Santi stood there dazed with the plaque now in his hands. It was heavier than expected. His name beneath the Copa del Futuro crest shimmered in the harsh white locker room lights. His fingers tightened around it, as if afraid it might vanish.
Felipe had appeared quietly at the entrance. He didn't smile big. Just that subtle nod, one only Santi would catch the kind that said: You earned this. Don't ever forget how.
The locker room TV was on in the background, turned up just in time for the tournament analyst to speak.
"This wasn't just a win," the commentator said. "This was domination. Club América didn't scrape by but they carved Boca apart. And that midfield maestro Santiago Cruz? He's only just getting started."
"Tonight," the anchor added, "we have our first four quarterfinalists:
Club América (Mexico)
Vancouver Whitecaps (Canada)
Santos FC (Brazil)
Chivas (Mexico)
Tomorrow, the final eight play for the remaining four spots." He continued, "but tonight? América leads the headlines!" The boys cheered again.
The bus ride back to the hotel was electric in the quietest way. Each player sat with earbuds in or staring out the window. Not because they weren't thrilled but because the kind of high they were feeling didn't need words.
Charlie was already watching a clip of his Panenka on a loop. Toro sat with eyes closed as his head leaned back against the window, mouthing his celebration again.
Santi didn't check his phone. He just stared out at the lights of León, the city that had once seen his dreams as too big and now lit them up like they belonged here.
The team entered through the side lobby, avoiding guests and cameras. The staff were waiting with towels, bottled water, fruit snacks and nods of admiration.
They walked through the tiled corridors like they owned the place but not loud, not arrogant. Just quietly proud.
Straight to their rooms, they dropped their bags and unlaced their boots.
Showers. Always first, Toro turned on the cold tap and let the water slam his back like punishment.
In Room 207, Santi stood under the warm spray with eyes closed and the water washing away the match, but not the moment.
The dining hall had been set ahead of their arrival. Long tables. Pitchers of citrus-infused water. Bowls of fresh fruit. Large trays of grilled chicken, rice, tortillas, lentils and sautéed greens.
Herrera walked the aisle like a general.
"Carbs. Protein. Rehydrate. This isn't a hotel meal. This is fuel."
Santi took a seat next to Ochoa. Across from them: Charlie, Diego and Solano. Ochoa leaned over. "You've always been good, but tonight? That was art."
Santi didn't respond right away. He just looked down at his plate which was half-finished and mind still playing clips.
Charlie jumped in. "Bro. That fake knuckleball? Everyone fell for it. Even me and I was watching."
Santi smiled faintly. "It wasn't the plan. I just… saw it open."
Solano sipped his water. "That's the difference between good players and game changers. You see it. Before anyone else does."
The recovery room was cold, tiled and dimly lit. Ice tubs on one side. Compression gear and massage tables on the other.
Santi slipped into the ice next to Diego, Ochoa and Toro. Everyone flinched as the freezing water bit into their legs.
"Holy!" Diego muttered through clenched teeth.
"This is worse than Boca's defense," Toro groaned.
Santi leaned back with his arms resting on the edge of the tub. For once, he wasn't thinking. Just feeling the ache in his thighs, the burn in his calves and the satisfaction of work done.
Outside the dorm hallway, the night air felt cooler than usual. Crisp. Felipe stood by the hotel's side terrace, his gaze lifted toward the moon. Santi approached slowly and quietly. Felipe didn't look at him.
"Feels different now, doesn't it?" he asked.
Santi leaned against the railing. "Yeah."
"Let me guess. You're trying to figure out if you're really this good. Or if it was just a perfect day." Santi didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Felipe continued. "Great players don't over-celebrate wins. They outgrow them."
Santi turned, looking out at the dark rooftops and glowing streetlamps.
"Does it get easier?" he asked.
Felipe's answer came slowly. "No. But you'll get better at carrying it."
They stood in silence for another long moment. Then Felipe added: "You're not chasing glory. You're building your legacy. Don't ever confuse the two."
He continued, "Go get some rest, we continue tomorrow." Santi nodded as he left.
The hallway was quiet now. Some rooms were completely dark, others buzzed with soft chatter, FIFA controller clicks, or the muffled sound of highlight videos playing on a loop.
Inside Room 207, it was dim. The only light came from the moon bleeding through the window blinds. The air was cooler, but the warmth of victory still lingered in the atmosphere.
Toro was already in bed, sprawled out across the mattress like someone who'd fought a war and won. One foot hung off the edge, blanket half covering him, mouth slightly open. His breathing was heavy and steady. You'd think he hadn't just thrown his body at every Boca attack for ninety minutes.
Solano sat upright in his bed, back against the wall with a book in hand but he wasn't reading. He was just… still. Processing.
Santi entered the room and let the door click shut softly behind him. He walked slowly with his barefoot as the soft slap of his steps barely broke the silence. He reached for his towel, wiped a bit of sweat from his neck and then dropped down on the edge of his bed with a heavy sigh.
Solano glanced over. "That kind of day, huh?"
Santi smiled a little, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Feels like my brain's still running. Like the game's still going."
"You'll get used to that. Eventually," Solano said, setting the book aside. "After your third tournament or so, your mind learns to rest. Kinda."
Santi looked across the room. The MVP plaque sat on the dresser, next to his folded jersey.
"I've never held anything like that before," he admitted. "Not even close."
"You didn't win it by luck," Solano said. "You bent that game to your will. That's what makes the difference."
From the other bed, Toro mumbled mid-dream, "Bro had a radar in his feet…"
They both laughed quietly. Santi reached behind and laid down as his hands folded behind his head.
The ceiling above was blank, but in his eyes it was replaying the backheel, the crowd erupting, Ochoa hugging him, Felipe's nod and Charlie's stupid grin after the Panenka.
Solano glanced over again. "You know what I liked most about that match?"
"What?" Santi asked.
"You never celebrated too early. Some guys score one goal and lose their heads. You? You stayed focused. Calculated."
Santi stayed quiet for a second. Then: "I don't know how to celebrate yet."
Solano leaned back. "That's okay. Just don't forget how to enjoy it, either."
Outside, León was quieter now. The buzz had faded, the city breathing slower in its sleep. In that dorm room, under the soft hum of the AC, everything slowed down.
Just before drifting off, Toro mumbled one more time, half-asleep: "Chivas… they better be scared."