The advanced training group met on the upper pitch Monday morning — the pitch reserved for players already being tracked for accelerated development. Even the grass looked different, tighter, sharper, trimmed with a kind of precision Azul had never seen before.
The boys warming up there were taller, stronger, faster.
Their passes cut the air.
Their movements were clean, confident, assured.
Azul felt it immediately — the shift in atmosphere.
This wasn't the warm competitiveness of the younger categories.
This was ambition with teeth.
Pablo patted his back before jogging off to join his own age group. "Good luck, hermano. Try not to die."
Azul smirked, but once his friend left, the field felt larger, the silence heavier.
He stepped forward.
His new teammates glanced at him — not to greet him, but to *measure* him. Some raised eyebrows, others murmured something under their breath. One boy, older and taller with a shaved line cut through his hair, stared with a cold flatness.
Azul recognized him.
Óscar.
Captain of the U14 group.
A midfielder with a reputation — talent, leadership, and a fierce territorial instinct over "his" midfield.
Óscar looked him over like Azul was an insect on the wrong flower.
Before Azul could speak, Coach Morales blew his whistle sharply.
"Everyone in."
The circle formed quickly. Azul stood at the edge.
Morales scanned the group, then said, "We have a new addition this week. Azul Reyes. He'll be training with you. Treat him as you treat each other — seriously."
A pause.
A subtle warning.
Óscar's jaw tightened.
The drills began immediately — no warm welcome, no easing in.
Only intensity.
Passing sequences at double speed.
Rondo with limited touches.
Positioning drills with fast rotations.
Immediate punishment for slow reactions.
Azul's lungs burned after ten minutes.
This was another world.
Coach Morales walked between them, barking corrections. "Pass earlier!"
"Open your hips!"
"Use your vision, Reyes — don't rely on instinct alone!"
Azul tried to adjust, tried to breathe, but the rhythm was merciless.
In a possession drill, he received the ball under pressure from two players. Normally, he would slip through. But here? The pressure was faster — colder — calculated.
A foot hooked the ball away.
A second player shoved his shoulder.
Play moved on without him.
Óscar said under his breath, "Welcome to the real group, chico."
Azul didn't respond. He placed himself back into formation and waited for the ball again.
When the next pass came, he read it early.
He shifted before the defender moved.
A first-touch turn.
A quick escape.
A diagonal pass.
Better.
The coaches noticed.
But so did Óscar — his stare sharpened.
---
The main exercise for the morning was a full-width, high-intensity positional game: 8v8, small goals, limited touches.
Azul's heart pounded as Morales pointed him toward the central lane.
"You're the interior today," Morales said. "This is where we see your brain."
Azul nodded.
Interior midfield — the beating heart of Barcelona's philosophy.
The whistle blew.
Immediately, chaos and structure merged — the unique ballet of Barcelona youth football.
Óscar pressed him hard from the first touch.
Not aggressively.
Clinically.
He wanted to dominate Azul.
Fine.
Let him try.
Azul received a pass from the back. Óscar lunged. Azul feinted right, then tried to slip a pass through the lines.
But Óscar read it.
Intercepted.
Launched a counter.
Morales shouted from the side, "Reyes! Don't force the hero ball!"
Azul inhaled sharply.
Reset his stance.
Play continued.
The ball came again — faster this time. Azul opened his body, scanning quickly with his Emperor-like vision.
A defender closing.
A passing lane forming.
Another closing.
A teammate moving blindside.
Óscar shadowing him.
All in a second.
Azul tapped it back — simple, safe.
Morales nodded approvingly.
Another sequence.
Another scan.
Another pass.
Slowly, Azul adjusted to the speed, the weight of their play. He found rhythm, found timing.
And then — it happened.
A perfect moment.
The ball came to him, waist-height, spinning. Óscar was already on him, body low, arm out. Azul extended a soft touch downward, cushioning the ball in a gentle caress, then pivoted around Óscar's pressure.
Not past him — *through* him.
A half-turn.
A full turn.
Space created.
Azul slipped a no-look pass behind the back line.
A forward sprinted onto it and scored.
Morales clapped once.
"Better!"
The players glanced at Azul differently now.
But Óscar's eyes narrowed with the kind of simmering competitiveness that was both dangerous and necessary.
He said low, "One good play doesn't make you one of us."
Azul met his stare without blinking.
"Good thing I'm not aiming for 'one of you.'"
Óscar's lips tightened.
Morales blew the whistle for the next sequence.
The game resumed — faster, sharper, more demanding.
Azul kept going.
Mistake.
Adjustment.
Success.
Pressure.
Failure.
Improvement.
The cycle continued until his legs ached and his lungs burned like fire.
But he didn't stop.
Not once.
---
At the end of the session, the players jogged to the sideline. Sweat dripped from Azul's hair, stung his eyes, soaked his shirt. His arms trembled slightly from exhaustion.
Morales addressed the group.
"Good work," he said. "Intensity was high. Some of you need to control your ego; some need to raise your floor."
Azul knew exactly which category he belonged in.
Morales' gaze landed on him.
"Reyes," he said quietly, "you survived the first day. That's more than most."
Azul nodded, breathing hard.
"Come back tomorrow with the same attitude," Morales added. "It only gets harder from here."
"I will," Azul said.
He meant it.
---
As the players dispersed, Óscar brushed past him.
"You're not bad," Óscar muttered.
Azul blinked, surprised.
Then Óscar added, "But if you want to stay here, you'll have to fight. Every day."
Azul steadied his breath.
"I know."
Óscar's expression shifted just slightly — not friendly, but acknowledging.
"Good," he said. "Let's see how far you can really go."
---
Azul walked toward the dorms, feeling the soreness in his legs and the exhaustion in his body…
But also a spark inside him.
A spark that only grew brighter when he whispered to himself:
"One day… Messi will see me."
---
##**End od Chapter 23**##