The morning sun crept in through the dorm window, soft but steady. At 6:30 a.m., the alarm clocks began to beep but most of the boys were already stirring before the sound. There were no dragging or snooze buttons. Just movements. Quiet and focused.
Santi blinked the sleep from his eyes. He sat up slowly as his back still stiff from yesterday's training but there was a different kind of energy in his chest. The kind that didn't come from coffee or adrenaline. This was clarity.
In the hall, footsteps shuffled lightly over the tiles. Showers steamed. Charlie cursed about a missing sock and Ríos told him to wear two lefts if he had to.
Diego stood at the mirror brushing his teeth as his eyes locked on his own reflection like he was giving himself a pep talk.
Toro, already dressed in the navy-blue travel tracksuit, was packing his phone charger in slow and exact movements.
Santi finished brushing and rinsed his mouth, watching the others around him. No panic. No fear. Just boys becoming something more than just boys.
Downstairs in the cafeteria, breakfast was set up buffet-style: scrambled eggs, warm toast, black beans, papaya slices, plantains, oatmeal and two pitchers of orange juice sweating on the counter.
The team moved through the line quickly with their heads down and trays steady. No one overloaded their plate and no one messed around.
Santi sat next to Solano and Diego at their usual table.
"This is the last one here," Diego said, glancing around.
"Next time we eat together, it'll be in León," Solano replied.
"You ready?" Santi asked him.
Solano didn't hesitate. "I've been ready since we got drawn into this team."
Behind them, Charlie was buttering his toast with the intensity of a surgeon. "I'm eating like I'm playing the World Cup final."
"You always eat like that," Ochoa said, joining the table.
"Fuel," Charlie muttered. "Can't nutmeg a Boca defender on an empty stomach."
There were a few laughs but even those felt more measured. They all knew what was waiting.
At 8:45 a.m., the team gathered outside the academy entrance. The sky was already bright, clear blue and the team bus sat parked along the curb. It was clean, towering and marked with the Club América crest across the side.
Bags were lined up by the rear luggage hatch. Players triple-checked everything: boots, kits, gear and IDs. Felipe and the team coordinator crossed names off on a clipboard.
Herrera stood by the steps with hands in his jacket pockets, watching them all with his usual piercing eyes.
"Let's go," he finally said. They filed in.
The engine hummed to life. The doors folded shut. The bus pulled out of the lot, past the academy gates and hit the road.
Five hours to León. At first, the bus was loud not chaotic but buzzing. The windows reflected the early sun as they drove past farms, hills and quiet streets. Inside, the team settled into their seats like it was second nature.
Charlie and Diego sat together near the back, already talking nonsense.
"If I score, I want ESPN Mexico to run it back with dramatic music," Charlie said.
"You mean after the ball hits Row Z?" Diego replied.
Ochoa sat beside Lucho two rows up, arguing over whose cleats were better for turf.
Solano and Toro sat near the front, reviewing tactical notes Herrera had passed out the night before.
Santi sat by the window, next to an empty seat, head against the glass, watching the world pass. He wasn't asleep. He wasn't nervous. Just still.
Around 11:00 a.m., the bus had gone quiet. Charlie had knocked out with his mouth open with his headphones on. Ríos was slouched against the window as his hoodie pulled over his head. Even Ochoa had nodded off, his playlist still running on shuffle.
Santi remained awake, switching between looking out the window and replaying mental clips; the drills, the tactics, the free kicks and the goal he almost scored last week from the edge of the box.
In that silence, Herrera stood from his seat at the front of the bus. He didn't need a mic. His voice carried.
"Wake up."
The bus stirred as heads lifted. A few rubbed their eyes.
"Listen to me now. Boca Juniors isn't your friend. They don't care where you're from or what you've trained for. They don't care if your family's watching or if this is your first tournament. They only care about beating you." Silence took over.
"But we're not here to be beaten." The silence deepened.
"You've trained harder than they think. You've pushed past every excuse. And now, you get one shot. You mess up? You go home. You play for yourself? You lose. But if you fight together, if you play like a unit, we give them hell." He paused.
"They're better on paper. But I've seen paper burn." That hit different.
Even Charlie, half-awake, nodded with a sleepy grin. "Bars, Coach."
The tension lifted a little after that. By hour three, some were up again with headphones in, playing mobile games or listening to music.
Santi finally leaned back and closed his eyes. Not from fatigue but from readiness. He didn't dream. He didn't need to.
By 2:00 p.m., the skyline of León appeared in the distance, rising above flat plains and old brick buildings. The bus turned off the main highway and coasted into the heart of the city. Banners for Copa del Futuro hung across lampposts. Posters with tournament schedules, sponsor logos and even a few faces of top players.
When the team bus pulled into the hotel's circular driveway, staff were already waiting outside.
"Welcome, Club América," said one of the coordinators, holding a clipboard and radio. "You've been assigned to the second floor. Room cards and welcome packs are inside."
The players stepped off the bus one by one, eyes taking in the surroundings; clean courtyard, fountains in the center and a banner near the front entrance that read:
The lobby was crisp and cool. Staff moved quickly, handing out room assignments.
"Santi, Solano, Toro. Room 207," Felipe said, passing them their keycard and welcome bag.
Inside, the room was modest but clean. Three beds, white linens, a window overlooking a small courtyard and a neatly folded info pack on the desk. The Wi-Fi code was printed on the front.
Toro grabbed it first. "Password: copafuturo24. Nice." He connected his phone instantly. From across the hallway, Charlie and Diego were already arguing.
"I'm not sleeping by the AC again. You snore like you're swallowing a whistle."
"Then sleep on the floor!"
Santi grinned as he unpacked. That sound, chaos and comfort. He sat with Toro and Solano on the edge of the bed. They talked. Not long speeches, just reflections.
"I've waited for this," Solano said. "Now we show why we belong here."
Santi nodded. "We've already done the work. Now we remind them who we are."
While the boys settled in, Felipe and the staff headed across town to the tournament headquarters. They submitted their list, kits, IDs and roster.
At 3:45 p.m., the draw went up. Club América vs. Boca Juniors. Knockout. One match. Winner advances.
An hour later, Felipe returned and brought the news. Some players tensed. Boca wasn't just another academy, they were the academy.
But Santi? He leaned back, unbothered. "Good," he said.
Downstairs, lunch was served buffet-style: chicken, rice, vegetables, fruit and tortillas. The boys moved through the line slower now but focused and alive. They sat together, tighter now.
"I'm not scared," Charlie said. "They should be."
"You'll be scared if you take too long to pass the ball," Solano replied.
Santi didn't say much. He didn't need to. The road had been long and the test was here. And he had never been more ready than he was at that moment.