This was when Santi's real dream began. At the Copa del Futuro, his first major tournament for Club América.
This was a big youth tournament with 16 teams from all over the American continent, it was a single-elimination format. You lose and you're out.
The sun had barely crept over the horizon when Santi opened his eyes. 6:12 a.m.
There was a strange calm in the room. Not silence, he could hear the soft whir of the ceiling fan, the distant hum of traffic outside but a focused stillness that filled the space. A match day kind of calm. The kind that says: today matters.
He sat up quietly so he wouldn't wake Toro or Solano. Slipping out of bed, he padded across the cold tile floor, grabbed his toiletry bag and entered the bathroom. He brushed his teeth slowly, staring at his reflection. He didn't feel nervous not the shaky, shallow-breath kind. Just alert, awake in the most complete sense. This was it.
In the hall, doors creaked open one by one. Charlie was already in uniform sweats, yawning hard and hair sticking up. "I had a dream we won 3–0. I scored a brace," he mumbled.
"You always dream about yourself," Diego replied, brushing past him.
"I'm a visualizer, hermano. Manifestation."
"Manifesting the bench," Ochoa said from behind. Laughter rolled down the corridor.
Downstairs, the hotel restaurant was already alive. Plates of eggs, fruit, toast, and yogurt were spread out on two buffet tables. Players trickled in, quiet at first then gradually, the chatter started.
Solano was the first to speak over food. "Today is the start of everything."
"You say that before every match," Ríos replied, spreading jam on toast.
"Because it is."
Santi sat with Diego and Toro.
"You look locked in," Toro said to him.
"I am," Santi replied.
Felipe walked through the dining area with a clipboard, greeting the players with a short nod or a quiet "good morning." Herrera wasn't with him yet. The coach had a habit of showing up when the room least expected it.
At 9:30, the squad boarded a shuttle to a nearby pitch for pre-match activation. The air was warm but not overbearing. León's streets passed in blurs outside the bus window, local vendors, fans wearing Boca blue and gold and a few kids juggling soccer balls on sidewalks.
The bus turned into a small training facility enclosed by tall trees and concrete walls painted with murals of past Copa tournaments. A security guard opened the gate.
Inside, the players hit the grass immediately.
Felipe led light stretches. Toro and Ríos did resistance band work near the sideline. Charlie ran light laps while still talking. "If I nutmeg a Boca defender today, I want the whole world to see it," he said.
"You won't. But let's dream," Diego replied.
Santi was working with Solano on short one-touches. "Keep the pace. Don't pause," Solano said.
"No mistakes today," Santi nodded.
"Only chances."
Herrera arrived fifteen minutes in, watching from the sideline, arms crossed. He didn't speak right away, he just observed. Then, with a sharp whistle, he called the group in.
They gathered near midfield. "Today isn't just about football. It's about proving you belong," Herrera said. "You lose today, you go home. Boca is strong, yes. But they're beatable and you don't beat them with flash. You beat them with grit, with control and with unity."
He pointed at Santi. "You set the tone. Be clean. Be dangerous. But above all, be disciplined."
Then to Solano: "You carry the middle. Make them chase."
To Toro and Ríos: "Break anything that tries to run through you."
He let that land, then added: "You fight for each other. You fight for the badge."
By 11:30 a.m., they were back. Players returned to their rooms, mostly in silence. Some showered. Some listened to music. Some just lay still, visualizing.
Santi changed shirts, grabbed a protein bar and sat on the floor, back against the wall. He thought about San Idriso. Lupita's voice and his father's last words before he left: "Don't hold back. If you fall, fall forward."
He closed his eyes. No noise now. Just rhythm. Game rhythm.
By 1:00 p.m., they gathered in the hotel lounge for pre-game snacks; bananas, fruit bars, nuts and lots of water. Charlie, always the talker, tried to lift the mood.
"This hotel's so nice, man. After this tournament, if I get a contract, the first thing I'm doing is flying back here for vacation."
"Hope you get picked first," Ochoa said. "So you can afford it."
Santi joined in quietly. "Rest is part of the game. But only after the work is done."
Solano nodded. "Well said."
As Club América's squad waited at the hotel, preparing for their first match against Bocas, the Copa del Futuro was already underway. Three matches had been played earlier in the day, and the results rippled through the players like waves crashing quietly into their focus.
Match Result 1: Tigres 1 – 2 Vancouver Whitecaps.
When the news dropped, Toro threw both arms in the air. "Let's go! Tigres out? That's karma!"
Charlie smirked but didn't say much. Everyone knew what Tigres meant to him, a past left behind. Still, a win for Vancouver meant América wouldn't face their old rivals, at least not in León.
"Maybe it's better this way," Toro muttered. "We don't owe them a rematch. We owe ourselves something bigger."
Match Result 2: Santos FC 2 – 1 Deportivo Cali.
Santi paid close attention to that one. Santos had players who reminded him of himself, scrappy, clever and fast-thinking. The kind of team that didn't dominate the headlines but kept finding ways to survive.
"They play like fighters," he said to Diego.
"You're a fighter too," Diego replied. "Just better dressed."
Match Result 3: Chivas 6 – 1 Inter Miami.
That one hit differently.
"Six-one?" Ochoa repeated. "That's not a win. That's a message."
Chivas didn't just win. They embarrassed Inter Miami.
Soon after, footage of their post-match tunnel celebration started floating around, some players yelling out loud in the halls: "Tell América we're waiting! Come meet us and we'll end it proper this time!"
"You barely escaped last time! This time it's a massacre!"
It wasn't subtle. And it didn't go unnoticed. Solano stayed quiet but his fists clenched.
Ríos muttered under his breath, "They talk too early."
Charlie grinned. "Good. Let them talk. We'll reply on the field."
Santi didn't react. He didn't need to. He'd heard everything. And he was saving his answer for the pitch
At 2:15, bags were zipped. Jerseys were folded neatly and cleats checked twice. The team wore their white Club América travel polos, pants and dark jackets. They met in the hotel lobby where the bus waited, sleek and black with tinted windows.
Felipe went over the checklist. Herrera gave no speech. Just a stare and a nod. They boarded.
The bus ride to the venue was quiet at first. Until Toro stood up. He clapped once. "On your feet!"
The team looked around. "We fight for the badge!" Toro shouted. Some repeated it.
"Louder. Again!"
"We fight for the badge!" They responded.
Voices echoed across the bus. Santi stood too, face calm but his voice strong. "We fight for each other!" The chorus grew.
The chants filled the space, not childish hype but something primal, deep and collective. They weren't just going to play. They were going to compete.
At 3:15 p.m., the bus turned into the parking lot of Centro Deportivo León. Security waved them through. Event staff greeted them, directing the squad through a private entrance.
Outside the gates, fans were already packed in. Boca fans wearing flags as capes. América fans in yellow and blue, holding signs and shouting names.
Santi could hear some chants already echoing through the concrete. Boca's people had arrived.
"Man, it's just a youth tournament but looks like half of Argentina showed up," Diego muttered.
"But so did we," Ríos answered.
They walked through clean and cool hallways toward the locker room. The walls were covered in Copa branding. Giant portraits of players from past tournaments who had gone on to Europe. Messi's youth team photo. Lozano, Chucky and even Guardado.
In the locker room, the kits were hung up. White tops and navy shorts. Polished boots lined neatly as the América crest hung above the doorway.
Herrera gathered them once more.
"This is the moment. Leave everything on that pitch."
By 3:30, they stepped onto the training pitch for pre-match movement. Boca's players were already warming up across the field; tall, sharp and moving like pros.
They glanced at América. Measured them. Maybe even underestimated them.
Santi jogged lightly. His legs felt weightless. He locked eyes with one of Boca's midfielders; tall, lean and confident. The boy smirked. Santi didn't flinch. Just nodded and kept moving.
Now they waited. Boots tapped softly on the concrete. The smell of fresh-cut grass drifted from the pitch beyond the wall. Announcers were already calling lineups over the loudspeakers.
"En la cancha… Club América!" The crowd roared, half for and half against.
Scouts leaned against rails, holding notebooks. Former players stood near the benches. Phones were up and cameras were recording.
Santi bounced lightly on his heels. Eyes forward, mind calm and heart steady. Next to him, Solano muttered, "Let's make them remember us." Santi didn't say a word.
The light from the field cracked through the end of the tunnel. Then, the whistle blew and the ref signaled. It was time.