Another day, same routine. The sun filtered gently through the thin curtains. A cool breeze floated in through the open window ruffling the edge of Toro's blanket.
Toro groaned, stretching like a bear rising from hibernation. Santi blinked into the pale morning light, already shifting his legs out of bed, the soreness from yesterday's win stiff in his thighs. Solano sat up without a word, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his towel.
"Oof! My back feels like I headbutted a tree." Toro groaned.
"You did," Solano replied dryly from his bed. "Only it was disguised as a Boca's striker."
They all chuckled.
In the background, birds chirped faintly. León was already warming up. No music. No noise. Just that collective understanding: today meant focus.
Downstairs, the dining hall room was buzzing with soft conversation and the smell of oats, scrambled eggs, black beans, toast, bananas, pineapple slices, and hydration tablets. No one overate. No one talked loud. The volume had changed.
Charlie muttered to Ochoa, "I got a feeling today's session will kill us."
Ochoa replied, "Good. Let it. Means we're sharpening."
Santi ate in silence, glancing occasionally at Solano, who seemed deep in thought, likely already organizing passing lanes and breakouts in his head.
Herrera entered last. His usual routine.
"Eat. Stretch. Then the bus leaves in 40 minutes." That was all he said.
After breakfast they changed into their training gear, some of the players were still overwhelmed by the excitement of their previous match as they headed to the bus.
Later that morning, the bus pulled into a private training ground just on the edge of León. The field was spotless. Sprinklers had just finished soaking the grass, giving it a slick edge.
The boys changed in silence in the small dressing tent beside the field. Cleats laced. Socks adjusted and jerseys tucked tight. You could feel it, the shift from celebration to preparation.
They started with jogging around the field. Three rotations around the pitch, light but deliberate. Players warmed their breathing. No music, just the sound of footfalls on damp turf.
They switched to lunges, hip openers, high knees and hamstring swings. Each line moved cleanly across the cones laid out in diagonal grids.
Felipe stood by with arms crossed, noting who was moving tight and who looked loose.
Then, speed ladders, one-touch steps and lateral cuts.
"Stay light!" barked the assistant coach. "Fast feet, soft landings!"
Santi moved like water, his footwork crisp. Diego pushed to match his tempo, determined not to be left behind.
"Explosiveness wins transitions!" Herrera shouted as the boys lined up.
10m bursts, explode and stop.
20m splits, acceleration focus.
40m chase drills, one player chased another after a 1-second delay.
Charlie and Ochoa turned the 40m drill into a competition, laughing even as their lungs burned. Santi and Solano worked in sync, pushing but not racing, they were sharpening.
Minutes later, they switched to drills. In 10x10m boxes, groups of four played 1-touch rondos. No extra touches allowed.
"Pressure's coming fast tomorrow," Herrera yelled. "The opponents press high. This drill is your map out!"
Felipe walked past Santi's group.
"Scan faster, Cruz," he said. "See the third pass not just the next one." Santi nodded. He sharpened his turns. Hips lower. Head up earlier. His ball release sped up.
Then the next drill, 1-touch pressure in the corner, followed by long diagonal switch across the pitch. Simulating what their opponents would do if they got trapped in a zone to force a mistake.
Santi and Solano linked like magnets. Ochoa and Diego flared wide. The switches started to sing. Herrera clapped twice. "Yes. That's it! Now kill them in transition."
They proceeded to the scrimmage. Herrera split the team in half. Orange vs white bibs. Santi captained the whites with Solano. Toro anchored the backline of the oranges.
First play: Ochoa tried a quick flick over Ríos but it was blocked.
Second: Charlie dropped deep, dragged his marker and then released Diego down the wing. A cross came in but Solano volleyed it just wide.
Third: Santi picked it near halfway, turned with a quick body feint and launched a curved trivela to the far post. It missed Diego by inches.
From the sideline: "Excellent idea!" Felipe called. "Execution tightens with rhythm!"
Then the whistle blew. All players jogged in and knelt at the midfield circle. Herrera paced slowly in front of them.
"This tournament is unforgiving. No one cares about your journey to this point." He continued, "They care about who wins, and tomorrow we are going to do just that. Win, win and win!"
He pointed toward the stands where scouts from Spain, Germany, MLS and Liga MX clubs sat quietly with notebooks. "They're not here to see who runs the most. They're here to see who wins under pressure." After ten minutes, they left for the hotel.
Players collapsed into the bus seats, sweat soaking into their training gear. No one spoke on the ride back. Most just looked out the windows, their minds deep in tomorrow's match.
Immediately they landed, most of them went in for a cold shower, they were worn out. After showers, the team gathered in the cafeteria.
Plates were stacked with grilled chicken, quinoa, light pasta, and fruit. The TV in the background was already announcing the last four teams to join the quarterfinals:
Palmeiras (Brazil)
Atlas (Mexico)
Cruz Azul (Mexico)
Nacional (Uruguay)
The Final Quarterfinal Bracket:
Club América vs Vancouver Whitecaps
Chivas vs Palmeiras
Cruz Azul vs Santos FC
Atlas vs Nacional
The team clapped. But focus settled.
After lunch, some players headed straight for ice baths. Others rotated to the recovery lounge.
Felipe reviewed match footage with Solano and Santi in a quiet corner pausing on Vancouver's press lines.
"They'll trap you here," he said, circling a wide zone on screen. "Escape inside. Then diagonally break." They nodded with their eyes locked on the screen.
Dinner was light. Sweet potatoes, grilled turkey, mango juice. The team ate, joked, and relaxed. Charlie told Felipe he'd score tomorrow and do a cartwheel. Felipe said if he did, he'd buy him ice cream. The whole table laughed.
Later, players dispersed: Some headed to the lounge for FIFA. Others sat in the lobby, posing for photos in front of the trophy banner. A few retired early to their rooms.
Santi strolled through the hallway with Diego and Solano, sipping pineapple juice. They discussed midfield spacing. "They'll press our pivot hard," Solano said. "We let the fullbacks overlap, hit the interior runner."
Santi replied: "They overload the weak side. If we switch fast enough, we stretch them."
Back in their room, the air was still. Toro leaned against the bed frame. "Remember: they knocked out Tigres. So tomorrow, we punch first."
Diego nodded. "First ten minutes set the tone."
Santi pulled out his jersey for tomorrow and laid it across his bed. Solano started packing. Neat, focused and ready.
Toro eventually laid back and in mid-sentence about Ochoa's goal celebration, he dozed off with one leg dangling off the bed.
Santi stared at the ceiling, thinking about what he would do against Vancouver.