Chapter 11 – Fire and Pressure
The rhythm of the match settled into chaos.
Espanyol's press came like a storm — two forwards charging high, midfielders biting at every touch, defenders snapping into tackles with no hesitation. Azul barely had a second to think before pressure came crashing down again.
"Move it faster!" Coach Morales shouted from the sideline. "Quick transitions! Don't let them dictate!"
Azul nodded, sweat dripping down his face. He glanced around — Pablo was marked tightly, the wingers were forced back, and the defenders hesitated to push forward. Espanyol's energy was suffocating, their tempo unrelenting.
He exhaled slowly. This was different from any match he had ever played. At Newell's, the streets, even the academy trials — nothing compared to this speed, this intensity. But then, amid the storm, Azul felt something click.
He stopped trying to chase the rhythm — and started to read it.
The way Espanyol's midfielders lunged into tackles. The half-second delay between their pivot's decision and his body's movement. The angle of the center-back's shoulder before a pass. Azul began to *see* the pattern beneath the chaos.
And that was all he needed.
---
In the 12th minute, a loose pass rolled toward him. Azul received it calmly, taking one touch to pull it out of reach from an incoming tackle. Instead of turning forward, he shifted sideways, drawing two defenders toward him.
Then, with a flick of his left foot, he sent the ball diagonally backward into open space — exactly where Pablo had drifted to escape his marker. The movement caught Espanyol off guard. Pablo took the ball and sprinted forward, cutting inside before laying it off to the winger.
A shot followed. It hit the post.
Gasps from the sidelines.
Barça's bench erupted with encouragement, and Azul felt a surge of adrenaline.
Morales clapped once. "*That'sit, Reyes!*" he yelled. "*Seethegame! Don'tletitrushyou — make it followyou!*"
---
The match continued, still fast, still brutal, but Azul now played like a conductor among noise.
When Espanyol pressed, he shifted his position just a few feet — enough to open an escape lane. When teammates looked trapped, he guided them with subtle gestures: a glance, a tilt of the head, the timing of his run. He wasn't shouting orders, but the field began to move around his rhythm.
For the first time since arriving, he felt the full potential of his vision unfolding.
He could *see* the passes before they existed, *feel* the spaces opening and closing like breaths. His body responded without hesitation.
By the 30th minute, Barça had regained control of the game. Possession flowed again — short, patient, intelligent. Azul's influence spread like invisible threads weaving patterns across the pitch.
But then came the mistake.
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Late in the first half, Espanyol's captain, a tall midfielder named Sergio Valdés, intercepted one of Azul's passes. Azul had anticipated a run that never came; his teammate hesitated, breaking the rhythm. Sergio pounced, countered, and within seconds, Espanyol scored.
1–0.
Azul froze. For a heartbeat, everything around him went silent. His stomach dropped.
Pablo ran up to him, clapping his shoulder. "Hey, it's fine! We'll get it back!"
But Azul barely heard him. His mind replayed the pass over and over. *Too early. Too confident. You read the field — but you didn't read your teammate.*
The referee's whistle signaled halftime. Azul jogged off the pitch, eyes on the ground, replaying every frame of that mistake.
---
In the locker room, Coach Morales gathered the team. "Listen," he said, his tone calm but firm. "You're playing well. We control the tempo, but one lapse and they punish us. We don't need heroes — we need intelligence. Reyes—"
Azul looked up.
"Your vision is exceptional," Morales said. "But you must bring the others with you. You're not in Rosario anymore. Here, you *lead* by making others see what you see. Talk to them. Guide them. Don't just move in silence."
Azul nodded slowly. "Yes, coach."
"Good. Because you'll start the second half. I trust you to correct that mistake."
---
When the team returned to the field, Azul's heartbeat steadied. The mistake still burned in his mind, but now it fueled him. He repeated Morales's words silently: *Makethemsee.*
From the first whistle, he changed his approach. He spoke more, gestured more — pointing to space, shouting instructions, encouraging movement. His teammates responded, the rhythm tightening, the communication clearer.
Then, in the 58th minute, the equalizer came.
Azul received the ball near the halfway line. Espanyol pressed hard again, but this time, Azul already knew their pattern. He faked a pass to the left, dragging one midfielder out of position, then curved a perfect through-ball down the right channel.
The winger sprinted into space, crossed low, and Pablo finished with a sliding touch.
1–1.
The crowd — small but loud — erupted. Azul clenched his fists, adrenaline pulsing through him. He didn't celebrate wildly. He just exhaled, relief mixing with determination. The mistake was repaid.
---
The game's tempo shifted. Now Espanyol looked rattled. Azul could see it in their shoulders, in the hesitation before each pass. He pressed forward, intercepting twice, always one step ahead.
Late in the second half, with only minutes left, Azul saw the moment — the kind of moment that defines players.
He picked up the ball near the center circle, scanned the field in a heartbeat. The defenders were compact, but one — Sergio Valdés, the same boy who had intercepted him — had drifted slightly too far forward.
Azul accelerated. His feet felt light, movements instinctive. Two touches forward, one to his right, then a quick shift left — he split through the midfield before Valdés could react.
A defender stepped out, but Azul anticipated it, sliding a perfect diagonal pass between two players toward Pablo, who was already sprinting into the box.
Pablo didn't hesitate. One touch, shot, goal.
2–1.
For a moment, the field exploded in color and noise. Azul raised his arms, a rare smile breaking through his usual calm. His teammates rushed him, shouting, laughing, pounding his back.
Coach Morales simply nodded from the sidelines, expression unreadable, but Azul could see the pride in his eyes.
---
When the final whistle blew, Azul felt the exhaustion crash into him. His shirt clung to his skin, his lungs burned, but the satisfaction was indescribable.
It wasn't the win itself — it was *how* he had done it. Recovering from a mistake, adapting, leading. Making others see what he saw.
On the bus ride back, the atmosphere was light and cheerful. The boys sang, teased each other, replayed goals in exaggerated detail. Pablo leaned over. "That last pass," he said, shaking his head, "I don't know how you saw it."
Azul smiled faintly. "I didn't see it. I felt it."
Pablo laughed. "You and your weird vision thing."
Azul looked out the window, the city of Barcelona glittering under the afternoon sun. "It's not weird," he murmured. "It's what I have. It's what I'll use."
---
Later that night, back at La Masia, Azul sat alone on his bed. The ball rested by his feet. He replayed the match in his mind — the mistake, the correction, the final pass. Every moment was a lesson.
He wrote in his notebook: *Seeingisn'tenough. Youmustmakeotherssee.*
He paused, then added below it: *Messididn'tjustplay — heconnected.*
Outside, the hum of the academy quieted as the city settled into evening. Azul leaned back, closing his eyes. His muscles ached, his mind buzzed, but his purpose had never felt clearer.
He was not there just to play. He was there to *learn the language of greatness*.
And one day, he would speak it fluently — on the same field as his idol.
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### *End of Chapter 11 – "Fire and Pressure"*###