After warm-ups and stretches, the assistant coach clapped again, stepping forward. "Now we focus on precision. We're sharpening blades today!"
The players split into stations across the field. The drills were timed, intense, and targeted. It wasn't about just running through the motions, it was about technical excellence. Everything mattered now. One wrong pass in a final could end a dream.
The first drill was rapid passing in triangles. Three players per group. One ball. One-touch only. As soon as a pass was made, the player moved to a new point with constant rotation.
Santi teamed up with Ochoa and Ríos.
"Pop, pop, move! Pop, pop, move!" one of the coaches called.
The ball zipped from boot to boot, hardly stopping. They kept their eyes up, scanning, adjusting their weight and letting the ball roll smoothly across the grass. Every step was light and every touch was measured.
"Breathe through it," Felipe shouted. "Make the ball do the work!"
Across from them, Charlie, Lucho and Ricky tried to keep pace. Charlie kept adding flair with little flicks and backheels. Toro, watching from the sideline, shook his head. "Bro thinks it's Copa Libertadores," he muttered.
Next: cone courses. Zigzags, 360 turns and sharp cuts between markers. At the end of each lane, a small net waited for a finish.
Each player had to dribble through tight spaces and then shoot without losing momentum.
Solano went first with quick feet, close control and then a composed finish into the corner. Santi followed. He stayed low, head slightly up, weaving through with finesse. As he reached the last cone, he skipped past it and curled the shot to the top right.
Whistles of approval from the technical staff. "Control, then explosion!" the assistant yelled.
"Balance!" another added. "Every touch matters!"
Two lines were now formed at the top of the box. One coach fed balls in from the side and the boys had to finish first-time, or after a quick touch. The keeper; Alejandro, stood ready in gloves and gear locked in.
Valdez stepped up. First ball: He launched a left-footed rocket but it was saved by Ramírez.
Charlie tried a no-look shot and shanked it wide. Laughter echoed through the pitch.
Santi approached next. The coach rolled the ball in, he stopped it dead, stepped around and struck with his laces. The ball tore into the bottom corner. The next ball came quicker this time but he opened his body and curled it high into the side netting.
"Clinical!" Felipe called out.
"Like butter," Toro said with a grin.
On one end of the field, the defenders and attackers paired up.
Toro and Ricky were monsters at the back. They had the positioning, strength, and timing. But the attackers pushed them. Ochoa tried a step-over combo on Toro, who didn't bite but slid in clean.
Then Santi faced off against Ricky. He danced forward, slowed down, then burst past with a Cruyff turn, leaving Ricky a step behind before slotting a shot into the mini-goal. Even Herrera allowed himself a small smile.
The team huddled into a large circle. Two players in the middle, the rest forming the outside. The ball flew around with one-touch or two-touch max. If a player lost the ball or miscontrolled, they were in.
Lucho and Charlie started in the middle. Bad idea. The ball was pinged around mercilessly. Ochoa to Santi. Santi to Solano. Solano to Ríos. Charlie was spinning and Lucho was lunging. Then, a nutmeg.
Charlie stopped. "Nah! Again? No way!"
"Meg of the day!" screamed Ríos.
The rondo moved fast. Shouts and laughs mixed with quick thinking and tighter control. This was rhythm training. Trust in the touch.
The final drill was about transitions. The players set into formation, defense, midfield and attack. The coaches simulated different scenarios: a ball won back, a sudden counter or a defensive lapse.
"Turn! Turn! Go wide! One-two!" Voices rang out.
Santi played the #10, receiving from Silva, spinning into space and sliding a through ball to Solano, who cut inside and struck it low.
Herrera stood with his arms crossed, observing every decision. He wanted automatic movement. He wanted hunger.
They drilled counters again and again with a high tempo, speed, movement and precision.
By the time the whistle blew to end the session, their shirts clung to their bodies with sweat. Their legs ached but their minds were alert. There was still more to go.
Finally, Herrera blew his whistle. "Set up two sides," he barked. "Match scenario. Full intensity."
The field was split. Bibs were handed out. Herrera stood at the halfway line like a referee with his stopwatch ready.
It was eleven versus eleven. A mini-battle before the war. Bibbed players faced off against non-bibbed. A tight mini-pitch setup across half the field. Herrera demanded intensity, and the boys knew this wasn't just a simulation. This was judgment.
"Five-minute rounds. No mercy," Herrera barked. "If you want to start the final, show it."
The moment the whistle blew, the pace shot up. Charlie picked up the ball near the center, spun quickly past Ricky with his first touch and laid it off to Solano.
"Pressure! Step up!" Felipe shouted.
Toro stepped in fast with his shoulders squared intercepting. He took two touches and launched a low diagonal ball out to Santi hugging the left flank.
Santi's first touch was clean and silky. His second, was a driving cut inside, splitting Lucho and Diego. He opened his body like he was going to curl it, but instead laid it off for Ochoa, who fired a quick shot just wide.
"Muy bien, muy bien!" shouted Herrera. "That's what I want!"
Now it got physical.
Toro collided shoulder-to-shoulder with Charlie as they both chased a loose ball. Charlie spun to keep possession, but Toro didn't let up, bumping him just enough to slow him down and nick the ball.
"Not today, payasito," Toro grinned.
Charlie chased him back with a laugh. "I'm gonna score and dance on you!"
Meanwhile, Ricky pushed higher up. He pressed Solano fast and forced a turnover. Quickly, he played a 1–2 with Silva and slipped into space. Alejandro, the goalkeeper, yelled directions as Ricky went in one-on-one.
He tried to dink it past him but Alejandro saved with his chest.
"Vamos, Águilas!" came a roar from the sideline.
Now it was Santi's round. Fatigue was setting in, but something clicked. He dropped deep to collect the ball from Ríos, turned quickly on the half-turn and burst forward. His touches were tight. He was focused.
He dragged in two defenders and released Charlie down the right with a gorgeous through-ball.
Charlie sprinted to meet it and crossed it first time. Santi had already made the run. He arrived in the box and hit it with his left foot, side netting.
"Gooooooal!" Felipe shouted from the sideline, throwing his clipboard up in the air.
"¡Así se hace, Santi! That's the killer instinct!"
His teammates clapped. Even the bibbed side nodded in quiet respect.
Herrera clapped hard. "Last one! Make it count!"
Both teams gave their all. Passes zipped and tackles came in sharper. Communication ramped up as shouts of "man on," "turn," and "one-two filled the pitch."
Toro made a diving block. Ricky tracked back to make a sliding interception. Charlie danced past Diego but then lost the ball trying a backheel.
Santi, still moving with grace, fought for every touch. Even tired, he was locked in. There was no sloppiness, just intent.
As the final whistle blew, the players dropped their hands to their knees, gasping.
"That…" Herrera said as he stepped in, "…is the energy I want tomorrow."
"Recover well. Ice baths, protein and film tonight. Tomorrow's the war."
The boys exchanged tired grins. Some tapped fists and others just nodded.
Santi was soaked, breathing heavily but inside, something was building. A calm intensity. He was ready.
Toro groaned as he tried to touch his toes. "Man, I'm stiff," he said.
"Because you don't stretch after training," Solano replied, smirking while effortlessly pulling his leg across his body.
The coaches walked among them, guiding stretches, hamstrings, calves and shoulders. The players breathed deeply with eyes half-closed and the hard training session finally melting into a feeling of release.
"Remember," said the physio, "hydration, nutrition, rest. Your body is your tool. Treat it like one."
Charlie, lying next to Santi, whispered, "I feel like I wrestled a bull."
"You are the bull," Santi murmured back with a grin. They laughed, softly, too tired to do much more.
Some of the boys headed to the side, where crates of ice packs were waiting. Toro grabbed two, one for each knee. Ochoa had his ankle taped again. The med staff worked quickly as they moved between the players.
Charlie pulled up next to Felipe, sipping from his water bottle. "Coach," he said. "I got nutmegged twice in the rondo. I think I need counseling."
Felipe just smirked. "You need faster feet."
The bus rumbled softly nearby, the engine running and parked just outside the fenced exit of the complex. Its tinted windows shimmered in the sunlight. One by one, the boys loaded on still catching their breath.
The moment Santi stepped on, the blast of cool air hit him. Relief. He climbed the steps, dragging his bag and dropped into the second row next to Toro.
"Bro, I'm dead," Toro muttered, pressing his head back against the seat, eyes closed.
"You were already dead before the session," Charlie quipped from across the aisle. Laughter rippled through the bus.
In the back, Lucho and Ricky tossed a banana peel at each other and Solano leaned his head against the window with earbuds in and legs stretched out. Most of the boys were either silent or groaning softly except Charlie, who somehow still had energy.
"Did y'all see me destroy that drill?" he asked no one in particular.
"No," came several voices at once.
"Exactly," Toro mumbled. "Nobody was watching." More laughter.
Santi leaned into his seat, staring out the window as they pulled away from the training ground. The streets passed slowly, the midday sun painting the road in gold. He could hear Herrera and Felipe chatting softly up front.
"They'll come with intensity," Herrera was saying. "Brazilian academy boys play fast and clean."
"Let's start showing them tactical setups in video tonight," Felipe replied.
Behind them, the boys were already talking about Santos. "Do they press high?"
"I heard their striker's already played U-20 Copa São Paulo."
"They came all the way from Brazil to win. Not to joke."
"Good. We didn't come to joke either," Santi said, quietly but firmly. Toro nodded beside him.
Someone in the back of the bus put on a speaker with low volume, playing a smooth reggaeton beat. Ricky began lightly drumming the rhythm on the headrest in front of him. Charlie bobbed his head like a hype man.
"Okay, okay! Let's bring the vibes up," Charlie said, trying to revive the sleepy bus. "I'm saying it now if I score in the final, I'm doing a cartwheel."
"You can't even touch your toes," said Lucho, throwing a bottle cap at him.
Santi smiled to himself. Even in exhaustion, this was their team. His team.
As the bus pulled into the hotel's drop-off zone, staff were already waiting with towels and a cart of water bottles. The boys stood, grabbing their gear, some limping and others still laughing.
"Hydrate and ice up," Felipe reminded. "We'll meet in the media room later."
Santi grabbed two water bottles and tossed one to Toro. As they stepped down from the bus, he stretched his arms to the sky and took a deep breath.
Another step closer to the final.
The hotel lobby welcomed them like a sanctuary. Cool air, marble floors and soft lighting. As they entered, the receptionist gave them a small, polite nod. By now, the boys were familiar faces.
A stack of fresh towels lay by the entrance. A staff member handed each of them one as they passed.
"Straight to your rooms. Quick showers, then come down for food!" one of the assistants called.
Room 207 creaked open and the trio inside, Santi, Toro and Solano staggered in like they had just returned from war. Bags hit the floor, jerseys peeled off and cleats were kicked aside.
"Dios mío, my hamstrings," Toro groaned, collapsing onto the edge of the bed.
Solano was already half-dragging himself to the bathroom. "I'm first!"
"No way, I got sweat in my eyes, bro," Toro said, following him.
"Use a towel!" Solano shouted as he locked the door.
Santi just laughed, then sat on the bed, holding his water bottle like a relic. He could still feel the weight of the training session as his calves pulsing, arms tired, but his heart full.
When the bathroom was free, he stepped into the steam, letting the water pour over his face. The heat relaxed every muscle. He leaned into it with his eyes closed, picturing that final match under the lights.
Downstairs, the buffet hall smelled amazing as grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, rice, warm bread and fruit platters filled the entire place.
The boys came down slowly, now refreshed and wearing training kits or hotel loungewear. Santi grabbed a tray and lined up beside Charlie, Toro, and Lucho.
"You're putting that much chicken?" Charlie said to Toro.
"I burned 9000 calories today," Toro replied.
"Bro, your stomach burned those calories watching me play." Laughter burst out again.
Santi added grilled fish, vegetables and rice to his plate. He grabbed a bottle of water, a protein shake and sat at the round table near the window with Felipe, Ricky, and Solano.
Conversation buzzed at every table. "Did you hear what Herrera said after training?"
"He was proud, man. But serious. He wants zero mistakes."
"I saw the Brazilian scouts at the corner. Watching our rondos."
"Scouts?" Santi perked up.
Solano nodded, mouth full. "They were watching you, bro. I'm telling you. You and Ochoa especially."
Ricky joined in. "Final's your time, Santi. Everyone knows."
He didn't say much, just quietly chewed his food as a little fire lightened inside him.
Back upstairs, the vibe was soft. Recovery day protocol: feet up and minds off.
Some of the boys filled the common area near the elevators, lying back on couches with ice packs and laughing at Charlie who had commandeered the remote and was trying to find a football documentary but ended up on a cooking show.
"Bro, this guy's flipping eggs. I want goals," Ricky said.
Down the hallway, Toro and Lucho set up FIFA on the PS5. Charlie joined, holding the controller like it was a weapon.
"Time to teach Toro humility," he declared.
Santi didn't play, he reclined on the bed with his juice, watching old Champions League highlights on his phone. He studied movement, control and runs. His mind was quietly racing.
As the sun sank lower, painting the sky with soft gold, the hotel buzz calmed. Some players FaceTimed their families. Others talked about music, football boots and their dream clubs.
Santi lay back, his medal from the semifinal beside him on the nightstand, catching the last light of the day. He glanced at it, then closed his eyes, thinking of San Isidro. Thinking of the letter he'd started writing his mother and of everything ahead.