The Monday after the match against Espanyol felt different.
La Masia's halls, usually filled with the usual chatter and sleepy greetings, now buzzed with something else — quiet murmurs that seemed to follow Azul wherever he went. Boys glanced at him, some nodding with respect, others with the cautious curiosity that always follows a new name rising too quickly.
Azul felt it the moment he stepped into the dining hall. Conversations dropped slightly, eyes flickered his way, then back to plates. He sat down beside Pablo, who grinned, nudging him.
"You're famous now," Pablo whispered.
Azul frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Everyone saw your pass in that match. Morales showed it during film review with the older squad. Said it was 'a perfect example of predictive intelligence.'"
Azul blinked. "He did?"
Pablo nodded eagerly. "Yeah. You're not just the new kid from Argentina anymore. You're the one with the vision."
Azul tried to play it off, but the words sank in. It wasn't fame he wanted — it was validation. Proof that he belonged. Yet part of him knew that recognition in a place like La Masia could be both a blessing and a curse.
---
That afternoon, training began under a sharp winter sky. The cold air bit at their lungs, but the drills were as intense as ever. Azul noticed the difference immediately — the passes came faster, the pressure tighter, the expectations higher.
"Good players get attention," Coach Morales said, pacing the sideline. "But great players handle it. Let's see how you respond."
Azul nodded, tightening his boots.
The first drill was a possession rotation. Eight players in constant motion, two in the middle pressing. Azul's group included Pablo and three older boys — taller, stronger, already confident in their chemistry.
At first, the play flowed smoothly. Azul moved between lines, offering angles, quick touches, rapid transitions. But then one of the older boys — Nico Serrano — intercepted a pass meant for Azul and smirked.
"Keep up, Argentina," Nico said, tone sharp but playful enough to mask the edge.
Azul didn't respond. He just adjusted. On the next rotation, he deliberately drew Nico's press, waited until the last moment, and flicked a backheel pass right past him to Pablo.
The ball zipped across, perfect weight, perfect timing.
Nico turned, jaw tightening. "Lucky," he muttered.
Azul said nothing, but his eyes said otherwise.
---
The tension didn't fade. Nico was one of La Masia's most promising midfielders, known for his confidence and flair. Azul's sudden rise unsettled him. And in a place where competition was woven into every touch of the ball, jealousy was as natural as breathing.
During the scrimmage, Nico began testing Azul — pressing harder, tackling rougher, calling for the ball more aggressively. Azul responded not with words, but with precision. Every time Nico lunged, Azul sidestepped. Every time Nico tried to dominate possession, Azul read his intention and intercepted.
The duel between them became the silent axis of the match. The coaches noticed. The boys noticed. Even Morales watched closely, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
By the end of the scrimmage, Azul's team had dominated possession. Nico barely looked at him as they jogged off the field.
Morales clapped his hands. "Good intensity today. Reyes, Serrano — both of you showed maturity. But remember, this isn't a rivalry. You're teammates. Push each other, don't tear each other down."
Nico nodded stiffly. Azul gave a quiet "Yes, coach," though he could still feel Nico's glare.
---
That evening, Azul sat in the dorm common area, watching clips of Barça's senior matches on the shared screen. Messi was on, slicing through defenders with that effortless grace that made football seem like art. Azul leaned forward, eyes fixed.
Messi's movement wasn't about speed — it was about anticipation. Every feint, every pause, every slight shift of balance controlled defenders like marionettes. Azul recognized the language. It was the same instinct that guided his vision.
Pablo joined him, tossing a small ball between his hands. "Still studying?"
Azul nodded. "Messi doesn't just move to find space. He moves to *create* it. For himself, for others."
Pablo smiled. "You sound like Morales now."
Azul chuckled softly. "Maybe he's right. Maybe leadership isn't about being the best. It's about making everyone better."
Behind them, Nico passed through the room, muttering something under his breath in Catalan. Pablo's grin faded slightly. "Ignore him," he said. "He's just upset. You outplayed him."
Azul shook his head. "Then I need to be better. Not to outplay him — to help him see."
Pablo stared at him. "You really think like that?"
Azul smiled faintly. "It's how Messi thinks."
---
Days turned into weeks. Azul's name began to circulate among coaches. Scouts from higher youth divisions attended their matches more frequently. His tactical intelligence — his ability to see patterns before they formed — made him stand out even when he didn't score or assist.
Morales often called him aside after sessions. "You're learning fast," he'd say. "But remember, the higher you go, the less time you'll have to think. You must make instinct your language."
Azul took it to heart. He stayed late after training, running drills until the sky turned deep violet and the floodlights cast long shadows. Sometimes Pablo joined him, sometimes not. Occasionally, Nico lingered too — watching silently from a distance, his expression unreadable.
One night, after everyone else had left, Nico approached him.
"You train too much," he said.
Azul looked up, wiping sweat from his face. "Maybe."
"You're not from here. You don't know how this place works. You can be good — but not *better* than everyone else."
Azul met his gaze evenly. "I'm not here to be better than anyone. I'm here to be the best version of myself."
Nico scoffed. "Sounds like something the coaches say."
"Maybe that's because it's true."
They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Nico shook his head and walked away.
Azul watched him go, knowing that this rivalry was far from over. But something in Nico's tone had changed — from mockery to wary respect.
---
By the next match, Azul's growing reputation was impossible to ignore. Opponents marked him tightly, double-pressing whenever he touched the ball. But he adapted quickly, using his awareness to draw defenders away, creating space for his teammates instead.
In the 65th minute, when a teammate scored off one of Azul's deceptive runs, Coach Morales called out from the sideline, "That's leadership, Reyes! Influence through movement!"
Azul jogged back, lungs burning but heart steady. He understood now what Messi had always known — leadership wasn't about commanding attention. It was about shaping the game so subtly that others flourished around you.
After the match, Morales clapped him on the shoulder. "You're starting to get it," he said. "Keep your head down and your eyes open. You're being noticed."
Azul didn't need to ask by who. Scouts had been at nearly every game now.
---
That night, Azul wrote in his notebook:
*Recognition comes when you stop chasing it.*
*Play for the game, not for glory.*
He stared at the page, the words illuminated by the faint glow of the dorm light. Somewhere outside, the city hummed, the ocean breeze drifting through open windows.
He thought of Rosario, the cracked pavement where he'd first kicked a ball. He thought of his parents, their sacrifices. He thought of Messi — not the legend on television, but the quiet boy who had once walked these same halls, dreamed these same dreams.
Azul closed the notebook gently and whispered to himself:
"This is only the beginning."
---
### *End of Chapter 12 – "Recognition"*###