The sun had barely risen, casting soft golden light over the quiet horizon. Room 207 was still dim, the curtains drawn shut but the silence didn't last long. The faint sound of water running came from the bathroom, Toro was up first again. After his quick home workouts yesterday, today was serious. No more light stretches. This was finals week.
Santi stirred slowly, blinking as light bled through the edges of the curtain. His body no longer ached like the day before because the recovery routine had worked wonders. The soreness had faded, replaced by a slow-burning fire in his chest. Focus and hunger. A desire to finish what they started.
From across the room, Solano groaned as he sat up in bed with his hair tousled and eyes heavy.
"You think Santos is training already?" he asked sleepily, voice rough.
Toro walked out of the bathroom, fresh and wide awake with his towel slung over his shoulder. "Of course they are. They came all the way from Brazil, bro. They're not here to sightsee."
Santi sat up, rubbed his face, and yawned. "Then we'd better train harder."
They shared a look and something unspoken passed between them: Today, we prepare for war.
Downstairs in the breakfast hall, the team gathered gradually, dressed in training kits and energized by the promise of what lay ahead. The buffet was alive with clinking cutlery and chatter. Plates filled with eggs, oatmeal, fruit, yogurt, toast and protein-heavy servings passed from hand to hand.
Charlie had three slices of toast stacked like a tower. "You know bread's not gonna make you faster, right?" Lucho teased.
Charlie took a massive bite and grinned. "Nah, but it makes me happier."
Santi sat with Felipe at a corner table. His uncle looked sharp this morning with his team tracksuit, whistle around his neck and a tablet in hand with tactical slides on display.
"You look like you're about to go into battle," Santi said, amused.
Felipe chuckled. "Because we are. The final's not just a game, it's a message. The way you boys played against Chivas? That was history. But if we beat Santos, we write legacy."
Santi nodded slowly. "They're a real academy. Proper system. I've seen their matches, they don't panic but they build."
"Exactly. They're not flashy but they're precise. We'll need to press smart. Break their rhythm. You, Ochoa and Charlie, how you move off the ball will be key."
Santi absorbed every word. Felipe leaned closer. "Also, there will be scouts again. Big ones. More than last time. This is your shot, Santi. I know you're ready."
Santi's fingers gripped his cup of pineapple juice. "Then I'll show them."
"You're going to turn into a loaf, man," Solano muttered, half amused as he pointed at Toro.
Toro grinned, crumbs clinging to the side of his mouth. "Gotta bulk up, bro. Big game needs big fuel."
Charlie already with a banana hanging from his mouth like a cigar. "So what's the plan today?" Charlie asked, sitting down across from Santi. "Light jog and then pool party?"
Lucho rolled his eyes. "You wish. Coach Morales has his whistle with him, that's never a good sign."
Toro glanced at Santi. "Hey," he said quietly, nudging him. "You good?"
Santi nodded, sipping his shake. "Yeah. Just thinking."
"About Santos?" Charlie asked, voice a little more serious now.
Santi gave a small nod. "They're good. Technically sharp. But… we've come too far to fold."
"Facts," Lucho agreed, leaning forward. "We play together, press early, frustrate them. They won't know what hit them."
"Word is they've got scouts from Palmeiras and Sevilla watching," Solano added casually, reaching for more fruit. "Not just for them. For us too."
Toro whistled. "So you're saying… this isn't just a final, it's a shop window."
Charlie grinned, eyes wide. "Let me score a brace again. I'm getting a La Liga contract and a brand deal." Everyone laughed.
Felipe chipped in from his table. "Finish up soon, boys. Training's in an hour. Eat smart, hydrate."
"Yes, coach," they all echoed in near unison.
As Felipe walked off, Lucho leaned in with a whisper. "He's probably more nervous than we are." Santi chuckled for the first time that morning.
Then, from another table, someone called over: "Yo, Ochoa was that a no-look penalty yesterday? You trying to embarrass Chivas or something?" A ripple of laughter spread across the hall.
Ochoa raised a piece of toast like a salute. "Only getting started."
Charlie stood and clapped once. "To Ochoa! The man with eyes on the back of his soul!" Another round of cheers.
Toro laughed into his protein shake, and even Solano cracked a rare smile. The nerves weren't gone, but they were now buried under something more powerful: belief.
The breakfast room buzzed with energy; half-jokes and half strategy, all brotherhood. In less than an hour, the mood would change because training awaited.
The assistant coach, César Morales, stood tall at the front of the breakfast hall with a clipboard in one hand and his other tapping the plastic whistle against his chest in rhythmic beats. He scanned the room with calm authority, his eyes catching every player. He wasn't one for fluff or speeches. When he spoke, it meant action.
"Alright, team," he began, voice sharp, direct, echoing slightly over the chatter of plates and chairs. "Today is the most important session so far. Yesterday, you recovered. Today, we begin to prepare for war." The entire hall was quiet. Forks hovered mid-air and conversations froze.
"Santos Football Club U19," he continued, pacing slowly, "is not just another team. They're not amateurs. They're not just from another country. They are an institution. Some of Brazil's best have come through their ranks. And they didn't fly here to lose." He held up the clipboard.
"They play a 4-3-3. They press high but smart. They switch fast and keep possession. Their number ten, Lucas Marinho is their engine. Stops and starts. Vision and quick touches. We neutralize him and we neutralize their rhythm." A buzz passed through the boys.
César paused. "But, and listen to me carefully we're not just here to defend. We're here to impose. Our style, our tempo and our fight. And if you play with the same heart you showed against Chivas, we win."
His voice dropped, calm but firm. "Boots on. Kits clean. Mentality sharp. We leave in forty-five minutes. Meet in the lobby. No lateness, no excuses."
He turned to leave but looked back.
"And Santi?" Santiago Cruz, mid-sip of juice, froze as everyone's head turned to him.
"You do it again. Eyes are watching!" Santi nodded, his heart thudding.
After breakfast, the boys were given a bit of breathing room before training. Some returned to their rooms to rest, others stayed downstairs, letting the soft hum of the hotel and the occasional chatter soothe their nerves. The sun was peeking through the lobby windows now, golden and warm, making the hotel feel less like a temporary stop and more like a strange, comforting second home.
Santi sat in one of the big lounge chairs near the lobby entrance, leaning back with his hands behind his head. His protein shake was half-finished on the table beside him and his phone was open to a football video. Some highlights of Andrés Iniesta, one of his idols.
Toro came over, holding a cup of pineapple juice and a grin. "Watching your ancestors, huh?"
Santi smirked. "Trying to absorb the magic through the screen."
Toro chuckled and flopped into the seat next to him. "If you do that little Iniesta turn again tomorrow, Santos might fly home early."
Just then, Charlie strutted into the lobby like he owned the place, sunglasses on despite being indoors. "Gentlemen," he said dramatically. "I've just come from a very important meeting with the vending machine." He held up two chocolate bars.
"You'll crash before training," Solano muttered, walking by with a bottle of water in hand.
"Or I'll fly," Charlie replied. "Greatness doesn't sleep, and neither does sugar."
Lucho joined them too, spinning a football in one hand. "You guys realize what's happening, right?" he said suddenly with a tone more grounded. "Tomorrow… final. Against the best in the region. Brazil's golden boys." A brief silence.
Then Toro broke it with a serious voice. "We're not here by accident."
"Nope," Charlie added. "We earned this. Step by step. Goal by goal. Header by header, shout out to me."
"You missed your last header," Santi said dryly.
"Art is subjective," Charlie replied.
They laughed, but under the humor, a pulse of something deeper throbbed with respect, pride and nerves.
In another corner of the lobby, a few of the América staff were going over notes and plans. Felipe passed through again, checking his watch and nodding to one of the assistants. A quiet but present tension had begun to settle into the hotel and everyone felt it. The weight of a final. The significance of legacy.
Upstairs, a few boys were still in their rooms. Rios was stretching quietly in his space, watching a video on defensive tactics. Alejandro, the keeper, was on the phone with his dad, talking softly in a mix of excitement and humility.
Down in the hallway leading to the elevators, a scout wearing a Club América jacket chatted with someone over coffee. The boys noticed.
And somewhere inside that quiet realization came something else, this wasn't just a final. It was an opportunity.
As the time neared for training, the mood began to shift again. Playfulness gave way to focus. Voices lowered and music faded.
Santi stood up, stretched and rolled his shoulders. He caught his reflection in the glass near the hotel entrance, hair still a mess, eyes alert and posture relaxed but ready.
The elevator dinged softly as it arrived on the players' floor. Toro stepped out first with hoodie halfway over his head and Solano trailing behind him, spinning a water bottle in his fingers. Santi followed, his boots tied and slung over his shoulder by the laces, ready for training but still soaking in the calm energy of the hotel.
The lobby was buzzing gently now, not crowded but alive. Staff members moved around with purpose, carrying clipboards or whispering into radios. The front desk attendant gave the boys a nod as they passed. There was something in the air, a slight charge. The final was a day away.
Charlie and Lucho were already downstairs, lounging across two separate couches like they owned the place. Charlie was going through his playlist on a Bluetooth speaker, bouncing his foot to the rhythm of some upbeat reggaeton.
"You boys ready to get smoked in training?" Charlie teased, spotting them.
"In your dreams," Toro said, walking past and giving Charlie a playful slap on the head. "Hope you stretched. We don't want to carry you off the pitch."
"I'm light," Charlie shot back. "Featherweight legend."
Santi gave them both a grin and dropped into one of the leather lobby chairs. He glanced around the room. The sun was higher now, spilling golden light across the tiled floor. Near the windows, two América staffers were reviewing a tablet. A large tactics board leaned against the wall nearby, already marked up with arrows and notes.
"Looks like they're cooking something serious," Solano murmured, nodding toward the coaches.
Lucho leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You think we'll go full press or hold the midfield?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"Depends," Toro said. "Santos love breaking lines. If we press too high, they'll punish us."
"You've been watching tape?" Charlie asked, eyebrows raised.
"Twice," Toro said proudly. "And I took notes."
"You took notes?" Charlie blinked. "Who are you and what have you done with the real Toro?" Everyone laughed.
A few more players filtered into the lobby Ochoa, Diego, Valdez. All in training kits now. Some had headphones in and others quietly greeted teammates. The energy was focused, almost spiritual. Like warriors gathering before a battle. Calm, respectful, and charged with intent.
Felipe walked in then with a clipboard in hand and a cap low on his brow.
"Boys," he said, just loud enough to gather their attention. "Let's be sharp today. Final prep. No distractions. Everything we've worked for is here."
Coach Herrera followed behind him, nodding at his assistant but not saying a word. His eyes scanned the group like a general inspecting his troops. He clapped his hands once, sharp and echoing. "Let's get to the bus."
Chairs slid back, shoes shuffled and conversations paused. The América boys rose together.
Before following the group, Santi paused for a second. He glanced back at the windows where sunlight warmed the space. It was such a peaceful place. But outside, war was waiting on the pitch. He adjusted the ribbon tied around his wrist, the one Tavo had given him and whispered to himself. "One more step."
And then he turned and walked toward the bus with his brothers.
The team bus waited just outside the hotel entrance as its polished sides gleamed under the morning sun. It bore the Club América crest on both flanks, proud and prominent as if to remind everyone who these boys were and what they were fighting for.
The driver opened the doors with a hiss, and the boys began climbing in one by one, still chatting, stretching their arms and yawning off the last remnants of sleep. The air was filled with that perfect mix of focus and calm, no tension but no sloppiness either. The mood was different now. It was the calm before a calculated storm.
Toro slid into his usual seat toward the back, by the window, and threw his bag beside him. "I need that corner view. It's tradition," he said.
Solano and Santi sat across the aisle from him. Santi leaned his head back with eyes half closed and earbuds already in, nodding gently to the lo-fi beats in his ears. He wasn't asleep, he was just zoning in. Focusing.
"Training's gonna be intense, huh?" Solano said, adjusting his training top. "I think they'll push us hard. Especially transitions."
"They should," Santi replied without opening his eyes. "That's where Santos kill. One bad pass and boom they're gone."
A few rows ahead, Charlie had his phone up, scrolling through memes and quietly laughing to himself. Lucho was next to him, watching a video of Neymar's best plays and pointing at the screen like he was discovering divine secrets.
"This is what I'm doing in training," Lucho said. "Except with more sauce."
Charlie laughed. "Please. You'd trip trying that elastico."
"I've done it before on a cone!"
The whole left side of the bus laughed. Even Felipe, sitting a few seats in front of them, cracked a rare smile over his shoulder. Herrera, however, was seated near the front with his arms crossed and silent. His eyes watched the passing streets but his mind was elsewhere, already on the training ground, on Santos and the trophy waiting in a glass case.
Ricky, Valdez and Ochoa were seated toward the middle, heads bowed together, discussing tactics they'd seen in the last game. Rios leaned across the aisle and said, "We have to dominate midfield. That's where the rhythm is."
Santi heard him and nodded. "We dictate the pace. We win the game."
Outside, the city buzzed past in bursts restaurants opening, kids walking to school and street vendors setting up shop. But inside the bus, it was all about one thing. The final.
As they neared the training ground, the players gradually quieted. Some started doing small stretches in their seats. Others rolled their necks, cracked knuckles and rubbed wrists. The sound of music faded into silence. All that was left was the hum of the engine and the soft tap of studs against the rubber floor.
Santi sat up, removed his earbuds and looked out the window. The training ground was in sight now. He could already see the bright green pitch and a few staff members moving around the cones and mannequins.
Toro looked back at him. "You ready?"
Santi nodded. "More than ever."
The bus pulled into the lot. The brakes hissed. The door opened. Herrera stood up and turned toward the boys. "Let's go," he said. Just two words, but they carried all the weight.
One by one, the boys stepped off the bus into the soft morning breeze with boots in hand, bags slung over shoulders. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass and damp earth filled their lungs with pure football air. The pitch, a perfect rectangle of green trimmed to precision, glistened under the sun like it was waiting just for them.
The technical team was already there with cones laid out, mannequins in place, balls perfectly pumped and lined at the edge of the field. Coach Herrera stood beside the assistant with a clipboard in hand and speaking with a calm but serious tone. His black tracksuit bore the golden Club América eagle as he looked like a general preparing his army.
"All right," the assistant coach called out, clapping his hands twice. "Boots on. Straight to warm-ups. Let's loosen those legs."
The boys dropped their bags by the benches, tied laces, adjusted shin guards and jogged onto the pitch in twos and threes. The energy was steady, focused not the buzz of excitement from matchday, but the calm current of preparation. This was the grind. The sweat before the glory.
They began with simple laps around the pitch, jogging in formation. Santi, Toro and Solano ran together breathing in rhythm as strides synchronized. Around them, the others joked lightly but the underlying tone was all business. Their bodies were still a little heavy from recovery, but the motion helped. The legs began to wake up.
"Open up the strides," called one of the physios. "Big movements!"
They moved into dynamic stretches: high knees, butt kicks, leg swings and lunges. Toro grunted with every exaggerated stretch. Charlie, behind him, muttered, "Bro's stretching like he's on a yoga retreat."
Santi on the other side was ready and focused.