grilled chicken, rice, beans, boiled vegetables, sliced oranges and large jugs of water waited for them. The trays clattered a little more today, their hands heavier and their pace slower.
Santi sat with Diego, Charlie and Solano. No one touched their phones. All eyes were on the food.
"Everything hurts," Charlie mumbled between bites of rice.
"Even my shadow hurts," Diego added.
Santi forked his chicken and said quietly, "The hurt means it matters."
"Spoken like someone who's watched too many football documentaries," Ochoa said, sliding into the seat beside them.
Laughter cracked through the soreness for a moment.
Halfway through the meal, Herrera walked into the cafeteria. His presence flipped the mood instantly. Conversations dropped. Postures straightened and everyone looked his way.
He didn't raise his voice.
"Listen up," he said. "You leave tomorrow. 9 a.m. sharp. Full gear. You'll register as a team upon arrival. Matches will be drawn by noon." He paused, letting it sink in.
"Pack properly. Check everything twice. I don't want to hear that someone forgot their jersey or boots or gloves. This is a professional tournament. You act like it." The boys nodded, focused now.
"After lunch, rest. Then pack. This is your last night here before León. Make it count." He turned and walked out.
The room was silent for a second. Then Charlie looked around and said, "Well, guess I'm sleeping in my boots tonight."
Santi didn't laugh this time. He was already thinking about tomorrow. Registration. The draw. The Copa del Futuro was no longer something they were training for. It was real now.
After lunch and Herrera's words, the team dispersed like a tired but focused army. There was no confusion about what came next, pack, rest and recover. The Copa del Futuro was officially real and everyone felt it.
In the dorms, bags were out. Lockers opened and gear spilled across beds. Some were neat, laying out each item: home and away kits, shin pads, warm-up tops, training socks and extra laces. Others were chaotic, Charlie had already lost one boot under his bed.
"Who packs a single sock?" Ochoa said, holding one up like it was a crime scene.
Charlie groaned. "It had a brother, I swear."
Ríos double-checked everything: cleats cleaned, mouthguard packed, tape, pain cream and wristbands.
Toro zipped up his bag without saying much. His focus was locked in. For him, this wasn't just a tournament. It was a statement.
Santi worked quietly. His bag was already half-packed before lunch. He folded his kits carefully, tucking in the note from his mother into the inner sleeve of his hoodie. It never left him.
After packing, most of the boys stretched out on their bunks. Some played music softly from their phones. Others lay still, legs elevated against the wall and ice packs balanced over their shins or knees.
Santi rubbed a cooling gel on his calves, then lay back with his eyes closed.
"I'm out for an hour," he said to no one in particular.
"Don't miss dinner," Diego mumbled from the lower bunk. Santi smiled faintly, already drifting off.
The nap was deep. His body went heavy, his breathing even. In his dream, he was walking through a stadium tunnel. He could hear the crowd but couldn't see the field yet. There was tension. But he didn't feel afraid. Just ready.
While Santi was asleep, the boys talked about the tournament.
"Bro, you can't score a hat-trick!" Diego yelled.
"Man, I can and I will" Charlie replied.
Ríos chipped in, "This is a tournament, a huge one not a soccer game." They all laughed off.
Santi woke up an hour later, slightly groggy but reset.
By the time Santi sat up, the dorm had picked up again. Diego and Ochoa were facing off in FIFA on the small TV at the corner.
"Bro, stop slide tackling like it's Street Fighter," Diego snapped.
"Football is war," Ochoa replied. "I'm training for León."
Charlie sat cross-legged on his bed, watching. "This is why you'll get red-carded in real life. You defend like a cartoon."
Ríos was reading quietly in the corner, while Solano stretched with a resistance band, silent and serious as ever.
The tension of the tournament was there but so was something lighter. Brotherhood.
Santi sat back and watched for a moment. This mix of tired bodies and loud mouths, of soft jokes and silent nerves, this was the team. His team.
Dinner was at 6:00 p.m. sharp. The smell of grilled meat, roasted potatoes and lentil stew filled the air. Plates were heavy. Everyone was quiet at first, chewing with purpose and refueling with intent.
Then the conversations came back. "What if we face Monterrey first game?" Ochoa asked.
"Good," said Toro. "No warm-up. Straight into war."
"I just want to make it past round one," Charlie said. "Then I'll celebrate like we won the whole thing."
"You celebrate everything," Diego said. "You celebrated finding your sock earlier."
"Yeah, and I'll celebrate again when I score." Laughter broke the tension.
Santi sat, listening and smiling to himself.
Back in the dorm, the mood softened. The buzz of dinner and jokes faded into a slower, quieter rhythm. The overhead lights were dim, curtains drawn and the weight of what tomorrow meant sat quietly in every corner of the room.
Charlie was the first to disappear beneath his blanket, mumbling, "If I don't sleep now, I'll overthink everything. Wake me up if my name's on the front page tomorrow."
Lucho followed soon after, stretching once, then turning over in his bunk with a soft exhale. Others sat up, still chatting in low voices.
Santi sat at the edge of his bed, slowly wrapping tape back around his shin guards. Not because he needed to but because he couldn't sit still.
Across the room, Solano was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. "Listen," he said, voice low but serious. "This tournament isn't about who gets to be the star. It's about who shows they can play together."
The room went still for a second. "Scouts won't just watch goals," he continued. "They watch attitude,
movement and sacrifice. If we play as a unit, all of us can get noticed. Not just one or two."
Diego nodded. "Facts."
Ochoa, still half-lying on his bed, said, "I'll track back if Charlie promises not to try dribbling from the halfway line again."
"I was being creative," Charlie's voice came from under his blanket.
"Yeah? Be creative from the bench next time," Ríos muttered. Laughter rippled through the room but Solano's words landed. Everyone felt it. Unity mattered now more than ever.
Santi stood and stepped out of the room for a few minutes. The hallway was empty and the courtyard was lit with soft white light from the tall lamps near the training pitch. He took a slow walk, just to clear his head.
That's when he saw Felipe leaning against the railing outside the staff building with hands in his jacket pockets, looking up at the night sky.
"Couldn't sleep either?" Felipe asked, without looking.
Santi approached. "Just needed air."
Felipe nodded. "Makes sense. Big day tomorrow."
They stood side by side for a moment. Silence first. Then Santi spoke. "I keep thinking… I've trained for this. I've bled for it. But I don't know what'll happen once we get there."
Felipe looked at him. "You're not supposed to know. That's what makes it worth chasing. The only thing you can control is how much of yourself you bring to the pitch."
Santi nodded, slowly. "I've seen a lot of players come through these doors, Santi," Felipe continued. "Some were more technical. Some faster. But very few have the fire you have, that quiet fire. The kind that doesn't need a crowd to burn."
Santi didn't answer at first.
"I just want to make it count," he said finally. "Not just for me. For them, my family. My hometown. All of it."
Felipe's voice lowered. "Then carry them with you. In every pass and every run. Make them proud not just with goals but with how you fight." They stood for a while longer. No rush.
Then Santi nodded and said, "Thanks, coach."
Felipe smiled. "Go rest. Tomorrow, your story takes a step forward."
When Santi returned, the lights were off in the hallway. Most of the dorm was quiet now, a soft snore from Charlie's side of the room and a few rustles as someone turned under the sheets.
But not everyone was asleep. Toro was sitting on his bed, scrolling through something on his phone with a furrowed brow. Diego lay back, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to memorize it.
"You good?" Santi asked, sitting down again.
Toro nodded. "Just thinking about that striker from Monterrey, big kid and fast. Might be our first matchup."
"Let him be fast," Diego said. "We'll be faster."
Santi smiled faintly. "We've done the work. Now we show them who we are."
No one needed to say more. The room grew quieter. The air settled and slowly, the voices faded.
Santi lay back, eyes open a little longer than the others. He stared at the ceiling, hearing the soft breaths of teammates-turned-brothers and felt something he hadn't felt in days: Calm.