The whistle cut through the air like a blade, sharp and demanding.
Twenty boys exploded into motion.
Azul felt the ground pound beneath his boots as both teams surged forward, the ball rolling from the center circle into open space. The simulation wasn't just a test of talent — it was a battle for identity. Every boy on that field wanted to prove something: to the scouts, to the coaches, to themselves.
But Azul wasn't thinking about any of that.
He was thinking about the ball.
About angles.
About pressure.
About possibilities.
He slipped into his position — the left interior midfield — scanning as he moved. Shoulder check. Opposing defenders pressing aggressively. Teammates shifting into formation. Space pockets opening and closing like lungs.
A U14 winger from his team received the ball but was immediately swarmed by two bigger defenders. Panic flashed in his eyes, and he fired a pass blindly toward the center of the field—
Straight toward Azul.
The ball bounced awkwardly.
Azul lifted his foot, cushioning it perfectly.
The pressure came instantly.
A tall U14 defensive midfielder barreled toward him, arms wide, trying to intimidate with size and speed. Most younger players would panic. Azul didn't.
He had already predicted it.
He rolled the ball between his feet, spinning lightly to shift the defender's momentum. The defender lunged left—
Azul slipped right.
Past him.
Clean.
Like water sliding past a stone.
A small cheer rose from the sideline.
Pablo punched the air. "YES! That's him!"
Azul didn't look. He kept moving, weaving through the midfield line, head rising and lowering in constant rhythm.
Scan.
Scan.
Scan.
And then he saw it:
A pocket of space between the lines, where his striker had peeled off the right shoulder of the center-back.
Azul took one more touch…
Then threaded a pass so clean, so perfectly weighted, that it cut between both center-backs like a needle threading cloth.
The striker burst forward, controlling it in stride.
But the opposing keeper read it well and rushed out, forcing a rushed shot.
The ball skimmed wide of the post.
"Unlucky!" Morales shouted. "Good run! Excellent vision, Reyes!"
Azul breathed deeply.
He hadn't scored.
He hadn't assisted.
But he had sent a message.
---
The game intensified.
Older players pressed with a ruthlessness Azul hadn't yet experienced. Every touch was contested, every pass pressured. Sweat streaked down faces, shouts clashed in the air, and cleats scraped the ground like metal against stone.
On the sideline, Vergara watched with sharp, hawk-like eyes.
This wasn't just an evaluation.
This was selection.
And everyone knew it.
---
Midway through the half, Azul's team was pinned deep in their defensive third. The ball bounced between panicked defenders like a hot coal.
An older U14 forward stole the ball from Azul's center-back and fired a powerful shot—
Blocked.
The ball ricocheted toward Azul, who had dropped deep instinctively.
A second U14 attacker charged straight at him.
The pressure was suffocating.
Azul trapped the ball under his sole. Two more defenders closed on him. The field around him shrank — space collapsing, options disappearing. The older boys shouted, "CLOSE HIM! CLOSE HIM!"
But Azul saw something they didn't.
He didn't need space.
He just needed timing.
At the exact moment the defenders converged, Azul flicked the ball behind him — not with the lace of his boot, but with the *heel* of it — a blind, instinctive backheel pass into the gap behind their collapse.
Gasps rippled across the field.
The pass found his left-back in perfect stride, completely unmarked.
"GO!" Azul shouted.
The left-back sprinted up the line.
In seconds, the entire team had transitioned from suffocation to counterattack.
Vergara's voice floated from the sideline, low and impressed:
"…that instinct… that awareness…"
The coaches exchanged glances.
Azul didn't see.
He was already sprinting forward to join the attack.
---
The match continued with chaotic beauty.
Tackles.
Near misses.
Sharp passes.
Clashing bodies.
Rising tempers.
And then — it happened.
An older defender misread a long aerial clearance, the ball bouncing past him. Azul timed his run; he didn't sprint recklessly. He arrived exactly when he needed to.
He controlled the ball with his chest.
Turned.
Saw the goalkeeper off his line.
For a brief second, the world slowed.
Everyone watched.
Azul could shoot.
But a flash of movement to his right stopped him.
A teammate — a younger boy who hadn't touched the ball much all game — was sprinting into open space, eyes wide, begging for trust.
Azul made the decision instantly.
He passed.
Soft.
Accurate.
Perfect.
The boy struck first time — a clean, rising shot that slammed into the net.
The field erupted.
His teammates swarmed him.
Even the older boys on both teams paused, stunned.
Azul didn't celebrate wildly.
He just exhaled.
The goal wasn't his.
And he didn't care.
It was the *right* play.
Vergara's pen scratched across his clipboard in rapid strokes.
---
The match resumed with fiercer intensity. The older players, stung by the younger ones taking the lead, played with a new edge. Luca especially targeted Azul.
Every duel.
Every chase.
Every shoulder challenge.
He wanted to dominate him.
To break him.
To prove superiority.
And yet—
Azul read him like a book.
Late in the match, Luca pressed him aggressively from behind. Azul felt the shift of weight, the tension of muscle, the angle of approach—
He pivoted.
Luca overshot.
Azul split two defenders with a single step.
Then delivered a pass that broke the lines and nearly created another goal.
The entire pitch buzzed.
Luca, breathing hard, glared at Azul.
But beneath the irritation… was respect.
Reluctant.
But real.
---
Near the end of the simulation, the older team ramped up the pressure again. A loose ball bounced near midfield, and both Azul and Luca sprinted for it.
They collided.
Not violently — but hard enough to test who wanted it more.
Luca tried to use his body to shield the ball.
Azul didn't back down.
He lowered his center of gravity, dug his cleats into the grass, and surged forward with surprising strength. His shoulder pressed into Luca's ribcage, pushing him off balance.
The ball spilled free.
Azul stole it.
Spun.
Accelerated.
Morales shouted, "YES, AZUL! WIN THAT MIDFIELD!"
Vergara watched quietly, lips tightening with impressed approval.
Azul drove forward, slicing through the midfield. Three players gave chase. The keeper braced for a shot—
Azul didn't shoot.
He slipped another selfless, perfect assist into the feet of the same younger teammate.
Goal.
2–0.
The sideline erupted.
Pablo screamed, "AZULLLL! WOOOO! THAT'S MY BROTHER!"
Azul bent over, breathing hard, sweat dripping onto the grass. His heartbeat hammered inside his head.
He didn't feel triumphant.
He felt… alive.
This was football.
Not drills.
Not reputation.
Not fear.
Football.
And he belonged.
---
The whistle blew.
Full time.
Players bent over, gasping.
Some sat on the grass.
Some stared at the ground, knowing they'd been outplayed.
Azul walked toward the sideline quietly.
Vergara approached him slowly, clipboard under his arm.
He looked at Azul for a long moment.
Then said, firmly:
"You're coming back next week."
Azul's breath caught.
"That was not just good," Vergara continued. "That was Barcelona. That was the way we want the game to be played."
Azul's heart thudded painfully.
"You'll train with the advanced development group," Vergara said. "This isn't a guarantee of anything yet. But you've earned a place in the next stage."
Azul nodded.
His throat felt tight.
His chest felt full.
Morales placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Well done, Reyes."
Pablo sprinted in and tackled him in a hug.
"BROOOO!! YOU DID IT!! YOU DID IT!! DEVELOPMENT TRACK BABYYYY—"
Azul laughed for the first time that day.
Not a nervous laugh.
Not a forced smile.
A real, genuine burst of joy.
Because finally…
He wasn't just chasing the dream.
He was *catching* it.
---
# **End= Chapter 21 – The Match Simulation**#