The days leading up to the Atlético Madrid showcase match felt like a storm gathering strength. Every session grew sharper, faster, heavier with expectation. Coach Morales increased the intensity, reducing rest time and raising tactical complexity. Mistakes were punished instantly. Discipline was demanded without compromise.
But Azul met the challenge.
He wasn't perfect, but he was present. Focused. Calm.
Where once pressure choked him, now it fueled him, sharpening his instincts without overwhelming his senses.
And it didn't go unnoticed.
Nico watched him during drills with a quiet sort of recognition — not envy anymore, but acknowledgment. Pablo stuck close, joking as always, but Azul could see the growing respect in his eyes too.
Even Morales seemed satisfied, occasionally showing the faintest tug of a smile whenever Azul threaded a perfect ball through three defenders or orchestrated a press with a single gesture.
But the real test awaited them.
The showcase match.
Against one of the fiercest academies in Spain.
In front of scouts from half a dozen major clubs.
---
##**The Tactical Meeting**##
The evening before the game, the team gathered in the analysis room. The walls were lined with screens, still images frozen from Atlético's recent matches. Morales stood at the front, laser pointer in hand.
"Listen carefully," he said, voice steady. "Atlético are not like the teams you've faced before. They press aggressively. They foul smart. They try to unsettle you psychologically."
As he spoke, he highlighted defensive shapes, pressing triggers, transition patterns. Azul absorbed everything, eyes narrowing with each detail.
Then Morales turned to him.
"Reyes."
"Yes, coach?"
"You are the pivot of everything tomorrow. If you crumble, the structure collapses. If you stay composed, we dictate the rhythm."
Azul felt the weight of every teammate's eyes on him. But this time, it didn't suffocate him.
"I'll stay composed," he said quietly.
Morales nodded once. "Good."
---
##**TheNightBefore**##
Lights out came early at La Masia, but Azul lay awake long after the dorm went silent. He stared at the ceiling, feeling the hum of nerves beneath his skin.
Tomorrow wasn't just another match. It was a stage.
A chance to prove not that he *could* be great someday — but that he was already on the path.
He reached for his notebook and wrote:
*Pressure is a flame.*
*It can burn you.*
*Or forge you.*
He closed the book.
Sleep came slowly… but when it came, it was steady.
---
##** MatchDay**##
La Masia buzzed with nervous energy as the team boarded the bus. Azul sat by the window, headphones resting around his neck, watching Barcelona blur past.
When they arrived at Atlético's training facility, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
Red and white banners lined the entrance. Opponents in sharp kits stretched with military discipline. Coaches barked orders with steel in their voices.
Pablo leaned toward Azul. "They look angry."
"They always look angry," Nico muttered.
Azul simply took a deep breath. "Then we stay calm."
---
##** The Pitch**##
The field was immaculate — trimmed grass, painted lines so clean they looked new. The stands were scattered with scouts, clipboards resting on their knees.
Morales gathered the team.
"Play your football," he said. "Don't let the environment play you."
Then he turned to Azul and placed the captain's armband in his hand.
"You lead. With your mind, not your mouth."
Azul nodded and slid the armband on. It felt heavier than fabric should.
But it also felt right.
---
##** Kickoff**##
The whistle blew.
Instantly, Atlético pressed — hard.
Two players swarmed Azul the moment he touched the ball. They pushed, clipped his heel, leaned into his shoulder. No space. No time.
But Azul adapted.
He shifted his body, angled his hips, played one-touch passes toward Nico and Pablo, breaking the press not with strength, but with rhythm.
"Good!" Morales shouted from the sideline. "Control the tempo!"
Atlético attacked with speed and ferocity. Their forwards cut inside aggressively, forcing Azul's defenders wide. But Azul read their patterns quickly. Twice he intercepted passes that would have cut the backline open.
Each time, he launched a counter with a quick, precise release.
The scouts' pens scribbled.
---
##** TheFirstBlow**##
In the 22nd minute, Azul saw an opening — a rare gap between Atlético's midfielders. He turned sharply, accelerating into space.
But before he could release the ball, a defender crashed into him from behind.
Azul hit the ground hard.
The whistle blew. Foul.
Azul gritted his teeth as he stood. The defender smirked.
"Welcome to Madrid, kid."
Pablo rushed over. "You okay?"
Azul dusted himself off. "Yeah."
Nico stepped in front of the Atlético player. "Try that again, and I'll return it."
The ref barked orders, but the tone was set — Atlético wanted to intimidate.
Instead, they lit a fire in Azul.
---
##**The Turning Point**##
Minutes later, Azul received the ball deep in midfield. The same defender lunged, expecting another heavy touch.
But Azul already saw it.
One look.
One shift.
The *Emperor's Eye* — his uncanny foresight — illuminated the unfolding play.
He feigned left. Defender bit. Azul spun right, gliding past him effortlessly.
The stadium gasped.
Azul surged forward and threaded a world-class pass between the lines — slicing through Atlético's midfield and defense as if he'd parted the pitch itself.
Pablo ran onto it, curved inside, and buried it into the bottom corner.
1–0 Barça.
The bench erupted. Azul didn't celebrate wildly. He simply exhaled, calm and composed.
He was in control again.
---
##**TheStorm**##
Atlético didn't fold. They pushed harder, bodies clashing, tackles flying. Azul became their primary target — bumped, shoved, clipped at every turn.
But he kept reading the game like a book only he could see.
He shifted the rhythm whenever they pressed.
He slowed the game when they sprinted.
He accelerated when they hesitated.
Every touch was deliberate.
Every pass had purpose.
Morales watched with pride. "That's it, Reyes. That's leadership."
---
##** TheFinalBattle**##
With 10 minutes left, Atlético equalized from a scrappy corner. 1–1. Tension thickened in the air.
But Azul didn't panic.
He gathered the team at midfield. "Stay focused. One chance will come."
Nico nodded. Pablo swallowed hard. The others rallied around him.
And in the 87th minute, the moment arrived.
Azul intercepted a loose clearance, controlled it with the calm of a seasoned pro, and immediately saw Pablo breaking wide.
Atlético's defenders shifted — all except one.
The gap.
Azul lifted the ball — a perfectly weighted chip — over the defensive line.
Pablo volleyed it into the net.
2–1.
Game.
---
##**After the Whistle**##
The scouts scribbled furiously. Some stood. Some clapped.
But Azul only looked for one figure.
Morales approached him, hands on Azul's shoulders.
"That," he said softly, "was your best match yet."
Azul nodded, sweat dripping, heart pounding — but steady.
"I felt… clear," he whispered.
Morales smiled. "Then remember this feeling. It's the fire of competition — the kind that makes great players."
Azul looked around the pitch, the lights reflecting in his eyes.
For the first time…
he felt like a future Barcelona player.
A future Argentina star.
A future successor worthy of Messi's praise.
The fire inside him wasn't pressure anymore.
It was purpose.
---
### **End of Chapter 18.**###