Two days after the clash against Vancouver, the early morning air in León felt heavier. There was no breeze. No clouds. Just a quiet tension that blanketed the hotel halls like fog.
The dinning hall was filled with the soft clinking of cutlery, trays sliding and juice being poured, no music, no banter, not like other mornings.
Toro sat at the table first, still wiping sleep from his eyes, stacking scrambled eggs and toast onto his plate like it was a competition.
Charlie arrived next, grinning but quiet. "Biggest day of our lives and they gave us soggy pancakes."
Toro pointed at him with a fork. "Eat and grow. You need strength to cry after we win."
Santi came in with Solano, both already dressed in their team tracksuits. Santi carried his usual banana and protein shake, nodding silently at the others.
"You good?" Solano asked him, sitting across from Toro.
Santi nodded. "Better than good."
Charlie leaned in from the side. "You look different today."
"Confident?" Toro asked.
"No," Charlie said. "Like he's going to do something stupid. Like a rainbow flick in the first five minutes." Santi smirked but said nothing.
After breakfast, the team assembled at the conference room in the hotel.
Coach Herrera stood at the front with Felipe by his side. Behind them, the projector showed clips from Chivas' win over Palmeiras. 4–1. Clinical and dominant.
"That's Diego González," Herrera said, pausing the video on a tall, sharp-looking forward celebrating. "Hat-trick. Fast feet. Shoots with both legs."
Ochoa leaned toward Ricky and whispered, "I'm still ahead in the goal tally."
Ricky didn't blink. "Let's keep it that way."
Herrera kept going. "They've been waiting for us since that league match. They want revenge. And they've scored the most goals in this tournament."
Felipe stepped forward. "But they haven't played us yet."
Herrera continued. "We must beat them again and we must win. We fight for the badge!"
The team responded in unison. "We fight for the badge!"
After the meeting in the dim-lit conference room, the boys filtered out in small groups. The door creaked closed behind the last of them, but the energy from the video breakdown of Chivas still clung to their shoulders.
Santi walked slowly with his hands tucked in his tracksuit pockets and eyes scanning the hallway as Felipe caught up beside him.
"You liked the clips on González?" Felipe asked.
"He's good," Santi said. "Quick turn, low center of gravity. But he shows too much of the ball on the second touch."
Felipe gave him a sideways glance. "You really do see the game differently."
"I feel it," Santi said. "And I want him to feel me on his back all day."
Felipe gave a low chuckle. "That's my nephew."
Downstairs, the boys were having a conversation about the Chivas match ahead. Toro was slouched into a beanbag, peeling a banana like he was on a tropical vacation. Solano sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the TV, half-focused on a morning Liga MX replay.
"Chivas think they've got this in the bag," Solano muttered.
"They're not ready for León's altitude," Toro said, mouth full. "And definitely not for my headers."
Charlie entered dramatically, pretending to hold a mic. "Here he is, the beast from Coapa, Andrés 'Toro' Vargas. Toro, tell us how you feel before the most important match of your life?"
Toro sat up and raised both arms. "I'm gonna eat Emiliano for breakfast and wash him down with Diego's tears." The room erupted in laughter.
"Man, sit down," Diego Silva said from behind, shaking his head with a grin. "Save the WWE for after the game." Santi walked in quietly, but Charlie caught him immediately.
"Number ten in the building!" Charlie pointed. "Yo, maestro, you going for another knuckleball today or you saving something new?"
Santi smirked, opening the fridge near the corner. He pulled out a yogurt and answered without looking up: "Depends if they give me space. If they press high, maybe a Maradona turn."
"You say that so casually," Ricky said from the couch, arms folded. "Bro thinks he's a PlayStation controller."
Lucho walked in stretching his arms above his head. "As long as nobody megs me like Enzo did…"
Then the whole room cracked. "Broooooo!" Charlie fell to the floor laughing. "He brought it up himself!"
"Respect," said Toro, still giggling. "Owning your loss. That's leadership."
Lucho threw a pillow at him. "At least I didn't trip over my own feet trying to shoot like someone in the last game."
Everyone "ooooohed" as eyes turned to Valdez, who threw up his hands. "That ball bobbled! Watch the replay!"
Outside, a few players found space to think. Ramirez sat with headphones on, staring at the mountains beyond León. The wind tousled his curls gently, his focus unshakable.
Ochoa joined Santi near the railing, where he leaned with his elbows out, overlooking the city streets.
"You feel it?" Ochoa asked.
Santi nodded. "Like electricity."
"They want blood today."
"Let them want it." Santi stated.
Ochoa grinned. "We're not boys anymore."
"No," Santi said, tightening the drawstring on his pants. "We're Águilas."
Back in Room 207, Toro had taken over the bathroom, music playing faintly through the door as steam filled the mirror.
"Bro, hurry up," Solano called, tossing a water bottle to Santi who sat on the edge of his bed, tying his boots for the third time just to feel them.
"Relax," Toro yelled back. "The beast needs his grooming."
Santi snorted. "He spends more time in there than my sister."
Solano was scrolling through his phone. "Chivas fans are getting loud online. Talking like it's a coronation."
Santi stretched his legs, breathing out slowly. "Let them talk."
A knock came at the door. It was Felipe.
"You boys good?" he asked, poking his head in.
"Born ready," Toro said, stepping out in full kit, steam trailing him like an entrance to a fight.
Felipe smiled. "Bus leaves in 45 minutes. Start bringing it down."
One by one, the players arrived with their gear. Their steps were slower now. Not from nerves, but from awareness. Weight. Focus.
Alejandro had no bag just his gloves and a towel draped around his neck.
Charlie still tried to lighten the mood. "Alright, gentlemen. Say your goodbyes to León because we're taking this trophy back to Coapa."
Herrera gave them a nod with arms folded. "Final check. Phones off. Heads in the game!"
The players fell into line like soldiers. The doors opened. It was time to go.
Bags zipped. Jerseys folded inside. Shin guards in place. Everyone moved like clockwork but the energy was electric.
Solano leaned against the wall, sipping water. "Anyone else's stomach doing flips?"
Toro slapped his chest. "Mine's too full for flips. I'm carrying a buffet in here."
Santi rolled his eyes. "You ate twice."
"And I'll score twice," Toro replied.
Charlie showed up last, with his speaker in hand. "I brought the playlist. Only bangers."
Felipe pointed at the bus. "Let's go, muchachos."
As the bus pulled out of the hotel, chants began softly.
"Águilas! Águilas!"
Charlie banged the seat rhythmically, turning it into a beat. Ricky joined in with a clap. Soon, the whole back row was singing.
Lucho leaned into Solano's row. "You ready, Capitán?"
"I've been ready." He replied.
Ochoa, sitting beside Valdez, chimed in. "Let's make sure González doesn't score today."
Alejandro Ramirez, seated quietly up front, opened one eye from behind his noise-cancelling headphones. "He won't. Trust me."
Charlie leaned across the aisle to Santi, who sat beside Diego.
"Hey, number ten, you've been mad quiet today. You plotting something or just pretending to be Messi again?"
Santi looked out the window for a moment, then turned. "Both."
Diego grinned. "He's in that zone again."
Ricky had a notebook open on his lap with some scribbled diagrams, arrows and names. Ochoa was leaned over next to him, half reading and half bobbing his head to the music.
"They press high," Ricky murmured. "Two midfielders pinch in when the wingers invert. We can catch 'em in transition if we play quick."
Lucho nodded from the row in front. "But they don't like being pressed. You saw against Palmeiras when they get rushed, they cough it up."
Ochoa's eyes flicked to the front of the bus. "I just want the ball. Get me the ball, and I'll make them bleed."
Alejandro Ramirez sat with his eyes closed as his head leaned back against the window. His hands moved subtly practicing saves, catching invisible shots and punching air softly.
Felipe watched him from across the aisle, his head resting back. "He's locked in," he whispered to Herrera.
The coach nodded slowly. "They all are."
As they turned onto the long road leading to the León Sports Center, the crowd began to appear.
Santos FC had defeated Atlas in the first match of the semi-finals, advancing into the finals. Their bus crossed paths with America's, they were drumming and chanting in their bus. They were so excited as they departed, they had won it before but they sought to prove it again.
The hum of drums could be heard through the closed windows. Fans lined the streets. Some waved América scarves. Others shouted "Vamos Chivas!" as the bus rolled by.
Toro sat up and peered through the glass. "They brought the whole city out for this."
Solano leaned forward to Santi. "You ever think about this, how far we've come?"
Santi nodded slowly. "Every day. Especially today."
The turf came into view with compact, but loud. Flags waving. Chants rising. The banners along the fencing read:
"Clásico Nacional – Semifinal Juvenil"
"Chivas vs América – Furia de Futuros"
Charlie stood halfway up in the aisle. "Alright, who's scoring today?"
Valdez raised his hand first. "First header. Minute twelve."
"Dream on," Toro said. "I'm taking that. Second ball off a corner. Boom!"
Ochoa smirked. "Y'all can score. I'm taking the top scorer title back."
Then Charlie looked to Santi. "And you?"
Santi didn't blink. "Something unforgettable."
The bus slowed. The doors hissed. They sat still for a second, staring out at the stadium. Herrera stood. "Phones off. Bags up. Heads right."
Felipe added, "One job. Go out there and remind everyone why they fear Coapa."
The boys rose. One by one, they stepped off the bus. The León Sports Center was shaking already. And they were here to make it quake.
Boots hit concrete as the boys descended one by one from the América bus. Cameras flashed and reporters leaned over rails. The León sun scorched the sky above them, but inside each chest, the heat was already rising.
Santi adjusted his backpack straps and took a long breath, his cleats clinking gently on the floor as they walked through the tunnel. Toro next to him muttered, "Man, this is war. Real war!"
"And we're not tourists," Santi replied.
They walked in silence, passing murals of past youth champions, the tunnel humming with the sound of crowd noise outside. The stadium was almost full.
Inside, the locker room had a chill, professional atmosphere. Yellow kits lined up in perfect order. The fresh smell of linen and shoe polish mixed with the faint scent of menthol from muscle balms was already being applied.
Herrera stood near the tactics board. Felipe paced with his notes. The players dropped bags and started prepping as boots tied, shin guards strapped and jerseys pulled over heads.
Ochoa slapped his gloves together, already jogging in place. "Let's go boys!"
Charlie, bouncing around like a sparkplug, tugged on Santi's sleeve. "Ten. You feel that? Feels like a final."
"It is, for us," Santi said, eyes locked ahead. "We lose, we're gone. They win, they gloat. But if we win…"
"They suffer," Toro growled, taping his wrists with practiced speed.
Ramirez sat in silence at his locker, wrapping his fingers in white tape. Not one word. Just breath.
Solano finished lacing his boots and stood. "How do you want to warm up, Santi?"
Santi stood too. "Keep it sharp. Quick passing. Keep the tempo high. They won't know what hit them."
Both teams now faced each other on either side of the tunnel. América and Chivas. Red and White vs. Yellow and Blue. The old rivalry now in the feet of the young.
Santi stood across from Emiliano Vargas, Chivas' captain, tall and confident, smirking just slightly.
To Emiliano's right stood Diego González, the new tournament top scorer, number nine for Chivas. His gaze locked on Santi. Cold and hungry.
Ochoa stared right back. "Let them look," he muttered. "We've been here before."
Chants began echoing above. The drums in the stadium thundered like war signals.
Chivas players bumped each other, bouncing and focused. América's line was quieter but not cold. Controlled and contained.
Herrera stepped into the tunnel. "Thirty minutes of warm-up. Get your rhythm. Then back in for final instructions."
"Let's move!" Felipe added, clapping his hands.
As they emerged from the tunnel, the crowd erupted. Drums. Chants. Horns. Flags waving from every corner. The heat rolled in from all sides.
"Holy hell," Charlie whispered. "Look at that crowd."
Warm-up cones were already in place. The boys got into motion jogging laps, quick sprints and dynamic stretches.
Ramirez and the keeper coach broke off to the side, working with medicine balls and reflex drills.
Toro, Ricky, Ríos and Lucho handled aerials and first touches, pinging balls back and forth with sharp intensity.
Santi, Ochoa, Charlie, Solano and Diego formed a passing circle; one-touch, two-touch and rhythm building.
"Keep it crisp," Santi instructed. "Eyes up. Move after you pass." The ball zipped between feet.
Even Felipe, standing at the sideline with a stopwatch, nodded. "They're locked in."
They gathered near the sideline for the final stretches. Sweat rolled down brows, but no one looked tired. They looked like something was awakening.
"Yo, Santi," Charlie whispered, "Remember that knuckleball against Chivas at home?"
Santi grinned. "I'm saving the sequel for today."
Ochoa cracked his neck. "Nah. I'm getting that top scorer title back."
"You can fight for second place," Valdez added with a grin.
Toro stood and pulled his jersey down tight. "Let's not forget, we still got to fight. No mistakes today. We finish what we started in Coapa."
They all stood together, forming a tight circle. Hands in.
Santi called out. "What do we bring?"
"Garra!" they all roared.
"And what do we leave?"
"No Excuses!"
"Where's the trophy going?"
"Coapa!" They responded!
The crowd noise began to rise, announcers' voices now echoing through the speakers.
"Ten minutes!" a staff voice called.
Back in the locker room, Herrera stood at the front, voice calm but sharp. "This is the rivalry of Mexico. You represent our future. You represent Club América. And today, we send a message."
Felipe looked at Santi. Then at each of them. "Play for the badge. Play for each other."
Santi pulled his jersey over his head, the number 10 sliding into place like destiny. He stared at himself in the mirror for a moment. The roar of the crowd beyond the walls surged like a wave.
"This is it," he whispered.
And then down the tunnel, they went again. Into the fire.