The morning after Messi's visit felt unreal.
Azul woke before his alarm, lying in the quiet dark of the dorm room, staring at the ceiling as if the night itself had shifted something inside him. The memory replayed over and over — Messi shaking his hand, Messi's words, Messi's quiet, calm presence.
*You play with your eyes.*
*Keep doing that.*
Azul repeated the words until they carved themselves into him. There was no louder praise, no greater validation. But with every moment of awe came a new, unfamiliar feeling: pressure.
For the first time, Azul wasn't just playing for himself. He was playing for the possibility of Messi watching again someday.
And that weight settled over him like a shadow.
---
Training began early under a crisp sky. The other boys were still buzzing. Some joked, some bragged about having "made eye contact with Messi," others reenacted Azul's assist as if they'd been the ones to make it.
Pablo jogged beside Azul as they headed toward the pitch. "You know everyone's talking about you, right?"
Azul grimaced. "I noticed."
"You did great yesterday."
"So did you."
"Yeah but…" Pablo elbowed him gently. "Messi didn't clap for me."
Azul laughed — the tension easing a little — but the truth lingered beneath every heartbeat.
When they reached the pitch, Coach Morales blew his whistle sharply.
"Eyes here!"
The players gathered around him, breaths visible in the cold air. Morales looked at each of them, his face unreadable.
"Yesterday was special. A legend returned home. But don't mistake admiration for arrival." His gaze fell on Azul — not harshly, but deliberately. "None of you are done. Recognition means nothing if you cannot carry its weight."
Azul lowered his eyes, unsure if the message was meant specifically for him.
Morales clapped once.
"Warm-up rondos! Four groups! High tempo!"
---
The ball zipped around the circle as they worked in tight spaces. Azul felt sharper than usual — almost too sharp — forcing passes, trying to show the coaches that Messi's praise had meant something.
His touches were precise, but rushed. His movements quick, but not thoughtful. Twice, he misplaced a pass. Once, he got intercepted by a player who normally couldn't get close to him.
Morales blew the whistle.
"Reyes!"
Azul froze. "Yes, coach?"
"Slow down. Control the rhythm, don't chase it."
Azul nodded, forcing his breathing steady. But inside, frustration simmered.
*You can't mess up now. Not after yesterday. Not when everyone is watching.*
He tried again. But the more he thought, the worse it became.
---
Later, during a scrimmage, things got worse.
Nico intercepted one of Azul's aggressive vertical passes. "Relax, Argentina," he muttered. "You're playing like the cameras are still here."
Azul clenched his jaw. "I'm fine."
"Yeah? Then why are you forcing everything?"
Azul didn't answer. The ball came back into play and he demanded it instantly. He turned sharply — too sharply — and a defender clipped his ankle.
Azul stumbled, pain shooting up his leg. But he pushed himself up immediately, jaw tight.
Pablo jogged over. "You good?"
"Fine," Azul said, too quickly.
He wasn't fine.
He knew it. Pablo knew it. Even Nico shot him a brief glance that wasn't mockery — just concern disguised behind bravado.
Azul kept going.
Ten minutes later, he misread a run. Five minutes after that, he overhit a through ball. The scrimmage ended with Morales wearing an expression that Azul recognized all too well: disappointment.
As the players walked off, Morales pulled Azul aside.
"What's going on with you?"
"Nothing."
"Don't lie." Morales crossed his arms. "You're trying too hard."
Azul's throat tightened. "I just… want to prove I deserve to be here."
Morales softened. "Listen to me. Pressure isn't a monster — unless you feed it. Messi learned to play without fear. You must do the same."
Azul nodded, though the knot in his chest remained.
---
That evening, Azul sat alone in the courtyard with his notebook. He stared at the blank page, fingers frozen.
Finally, he wrote:
*Messibelievedinme.*
*SowhyamIafraid?*
He closed the book. The question echoed long after the ink dried.
---
The next day brought an unexpected surprise.
During team meeting, Coach Morales announced:
"We've been invited to a regional showcase match against Atlético Madrid's academy. Scouts will be present."
Excitement swept through the room — until Morales raised a hand.
"Selection will be performance-based. Not reputation-based."
Azul swallowed hard.
Pablo leaned over. "You'll make it. Don't freak out."
But Azul couldn't help it. Every mistake from the day before replayed in his mind like a broken reel.
After the meeting, Morales asked Azul to stay behind.
When the room emptied, the coach sat on the edge of a table. "Reyes," he said quietly, "you look like you're fighting ghosts."
Azul stared at the floor. "I don't want to disappoint anyone."
"Who?" Morales asked. "Me? Your teammates? Or Messi?"
Azul's breath caught.
Morales continued, voice firm but gentle. "Messi didn't praise you to imprison you. He praised you because he saw potential. Pressure should lift you — not chain you."
Azul looked up slowly. "But everyone expects—"
"No," Morales cut in. "Everyone hopes. That's not the same thing."
The words settled over Azul like a slow sunrise, warming something inside him he hadn't realized was cold.
"Now," Morales said standing, "go outside, take a ball, and play alone for twenty minutes. No drills. No teammates. No coaches. Just play. The way you did before all this."
Azul blinked. "Just… play?"
"Yes," Morales smiled. "Sometimes the cure for pressure is remembering why you started."
---
Azul did exactly that.
He jogged out to the empty training pitch, the cold grass brushing beneath his boots. He set a ball at his feet and began dribbling aimlessly — no cones, no patterns, no instructions.
At first, it felt strange. Wrong.
But then something shifted.
His shoulders loosened.
His breathing deepened.
His touch softened into instinct.
He passed to imaginary teammates.
He curved shots at invisible defenders.
He floated across the pitch like he used to in Rosario — barefoot on warm concrete, the sun cutting through the dust, laughter ringing through the alleys.
For twenty minutes, Azul wasn't a prospect, or a captain, or Messi's chosen successor.
He was just a boy who loved football.
Morales watched from a distance, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
When Azul finally stopped, chest rising and falling, the knot inside him had begun to unravel.
---
That night, in the dorm, Nico approached him.
"Hey," he said awkwardly, scratching his neck. "You looked better today."
Azul raised an eyebrow. "Are you… complimenting me?"
Nico scowled. "Don't make it weird." Then, quieter, "Pressure gets all of us. Just… don't let it kill your game."
Azul nodded gratefully. "Thanks."
Nico shrugged and walked off before the moment could last too long.
Pablo poked his head out from behind a locker. "Did Serrano just be nice to you?"
Azul laughed. "I think so."
"Scary."
---
The next morning, Azul stepped onto the pitch with a clearer mind. He took a deep breath, dug his studs into the grass, and whispered to himself:
"You're here to play. Nothing else."
Training began.
This time, Azul didn't chase perfection — he let the rhythm come to him.
He moved fluidly, reading the game with the calm that had first drawn the coaches' eyes. Passes found their mark. Dribbles flowed. His vision sharpened, not from pressure, but from freedom.
Even Nico noticed. "Much better," he muttered. "You're not trying to be Messi today."
Azul smiled faintly. "I'm trying to be me."
---
After training, Morales read out the roster for the Atlético showcase. The room went silent as he listed names one by one.
"…Reyes."
Azul exhaled in relief, shoulders sagging.
Pablo grinned. "Told you."
But Morales wasn't finished.
"And," he continued, "Reyes will captain the squad."
Gasps rippled across the room.
Azul stared at Morales, stunned.
"Captain… again?"
Morales nodded. "You've earned it. Not yesterday. Not by fame. But by growth."
Something inside Azul clicked into place — a quiet, steady confidence.
He wasn't chosen because Messi had clapped for him.
He was chosen because he had learned to stand again after stumbling.
---
That night, as the dorm lights dimmed, Azul opened his notebook.
This time, the words flowed easily:
*Expectation isn't a burden.*
*It'sbelief.*
*AndbeliefissomethingImusthonor.*
He closed the book gently.
Tomorrow, training for the biggest match of his young life would begin.
And this time, he would step into it not as a boy trembling beneath a legend's shadow — but as Azul Reyes, the player he was becoming.
---
### **End of Chapter 17.**###