There was a calm weight in the air, every fork that scraped against a plate and every glass set back down on the table carried a different rhythm. This wasn't just another pre-game meal. This was the one before Boca Juniors.
The double doors to the hotel's dining hall swung open quietly and in walked Coach Herrera. No clipboard this time. No jacket zipped. Just him, calm and measured, walking to the head of the tables where the team sat.
The conversations died out. Even Charlie, with rice still in his mouth, stopped mid-sentence. Herrera stood still for a moment, looking over the boys.
"Boca is a good team," he began, voice level. "A strong one, disciplined and respected. They play hard. They've won this tournament before." No one moved.
"But every good team… loses. That's football. That's the truth and the unfortunate thing for them?" He paused, eyes narrowing. "It's not our turn to lose."
Some heads nodded slowly. A few jaws tightened. Herrera's words were cutting into something deeper than motivation. He wasn't just speaking confidence, he was demanding belief.
"Listen closely. This isn't about who we're playing against. It's about who we are. About what we've done to earn this spot. And if any of you think we came all the way to León to be a name on someone else's highlight reel then you're in the wrong room." He stepped closer to the tables now, looking at each face.
"Ríos," he said, turning. "Hold that back line. Cut their momentum and set the tone." Ríos nodded, chin high.
"Solano. Own the midfield. Don't just pass but dictate!"
"Yes, coach!"
"Toro. Set the wall, lead from behind."
"Yes, coach."
He turned to Santi and this time he didn't speak quickly. He let the moment sit.
"You… Cruz."
Santi looked up, sharp and ready.
"You're lucky. Lucky to be starting this game." Some heads turned, surprised.
"But not because you haven't earned it, no. Because you have something I can't explain. And when something's peculiar… you don't ignore it. You give it space. You let it show you why it's here." Santi didn't blink.
"I want you to be bold," Herrera continued. "I want you to take risks but more than that, I want you to own every second. You're not there to play. You're there to announce yourself." Santi nodded once. Firm, no smile. Just that quiet fire again.
Herrera looked over the team one final time. "This match isn't tomorrow. It starts now. Mentally, how you eat. How you rest. How you walk. How you speak to yourself. When the whistle blows, don't hold back anything. Give every shot of it." Then he stepped away. Not a single word was wasted. And not a single player at that table would forget it.
After the meal, the team went back up to the rooms. Some boys took ice baths. Others went through their recovery routines. Phones were down and the usual noise was on mute.
Toro called into Santi, "You coming down?"
"Where?" Santi asked.
"Pool." Toro replied.
Santi raised a brow. "You know we have a game."
"It's just recovery swimming. Loosen the legs. Come on. You think I'm diving off a rock or something?"
Santi smirked. "Alright. Five minutes."
Downstairs, the pool was crowded. Clear water under the afternoon sun. Most of the boys were already in floating, stretching, low voices echoing off the surface.
Charlie was doing laps slowly and Ríos was pretending to race him, only using one arm and still winning.
"Last place, as expected," Ochoa shouted.
Santi slid in, the water instantly relaxing the tension in his legs. He moved through slowly with arms wide and eyes staring up at the hotel balconies above.
He didn't speak much. Just let the quietness wash over him. For once, it wasn't about doing more. It was about soaking in what had already been done.
By 7 p.m., the team was dressed in matching polos and back in the dining hall. The evening air had cooled, and the vibe at dinner was warmer than it had been earlier.
Charlie, as expected, was the loudest voice at the table.
"Yo… not to sound soft but this hotel is nice. When I start making money, I'm taking a vacation. I'll fly out to places like this and just breathe."
"You already breathe too loud," Diego muttered.
"Bro, I'm serious. I'm gonna rent a place with a view, a big bathtub, slippers, and fresh juice every morning."
"I hope you bring your goals to that vacation," Ríos added. "Because you'll need to earn it first."
Charlie shrugged. "Goals are coming. I'm manifesting them."
Laughter rolled across the table, lighter now. The pressure hadn't gone but it was held differently.
Santi, quiet for most of the exchange, finally spoke up. "Rest is part of the game," he said. "Relaxation's earned. But it doesn't come before the work."
The table quieted a little. They felt the weight in that. It wasn't a lecture. Just a reminder. Solano raised his glass of juice slightly. "To work first."
Everyone raised theirs.
"To work. To unity. To tomorrow!"
After dinner, the players moved slowly through the hotel's wide and tiled corridors. Their footsteps echoed, not from loudness but from the stillness around them. The sun had set fully now, painting the León skyline in dim orange and smoky blue.
Santi walked with Diego, Toro and Solano back up to the second floor. The hallway to Room 207 was quiet. Felipe and Herrera had retired to their rooms, and the staff had finished rounds with the schedule reminders.
Once inside, Toro collapsed onto his bed with a long groan. "If we win tomorrow, I'm sleeping for a week."
"You won't even sleep tonight," Solano replied, unzipping his bag.
Santi stood at the window for a few minutes. The courtyard below was mostly dark, just a few garden lights throwing soft shadows onto the trimmed grass. Beyond the hotel walls, he could see faint flashes of car headlights and the city moving like a hum in the background.
Behind him, Toro was already flipping through his playlist. Solano sat upright, rolling out a resistance band, still stretching quietly.
"You think they'll press us high?" Santi asked.
Solano nodded. "They're aggressive early. They test your control. If we survive that wave, we can take the tempo."
Santi sat on his bed, pulled one leg up and leaned into it, thinking.
"I want them to press," he said. "I want the space behind them."
From the open doors of Rooms 210 and 211, you could hear the others, Charlie and Diego arguing over who had the better kit designs, Lucho humming along to some corrido track on his phone and Ochoa shouting at someone for using all the hot water.
"Y'all better sleep with some respect," Ríos called from one door. "Because tomorrow I'm clearing anything in my path."
"And I'm scoring on anything in mine," Charlie replied.
"Even the wall?" Ochoa fired back. Laughter spilled into the hallway again.
But back in Room 207, Santi didn't laugh. Not because he wasn't in the mood but because he was in his zone. He lay back on his bed, stared up at the plain ceiling and let everything fall away.
He wasn't nervous. He wasn't even overthinking. He was visualizing. His first touch. His movement off the ball. The roar of the crowd if he scored. The way it would feel to raise his hand toward the sky after doing something unforgettable.
Toro's voice cut through the quiet.
"You sleeping yet?"
Santi turned his head toward him. "Almost."
"Try not to dream too loud. Some of us are trying to survive." Santi chuckled softly, then looked back up at the ceiling.
He was ready.