May 1, 2024 — Hotel León.
The morning sun spilled softly through the thin curtains of Room 207. The light touched Santi's face first, warming his cheek and waking him slowly. He stirred under the sheets, his eyelids were heavy from a long night of tossing and turning, not from discomfort but from excitement. The final was today and everything they had worked for was finally here.
A low yawn came from the other bed. Toro rolled over dramatically, his hair sticking up in all directions. "Santi," he said groggily, "you dreaming of goals again or what?"
Santi smiled faintly. "I dreamt we lifted the trophy."
Solano was already up and brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he peeked his head around the corner with toothbrush in his mouth. "As long as it's not another penalty shootout," he mumbled as his words got muffled by toothpaste foam. "I nearly lost ten years of my life in the semis."
Toro chuckled and stretched his arms high above his head. "I couldn't sleep well. My brain kept replaying everything. The warm-ups, that Chivas striker's face when Ramirez saved the pen…"
Santi stood up and walked to the window. He pulled the curtains wide open, letting light flood the room. Down below, the hotel courtyard looked peaceful. Palm trees swayed in the wind. Nothing about the outside world hinted that a war would be waged later that day.
He turned back toward the room. "We're ready. We've trained for this."
Toro grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head. "You know what, bro?" he said. "We didn't just train. We survived. We earned this."
"I just want to play already," Solano said, finishing up in the bathroom. "I hate waiting."
Soon, a knock sounded on their door. Charlie's voice came from outside. "Open up, legends. Let's eat before Toro eats all the eggs again!"
Lucho's voice followed. "Bro I swear if Toro finishes the sausages before I get there, I'm switching rooms."
Toro flung the door open and shouted, "Jealousy is a disease!"
Everyone laughed. The hallway was full of movements as players headed to breakfast, some still in flip-flops and others already dressed in their team gear. There was a buzz in the air. Nervous energy, confidence and brotherhood.
As they made their way to the elevator, Charlie caught up with Santi. "You slept?"
"Barely," Santi replied with a grin.
"I kept thinking about the Santos defenders. You think they'll press high?"
"They probably will," Santi said. "But if they do… it's our chance to break them."
Lucho chimed in, "And if they don't, we just dance around them."
The elevator dinged as it opened and a few younger academy players stepped out, giving the older boys nervous nods of respect. Toro gave one a fist bump. "Watch today. You'll see how it's done."
They entered the dining hall, where the smell of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and hot coffee greeted them. Plates clinked. Staff members smiled and nodded as the boys filtered in. A big banner had been hung above the food tables: "FINAL DAY — VAMOS AMÉRICA!"
As they queued up, Santi poured himself some pineapple juice while Toro stacked his plate like a tower, as always. Charlie walked past, pretending to interview him with a fork. "Toro, what's your breakfast strategy this morning?"
Toro, in mock seriousness, answered, "First we conquer the bacon. Then we outplay the pancakes."
Solano laughed. "Focus, champions."
Santi sat with his usual group; Toro, Solano, Charlie and Lucho. Felipe walked past behind them, offering a soft smile to Santi, who gave him a nod in return. They would speak soon. There was still time.
"Bro," Lucho said, biting into toast, "you think the scouts from the last game are still watching?"
Charlie grinned. "I heard some of them stayed. Santos has brought attention. Big clubs might be watching."
Santi didn't say much. He just ate in quiet confidence with his eyes scanning the room. The tension wasn't loud, but it was there in the little silences, the clenched jaws and the stares at the floor. Everyone was preparing in their own way.
And deep inside, he could feel it too, that fire. Today was his day. Not just to play. Not just to win but to prove to his coaches, the scouts and his teammates.
To his family watching from San Isidro that he was ready.
The boys were mid-breakfast now, plates clinking softly as the early-morning chatter warmed up. The table Santi shared with Toro, Solano, Charlie, and Lucho was easily the loudest.
Charlie was chewing toast like it was the last one on earth. "So," he said with his mouth half-full, "if we weren't doing this football thing, what would you guys be doing right now?"
Toro looked up mid-bite, confused. "What, like… in life?"
"Yeah, bro," Charlie nodded, "like if you weren't kicking balls and shouting 'vamos!' every day, what would you be doing?"
Solano laughed. "Toro? Easy. He'd be in a gym somewhere, flexing in the mirror and asking people if they've 'trained legs today.'" The table erupted. Even Toro grinned and shook his head. "Nah, I'd be running security at some nightclub. Big guy at the door. Letting Santi in 'cause he's my boy but Charlie? You? Never."
Charlie held his chest like he was shot. "That's cold."
Santi smiled but kept quiet. He picked up a slice of watermelon and listened.
"I'd probably be a chef," Lucho said, surprising them. "No joke. I love food, man. Could've opened a taco truck or something."
Solano raised an eyebrow. "And burn everything in the kitchen?"
Charlie nodded. "I can already hear it. 'El Taco Lucho: Come for the fire, stay for the food poisoning.'" The place erupted in laughter.
Santi finally spoke in a soft but certain voice. "I don't know what I'd be doing… but I wouldn't be happy." That quieted them a little. Not in a sad way, but in the way you feel when someone speaks a truth that lingers in the air.
Charlie nudged him. "That's why we win today. So we don't have to think about that 'what if.'"
"Exactly," Toro agreed. "We're here for a reason."
Felipe passed behind their table just then and paused.
"You boys alright?" he asked.
"Ready, profe," Toro said confidently.
"Eat well. Hydrate. Coach Herrera will speak to you all in a bit."
As Felipe moved on, Solano leaned in. "Did you guys hear that some of the Santos boys flew in with their technical staff two days early?"
"Yeah," Lucho added, "they wanted to acclimate and adjust to the heat."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "What, is it a World Cup match?"
Santi sipped his juice slowly. "They didn't come all the way from Brazil to lose."
"But neither did we," Solano answered calmly.
For a moment, the table was silent again. Not out of nerves but out of focus. The kind that comes before a storm. They were boys, still, but this wasn't just a game anymore. This was a chance. An open door.
Santi felt it building inside. That mix of calm and heat. The way a player feels when he steps up to a penalty; the noise dims and the world narrows. All that mattered was what came next.
And next… was everything.
The boys filtered out of the dining hall one by one as plates cleared, juice glasses emptied and conversation now quieter and more focused. The joking hadn't disappeared entirely, but something had shifted. The mood had leveled out. It was time.
They followed the hallway that curved toward the hotel's small conference room, where meetings were usually held before matches. The technical staff was already inside. Herrera stood near a large whiteboard with magnetic tiles representing players, both their own and Santos FC's.
The room smelled faintly of dry markers, coffee and the citrusy scent of some freshly mopped floor. It was brightly lit, but the tone was different, grounded and intense.
Felipe closed the door behind the last player. Coach Herrera's voice was calm, but there was weight behind it.
"Sit!"
The boys sat. No one slouched and no one whispered.
He stepped forward. "This is what you've worked for."
He looked around the room pausing for a moment at Toro, then Solano, then Charlie… and finally, Santi.
"You earned this final. Through the mud in Monterrey, the wind in Toluca and the cold in Pachuca. You pushed through every training and every challenge."
Click. He adjusted the whiteboard. Santos FC's lineup was there, sleek, fast and dangerous. The way Brazilian academies always looked on paper.
"They are talented, quick and disciplined. But they're not invincible."
He moved a magnet. "They play a 4-3-3. But when they lose the ball, especially on this left side…" he tapped the left back tile, "…they struggle to recover."
The boys leaned in. Herrera's voice never rose, but it had presence. You could feel it in your chest.
"Santi," he said, "you'll find space when they overcommit. You make your runs between the lines, you've done it all season. Don't stop now." Santi nodded as a quiet fire stared in his eyes.
"Charlie, you support Santi on the overlap. Use your pace. Pull defenders. Toro and Ríos, hold the line. Be patient but aggressive."
He stepped back, folding his arms. "This is your final. But more than that, it's a window. There will be scouts in the stands. You know this. Some of you have already spoken to a few of them."
A murmur passed through the room, not of excitement but focus.
He continued, "But they're not here to see who smiles the most. They're here to see who competes. Who controls the tempo. Who doesn't hide when the moment gets big." The room was silent.
Then Felipe stepped forward with a tablet. "We'll review some clips after training. Focused on their defensive transitions and pressing traps." Herrera nodded, then raised his voice slightly.
"Do your warm-ups sharp. Take your drills seriously. And play today like it's the last match you'll ever play. Because for some of you… it might be the one that changes your life."
There was no applause. No need. The silence said it all, the weight, the belief and the hunger.
"Alright," Felipe said, gesturing to the staff. "We roll out in twenty."
The boys got to their feet, each one moved by his own flame. Some wore their focus on their sleeves and others tucked it deep inside.
Santi walked out last. As he passed the whiteboard, he glanced at his name among the starting eleven. And then he looked at the Santos lineup with faceless names, for now. But they'd meet soon enough.
And Santi? He'd be ready.
The buzz of hotel life returned with the murmur of distant conversations, the hum of the air conditioning and the soft clatter of housekeeping carts down the corridor. But inside the players, something had shifted.
Nobody said much at first.
They walked together, moving in small groups down the carpeted hall toward their rooms. Their footsteps felt a little heavier now, not from fatigue but from the realization that this was it. This was the day.
Toro slapped his hands together. "Let's go, carajo. We've got this."
Solano bumped his fist as they reached the elevator. "I feel it too. Like something's gonna happen."
Santi walked beside them, quietly as the words from Herrera played again in his head: "Don't stop now."
Back in room 207, the three roommates moved around with a sense of rhythm. Solano opened the curtain to let in the daylight, Toro tied up his training boots, and Santi sat on the bed, slipping on his socks, lost in a moment of thought.
Charlie's voice called out from the next room through the thin wall: "Ay, Toro, try not to break someone's leg today, eh? This isn't Mortal Kombat!"
Lucho added with a laugh, "If it is, then Toro's the final boss."
That broke the tension. Toro chuckled. "Damn right, I am."
They all began moving faster now. Compression gear, shin guards and jerseys were laid out on the bed, they were ready to go. Hydration bottles filled. Santi reached for his protein bar and took a few bites, his appetite was light but steady.
A knock came at the door. It was one of the staff members. "Vamos, chicos. The bus is downstairs waiting."
"Got it," Toro said.
They took one last check in the mirror, one last adjustment to laces, wrist tape, bracelets or whatever ritual each of them had.
Santi grabbed his water bottle, phone and his ribbon, Tavo's ribbon. He wrapped it around his left wrist, just like before. Then the three of them stepped out together.
The hallway now buzzed with motion. Doors swung open and the soft thud of cleats tucked into duffel bags. Voices now lowered as the players were more serious and focused.
They descended to the lobby, where the rest of the squad was gathering.
Felipe stood near the door with a clipboard. "Everyone good? You've got your kits? No one's forgetting anything important?"
Charlie raised his hand, grinning. "I forgot my fear back in bed. Can I go get it?" The boys laughed not too loud, but it helped.
Herrera appeared a second later with arms crossed and sunglasses on. "Let's go win a final," he said simply.
The team moved toward the bus, that familiar dark blue vehicle, the one that had carried them through cities, training grounds and battlefields. Now it would carry them to their biggest fight yet.
They climbed aboard, voices rising a little more and the nerves turning to energy. Santi slid into a seat near the back, window side. Toro and Solano dropped in beside him. Outside, the hotel slipped away.
Inside, anticipation grew. Some players put on headphones. Some shared a speaker with low-volume reggaeton playing in the aisle. A few were chatting quietly and others simply looked out the window, watching the city pass, lost in thoughts of the final.
Santi leaned his head back with eyes closed for a moment. He could hear Charlie talking about his dream of scoring a hat-trick. Lucho was arguing about which version of FIFA had the most realistic gameplay. Someone behind them hummed an anthem under their breath.
The bus rolled forward. The ribbon on his wrist felt warm and real.
Solano leaned his head back and muttered, "Can you believe this, bro? We're about to play the final… against Santos. Santos, man!"
Santi opened his eyes and whispered, "We were made for this."
That made Solano glance at him with eyebrows raised. Then he grinned. "Yeah… yeah, you're right."
Charlie stood up a few rows ahead, holding onto the overhead rail like a tour guide. "Listen up, cabrones," he said in a mock-serious tone. "Today, history will remember the day Toro tried a bicycle kick and broke the stadium lights!" The bus burst into laughter.
"Sit down, payaso!" Toro called out, but he was laughing too. Even Santi smiled, finally, just a flicker at the corner of his lips. The energy was perfect, buzzing, vibrant and alive.
As the sports center came into view in the distance and the shape of the stands rising like a coliseum, everything got a little quieter.
Santi leaned forward slightly with his eyes locked on the glass as the bus turned off the main road and into the wide drive of Centro Deportivo León. The moment it passed through the front gates, every conversation and every beat of the music dimmed.
The complex stretched ahead with pristine pitches, tall fences and the low curve of the stands already glowing under the morning sun. It was the final venue.
Santi leaned forward with his elbow on the seat in front of him and eyes wide. This wasn't just a training ground, it felt like a stage built for destiny.
The team bus eased to a stop near the player's entrance. A few staff members and security were already waiting with vests and walkie-talkies on. The bus doors hissed open again.
"Vámonos," Herrera called, his voice clear and calm. "Stay locked in. This is ours."
One by one, the boys stepped down with their cleats in hands, bags on shoulders and hearts thudding in rhythm with their steps. They were quiet now, no more jokes and no more music. Just focused eyes and the soft shuffle of boots on concrete.
Santi stepped off near the middle of the group. As his feet hit the pavement, he felt the ground like it mattered, like it was sacred. The ribbon on his wrist fluttered a little in the morning breeze.
He took in the view. The pitch in the distance looked immaculate with green like a carpet and outlined with fresh white chalk. Ball kids were setting cones and flags. A large banner was being unfurled near the far fence: GRAN FINAL SUB-19.
"Look at this," Solano whispered next to him, his voice almost reverent.
Toro let out a quiet whistle behind them. "Damn… it's real now."
They walked in a tight group past the staff entrance and into the tunnel that led beneath the complex. The hallway inside was clean, tiled and humming with the low buzz of preparation. Speakers were being wired up, uniforms being laid out and match officials chatting by the doorway.
They were directed to their locker room. The moment they stepped in, the energy shifted again. Jerseys were hung neatly at each station, crisp navy and cream with the América crest shining on the chest. Beneath each number, folded shorts, socks and matchday boots stood ready.
Number 10. Santi walked over slowly with his fingertips brushing the fabric of his shirt. His name, Cruz above the number. It looked heavier today, it was more real.
He sat down, breathing deep, soaking it in. The locker room was silent for a moment. No one wanted to be the first to break it.
Then Charlie spoke. "Damn. Even the air in León smells expensive." A few laughs cracked the tension, just enough.
Herrera and Felipe entered. Behind them, the technical team rolled in bags, water bottles and fresh towels.
"Listen," Herrera said, voice firm but calm, standing near the whiteboard. "This isn't a dream anymore. This is today. Right now. You're not boys anymore, you're warriors. Santos didn't come here to give you anything. So don't wait. Don't hesitate. From minute one, you press and you believe. You finish this." The boys nodded slowly with their eyes locked on him.
"Warm-up in ten. Get ready!"
As the staff began handing out bibs and balls for the warm-up, Santi tied his boots with practiced hands, Solano was adjusting his shin guards beside him and Toro muttered a soft prayer under his breath.
Santi stood up, straightened his jersey and glanced at himself quickly in the small mirror by the door.
Then, he walked out down the tunnel, into the open sunlight, onto the pitch at Centro Deportivo León. It was happening and it was real.