The locker room door swung open with a thud. Sweat, adrenaline, and joy all collided in the air as the boys stormed in. Jerseys stuck to their skin. Mud, grass stains, blood and bruises told the story of the war they'd just won. But none of that mattered now. They had done it.
"LET'S GO!" Charlie screamed, tossing his boots across the room like he'd just scored a World Cup final winner.
Santi walked in slower, calm as his head tilted back slightly, eyes closing for a breath as the scent of wet grass and sweat filled the air. His jersey clung to his back. The ribbon from Tavo still tied around his wrist.
Herrera entered behind them, clapping once, firmly. "Eso, muchachos. That was football. That was América!" The room erupted again.
"BROOO!" Ochoa yelled, hugging Santi from the side. "You gave me those goals! That assist, man… and that trivela? That was like watching Modric mixed with Ronaldinho."
Santi laughed tiredly, resting his hands on his hips. "And your no-look penalty? The disrespect!" The boys howled in laughter, mimicking Ochoa's face before his shot.
"I swear," Toro added, pulling off his shin pads, "that keeper is probably still looking the wrong way."
Ricky slapped a hand against the locker. "And the crowd! When that fifth goal went in? I think I heard my grandma screaming from the stands."
Felipe stepped in, carrying a crate of water bottles. "Hydrate, hydrate. Don't let the adrenaline fool you, you're all still human."
The boys obeyed, cracking open bottles and chugging. The sound of plastic crinkling, boots thudding on the floor, and water gulped down filled the space.
Some sat on the benches, others on the floor. Toro stretched his legs out and leaned back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "That was… man, I'm still buzzing."
Charlie poked his head up. "Hey, who else thought I was gonna score that volley?" Everyone groaned.
"You sent that thing to the moon!" Lucho said, laughing. "NASA called. They said thanks." Even Herrera smirked.
The atmosphere was electric. Pure brotherhood. As the celebrations in the locker room began to slow down, Herrera clapped twice to get everyone's attention.
"Alright boys, let's not forget that we still have protocol. Grab your gear, hydrate, and head out. The staff's waiting!" There were groans, but they all moved.
One by one, the players pulled on their tracksuits over their damp kits, zipping up the América crests with pride. Cleats and shinguards stuffed into bags. Santi laced up his sneakers slowly, still soaking in the energy of the room.
Felipe walked past and squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, Santi. We're walking out together."
They emerged into the tunnel as a group. The center was still alive with music playing from the speakers, spotlights roaming the stands and fans leaning over the railings trying to catch one last glimpse of the heroes. América fans chanted, flags waving, and voices calling out names.
"Santi! Ochoa! Charlie!"
Security led them slowly past the media zone. Some journalists tried to sneak questions through the noise. "Santiago, what does this win mean for you?"
He gave a small smile and a wave but didn't stop walking. Behind him, Toro raised his arms to the crowd. "¡SOMOS AMÉRICA!" he shouted, and the fans roared back.
Ricky chuckled. "Bro thinks he's a celebrity already."
"I am," Toro replied, grinning.
Just before they reached the team bus, a small group of well-dressed men stood by the fence. Scouts. Former players. Coaches. Felipe nudged Santi gently.
"That's them. The ones I told you about. Europe. Liga MX. Even one from MLS."
One of the scouts, a dark-haired man in a black coat with a clipboard in hand, leaned in toward Felipe and whispered something. Felipe nodded, then called out: "Santi, come here for a moment."
The others slowed their pace, watching. Santi walked over cautiously, heart pounding. The scout held out his hand. "Buen partido, hijo. You see the pitch like few do. Smart and calm. Deadly when it matters."
Santi shook his hand quietly. "Gracias."
"You're on our radar now. Keep going like this, and doors will open."
Santi nodded again, eyes wide, trying not to smile too hard. As he walked back to the group, Toro elbowed him. "Look at you, already getting tapped."
Charlie added, "Next thing you know, he's getting signed by Barcelona and forgetting us."
"I'll invite you all to my mansion," Santi joked.
The engine purred as the boys loaded on. Bags tossed in the back, bodies slumping into the seats. One of the staff put on music of reggaeton at full volume. Charlie immediately started dancing in the aisle.
"Back seats are ours!" Diego shouted, sprinting like a kid toward the rear.
Toro followed close behind, yelling, "Don't think you're sitting by the window again, clown!"
Solano rolled his eyes, smiling. "Children."
The moment felt unreal. Some were chatting about the penalty. Others argued over who deserved the man of the match. Lucho was replaying a video clip on his phone of Santi's Maradona turn over and over again, zooming in and laughing.
Santi found a window seat and sank into it. The medal still warm around his neck. He could still feel the buzz of the stadium in his veins. Outside, Herrera and Felipe stood near the front of the bus, talking quietly about tactics, players' form and what would be said at the press conference.
Inside, the boys had already started their next chant. "And who are we? AMÉRICAAAAAA!"
The bus rolled forward, the city lights reflecting off the windows. The road to the hotel was short but tonight felt eternal.
Ochoa held his phone up, recording a video for his socials.
"Say something for the fans, Toro!" he said.
Toro looked straight into the camera. "Finals, baby! We're not done! And that was for all the people who doubted us!"
Lucho leaned in. "And shoutout to the keeper again, that penalty save was awesome!"
Ramírez just gave a thumbs up from his seat, quietly sipping water with a towel over his head.
Santi couldn't help but smile with eyes half-closed. He loved this moment not the chaos, but the feeling. The brotherhood. The joy.
"Ey," Solano leaned across the aisle. "You good?"
Santi nodded. "Yeah. Just tired. But good."
Solano held up his water bottle like a toast. "To finals."
Santi tapped his bottle against it. "To finals."
"Bro, Charlie, explain that volley to the moon again!" Ricky teased.
Charlie gasped dramatically. "It was strategic, bro. I was testing the satellite system." Everyone burst out laughing.
"NASA wants to sign him!" Lucho added.
Then someone played the audio clip of the live commentary from the match.
"…and Santi Cruz, with the vision of a wizard, launches the trivela to Charlie…."
"Wait, wait, wait—play that again!" Charlie shouted, pointing to himself.
They all replayed it on a loop, mocking each other's voices, analyzing every move as if they were experts on TV.
In the middle of the noise, Santi zoned out again. He rested his head on the back of the seat, looking up at the ceiling. He thought about the ribbon still tucked in his bag, the one from Tavo. He whispered to himself.
"Finals, Tavo. We're almost there."
Herrera turned around from his seat at the front of the bus. "Boys, quiet for a second!" It took a moment, but eventually, the laughter dimmed and the music volume lowered.
"Enjoy this moment. Really. You earned it. But remember this isn't the end. One more."
"One. More," Felipe echoed.
"Finals are where legends are made," Herrera said, looking across the bus. "You showed courage tonight. Show heart next." Applause echoed from the back and then it turned right back into music and chanting.
As the bus pulled into the hotel driveway, staff members were already waiting near the lobby entrance. Applause greeted the players as they stepped off.
"Well done, boys!" a kitchen staff member said, handing out water bottles and small snack packs. "The whole hotel was watching!"
Charlie took a snack and bowed dramatically. "Gracias, gracias. Best audience ever."
The boys were sweaty, sore and smiling from ear to ear as they filed toward the elevators, chatting and joking with each other like they hadn't just played the most intense match of their lives.
The team gathered in the hotel's designated dining lounge; a cozy space usually meant for continental breakfasts but now stocked with warm post-match meals and protein options. Plates clinked, chairs scraped back and voices overlapped like a choir of joy.
Toro filled his plate with grilled chicken, rice, and a stack of plantains. "Bro, I told you," he said to Ricky, mouth half-full. "One more tackle and they'd have kicked me out. But hey I ate that striker alive."
Charlie, sitting sideways in his chair, grinned. "Man, that dude's still looking for the ball. You sent him back to Guadalajara."
Solano chuckled, stirring his protein shake. "We needed that fire. The whole team came alive after Santi got up from that foul."
All heads subtly turned toward Santi, who was quiet at the end of the table, poking at some chicken breast, barely eating.
Felipe, standing behind him, leaned down and squeezed his shoulder. "Proud of you, sobrino. You played like a man with something to prove."
"I was," Santi said softly.
At the far end of the room, Herrera and Felipe spoke in hushed tones over paper coffee cups.
"He's different," Herrera said, nodding toward Santi. "The way he reads the field… I've only seen that in pros."
Felipe gave a knowing smile. "He's been through a lot. Football is more than a game for him. It's home. It's voice. It's everything."
Herrera nodded. "He'll be ready for the final. I have no doubt."
Bellies full, legs heavy, the boys made their way upstairs in waves. The elevators dinged open with that soft hotel chime, and soon the hallways of the second floor filled with quiet laughter, half-whispers and slaps of slides against the carpet.
Room doors opened and closed. From Room 210, Charlie's voice could already be heard. "Who wants FIFA? Toro's scared!"
"Shut up," Toro said through the wall. "I'll smoke you after I shower."
Inside Room 207, Santi dropped his gear bag by the bed and sat down heavily. The medal he'd worn on the bus still hung around his neck. He slowly removed it, placed it on the nightstand, and stared at it for a moment. A flicker of pride danced in his eyes.
Solano, fresh from a quick shower, walked in brushing his hair with a towel. "The scouts were buzzing, you know. I heard one of them say your trivela reminded him of Modric."
Santi chuckled. "That's crazy."
"Not crazy," Solano said, tossing the towel into the bathroom. "Deserved."
Toro burst in shirtless with his phone to his ear. "Ma! Ma, did you see that? Tell grandma I saved a goal! No, no, I didn't get a red. Yet."
He ended the call, laughing. "Man, I miss home."
Santi's gaze softened. "Me too." He reached into his bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, one of several letters he'd written but never mailed. This one was addressed to Mamá y Papá, San Isidro. He ran a thumb across the creases. "You think they saw the match?" he asked softly.
"I think they're proud, no matter what," Solano replied.
Toro, now sprawled across the second bed, looked up at the ceiling. "After this tournament? I'm telling you one scout's gonna call me. Mark my words. Senior team, maybe even Europe."
Solano nodded. "You've earned that shot. But it's Santi they're after."
Santi raised his hands. "Hey don't jinx it."
"You kidding?" Toro said, sitting up. "Bro, you dropped magic today. Like, street-ball wizardry. Those scouts? They saw a star."
The room was quiet for a second. Then they all laughed. It was easier to laugh than to deal with the weight of it all.
From another room down the hall, probably Charlie's music was playing again. Someone was singing badly, off-beat and too loud.
"Tell me that's not Ricky," Solano groaned.
"It is," Toro said, grinning. "He thinks he's Bad Bunny."
Some players were already asleep, others were still scrolling on their phones, talking to family, or huddled around a single TV in Room 203 watching match highlights.
In 207, Santi finally stood. He grabbed his shaker bottle from his bag, the one labeled with a faded "#10", and walked to the mini fridge for cold water.
"Same routine?" Solano asked.
Santi nodded. "Always."
He mixed the shake, took slow sips, and looked out the window at the quiet city lights. They had one more match to go. But tonight?
Tonight, he was just a boy from San Isidro who made it one step closer.
He lay down, pulled the blanket to his chest and placed the medal on the pillow beside him. A small, tired smile crept onto his face.
From the other bed, Toro was already snoring. Solano was reading something on his phone. Outside, laughter echoed in the hallway, and from Room 210, someone shouted: "Charlie! Turn that off! You're gonna get us kicked out!"
But inside 207, peace settled in. The dream was still alive.