The first rustles of the morning came with quiet groans and half-mumbled jokes. Charlie was the first one up, stumbling out of his bunk with arms in the air like he'd just scored a winning goal.
"Another beautiful day in paradise," he muttered, voice hoarse.
Santi, still lying on his back, cracked one eye open. "You say that every morning."
"Because it is," Charlie said, already making his way to the sink. "We're alive, we're in an academy and breakfast is ten steps away."
Ochoa rolled over. "You're only saying that because it's your turn to sit by the window."
"Exactly."
The banter made the room feel lighter. Ríos dragged his blanket off with exaggerated drama. "If anyone wakes Toro before he's ready, I'm not saving you when he starts throwing boots."
Toro, from his bed: "Too late." Everyone laughed.
As the boys freshened up, the usual rhythm settled in. Showers cycled through. The scent of shampoo and soap mixed with the faint smell of cleats drying by the window. Santi stood in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth in slow circles with eyes fixed on his reflection. He was awake, yes but his mind was somewhere deeper. He hadn't had a proper game in days and the energy in his legs was starting to rebuild, itching to be let loose again.
When he finally made it to the cafeteria, the usual noise greeted him. Trays clattering, laughter, forks tapping against plates. Charlie was already there, halfway through his scrambled eggs and still talking.
"So I told him if you're gonna nutmeg me in training, at least say sorry."
"Or get better footwork," Diego said, sliding into the seat next to Santi.
"See? This is why I eat alone," Charlie said.
"You never eat alone," Ochoa reminded him. "You talk too much for that."
Santi smiled. The table felt like a small, messy family. Everyone had their quirks. But they worked. They clicked. And that was rare.
Breakfast was eggs, beans, toast and fruit. Santi ate slowly, savoring each bite. He needed the fuel not just for the body, but for the mind.
"Short session today," Felipe called from the side of the hall. "Big talk later. Be sharp."
After breakfast, they went back to the locker room. The tension wasn't heavy, it was curiosity. A "big talk" meant something was coming. Some news, maybe. Or a visit.
The short training session began with basic ball movement. Light sprints, short-pass drills and rondos in groups of six. Herrera and Felipe watched without interrupting much. There was no tactical load, just rhythm, timing and touch. Santi paired up with Diego and Charlie for most of it. Quick triangle plays, simple runs and sharp thinking.
Solano ran the midfield unit, barking reminders and adjusting positioning like always.
"Don't jog when you should be reading the pass!"
"Ríos, switch feet faster!"
"Toro wake up!"
Toro waved him off, smirking.
At the 35-minute mark, Felipe blew the final whistle. "Water. Meet at the hall."
The boys jogged off the pitch, grabbing their bottles. Some joked about getting out of training early. Others guessed who was coming.
Back in the dorm as they changed into clean gear, the speculation got louder.
"What if it's scouts?" Ochoa said.
"No way, they don't tell us when it's scouts," Diego said. "Might be a sponsor or a guest."
"Bet it's another nutritionist talk," Charlie groaned. "'Eat your greens, avoid soda.' I get it."
As they walked into the hall, the tone changed.
The chairs were arranged in rows. The lights were low. There was no PowerPoint and no flashy intro. Just three men already standing near the front. No introduction. No fanfare.
But you could tell that they weren't just guests.
They were players. Former ones. The way they stood. The way they looked at the boys like they'd been where they were sitting.
The one in the middle stepped forward. No mic. Just presence.
"I won't take too much of your time," he began. His voice was calm, worn and real.
"You're young. Hungry and talented. That's good. But let me tell you what no one says when you're starting out, none of that means a damn thing if you don't learn how to suffer."
The room fell into silence.
"I played for this club. When the boots I wore had holes. When I was riding buses 18 hours to games. When I couldn't afford proper meals. And you know what got me through?"
He looked around the room. Eyes locked.
"Passion. Not talent. Not luck. Passion!"
He started telling stories. About waking up at 4 a.m. to run before school. About getting benched for six months without explanation. About nearly quitting twice.
"But I stayed. Because I loved the game. And love keeps you in the fight."
He mentioned names of players who came from nothing, who didn't have the best stats or the flashiest moves. But they worked. They pushed and they survived.
"Some of you will make it. Some won't. And the difference? It won't be talent. It'll be what you do when it gets hard."
He moved around the room. Not lecturing. Talking and making it personal.
He looked at Charlie: "Don't rely on your speed forever. Sharpen your instincts."
To Diego: "You got vision. Use it before others do."
Then he walked up to Santi. Rested a hand on his shoulder.
"I've heard of you. Seen the footage. You've got that thing, whatever it is. But don't lose it trying to be someone else. Stay sharp and stay real. Keep your feet on the ground and your eyes forward."
Santi nodded, heart pounding. The man stepped back and took a breath.
"And one more thing, don't play for money. That'll come or it won't. But if you play for money, you'll never enjoy the game. Play because you love it. That's what makes you dangerous."
They ended their talk. The players gave them a long and loud applause.
After the talk, the boys stayed in their seats, still chewing on every word.
Back in the dorms later that afternoon, the mood was quieter. Charlie tossed his boots onto the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. "That guy… he really went through it, huh?"
Diego nodded. "Makes you think about everything different."
Ochoa leaned against the wall. "Makes you wonder if you're even ready for that kind of life."
Santi sat on his mattress with his elbows on knees. He didn't say anything for a while. Just let the weight of it all settle. The noise. The silence after. The look in the speaker's eyes when he spoke about the game.
He was right. Passion, that's what would carry them.
As the others got louder again joking, tossing pillows and teasing Toro for snoring too loud, Santi stared at his boots. He loved this game.
And no matter what came next, he was all in.