April 23, 2024 — Hotel León
In Room 207, Santi opened his eyes to the faint gray of dawn. He needed no the alarm. Sleep came in fragments as short bursts wrapped in flashes of gameplay and crowd noise. For a second, he stayed still, staring at the ceiling. Breathing.
Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He heard Toro shifting under the covers and Diego's soft snores in rhythm with the AC hum.
Santi grabbed his towel and stepped into the bathroom. The water was warm, but he barely felt it. His mind was already on the pitch.
By 7:30 AM, the dining hall had a hive of low hums and clinking forks. Plates clinked and juice glasses thudded onto tables. A few players spoke in hushed tones. The tension wasn't heavy but it was present, like something folded neatly between the eggs and toast.
Charlie chewed slower than usual, nodding at Ochoa.
"Quarterfinals," he mumbled. "Big day."
"Biggest yet," Ochoa replied.
Solano, across from them, flipped through a small black notebook, scribbling something. Nobody asked what it was. They already knew it was his game plan. His compass.
Santi sat beside Diego, pushing plantains around his plate. He wasn't hungry, but he knew he had to eat.
"Three hours till we leave," Diego said quietly.
Santi nodded. "Just enough time to think too much."
Ríos chimed in, "I just want a clean sheet. Let's leave Alejandro with dry gloves."
"Let's see what Santi brings," said Lucho, grinning. "Another three assist?"
Santi smiled quietly. "Let's just bring the win."
The banter felt good. It loosened the nerves. But under it all, there was something new, quiet intensity. Plates emptied fast as hydration tabs dissolved. Everyone knew what was coming.
Herrera stood at the front of the conference room. Behind him, the screen showed clips of Vancouver's last match, pressing with energy and aggression.
"We beat Boca because we dictated and controlled the game," Herrera said. "Do it again." He tapped the board. "They will press high. So we break lines, stay calm and own the midfield. No panic. Use the full width."
Then, Solano stood. "We don't have to be perfect. We just have to be together." The room clapped once in agreement. The spirit was sharp now.
The hallway buzzed with controlled energy. In Room 207, Santi packed with quiet precision: shin guards, tape, backup socks, match jersey and his travel hoodie. He paused over his boots. The same pair he'd worn since León. Slight scuffs on the left toe. A small tear near the heel. But they fit like skin.
Toro was sitting on the edge of his bed, boots already on. "These cleats have one more goal in them," he joked.
Solano was more clinical, checking his bag twice, then laying his hand on Santi's shoulder. "Today, we command the midfield. No panic."
Santi looked up. "No panic," he repeated.
By noon, they filed out in full warm-up gear. The bus waited out front, idling. Security had cleared the path. Hotel guests stood aside, clapping softly, some whispering about the "Boca game."
Ochoa was first to step in with his headphones on and bobbing to his beat. Charlie followed, already humming a chant.
"We fight for the badge!"
"We play for glory!"
Soon the chant picked up as fists pounded into seat backs. Solano clapped twice, sharp and timed. The entire bus rocked with chants. Santi sat next to Diego again. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
As the bus turned into the León Sports Center, the roar of the early crowd washed over them like a wave. It was already filling.
Lines of fans wrapped around the side gates. América flags waved in red and yellow. Some wore painted faces. Kids held cardboard signs: "Vamos Cruz!" and "Cruz y Ochoa — Magia!"
Inside, tournament officials greeted them with wristbands and radio comms.
"Changing rooms to your left," one said. "Vancouver's already inside." The players nodded.
The locker room smelled of deep heat rub and focus. No music. Just breath. Movements. Velcro. Tapes tearing. Santi found his nameplate and sat down. He unzipped his bag slowly, removed his boots like they were relics and set them at his feet. He stared at them. In his head, his father's voice returned:
"Be the reason they say our name out loud." He wiped them once with a towel.
Solano stood and addressed the group. "Our strength today is between us. If one gets pressed, the other gets him out." The players nodded.
Toro added: "They beat Tigres. That's nothing. They haven't met us."
The players emerged to a blast of sound. Drums, horns and whistles. The announcer's voice rang through the stadium.
"Welcome to the second quarterfinal match of the Copa del Futuro!"
"Representing Mexico: Club América U19!"
"Representing Canada: Vancouver Whitecaps U19!"
Warm-up began with jogs along the sidelines. Players stretched and bounced into passes. Their ball touches were crisp, their voices low and sharp.
Santi and Solano ran quick triangle passes while Felipe watched from the tunnel. In the stands: agents, families and tournament staff. Some wore blazers. Others wore jerseys.
Ochoa blasted a shot into the top corner and turned toward the fans behind the goal with his fists raised. They roared back.
After 30 minutes, the players walked back down the tunnel. The locker room felt even smaller now. Inside, they sat in full kit, heads down. The only sound was Herrera tightening his watch strap. Then he turned and scanned each face.
"You don't owe anyone a perfect game.
You owe them your full fight." He held out a fist.
"Play for the badge!"
Each player tapped it as they stood.
Inside the tunnel, América and Vancouver stood across from one another. Santi bounced slightly on his toes. Beside him, Toro cracked his knuckles. Solano was meditating on the match ahead as his eyes closed.
The announcer called: "Now taking the field… Club América!"
As they walked toward the pitch, Felipe leaned into Santi's ear one last time.
"We don't want a good match. We want a win." Santi gave the smallest nod.
The referee blew his whistle. The ball was set at the center circle as the players took their marks. The ball rolled and just like that, the quarterfinal began.