The next morning brought something unexpected:
a thin, aching tightness along Azul's right hip.
Not sharp enough to panic.
Not dull enough to ignore.
He sat up slowly, pressing his palm against the muscle.
Overuse.
Common.
Expected.
Dangerous if mishandled.
He breathed out through his nose, steadying himself. He wasn't about to let one small pain slow him down — but he also wasn't foolish enough to pretend it wasn't there.
By the time he reached breakfast, Pablo noticed instantly.
"Bro, why are you walking like someone stabbed your hip with a fork?"
"It's nothing," Azul said, grabbing fruit.
"That's what all injured footballers say right before dying on the pitch."
Azul snorted softly. "Relax. It's tightness. I'll stretch."
"You better." Pablo pointed a spoon like a weapon. "Because if you get promoted and then break yourself, I'll cry. And you don't want to see me cry."
Azul smiled, shaking his head.
But the worry — however small — lingered.
---
Warm-up for the day included a dynamic stretch routine. Morales walked past Azul mid-exercise, observing.
"Reyes," he said, voice low, "you're favoring your right side."
Azul straightened. "Just tight."
"Then loosen it. We don't play heroes here." Morales looked him directly in the eyes. "We play professionals."
Azul nodded quickly. "Yes, coach."
The look Morales gave him wasn't harsh — it was *warning mixed with expectation.* A reminder that talent was meaningless if the body crumbled.
Azul spent extra minutes stretching until the discomfort eased — not fully gone, but manageable.
He joined the group just as the first drill began.
---
Today's focus: **pressure transitions**.
One of the most demanding exercises in the academy.
Small-grid duels.
Immediate counter-press.
Explosive reactions.
Rapid positional shifts.
Morales blew the whistle.
Chaos began.
Azul pressed, retreated, received, turned, lost, won — all in seconds. The pace was insane, the touches sharper than yesterday, the challenges heavier.
The hip stung whenever he twisted quickly, but he forced his breath to stay calm.
Pain was a message, not an enemy.
He had to manage it, not fight it.
Óscar noticed.
During a short reset, he walked over and murmured, "You're slower on your right pivot."
Azul swallowed. "A bit. It's fine."
Óscar shook his head. "If you're hurt, say something. If you're not, fix it."
Azul's jaw tightened. "I'll fix it."
Óscar nodded once and jogged back.
---
The next drill was worse — **tight-space superiority**.
4v2 rondos but with rules:
one-touch max, two-touch only if receiving between lines.
For most players, that restriction was torture.
For Azul… it was a forge.
The touches tested his technique.
The angles tested his vision.
The speed tested his mind.
He missed three passes early — uncharacteristic mistakes. His hip reacted a millisecond too slowly, meaning the ball left his foot half a beat off rhythm.
Morales' attention snapped his way.
"Reyes! Reset your body. Don't rush because you're behind. Think first."
Azul inhaled sharply and forced himself to focus.
The ball came again.
He scanned early.
He set his left foot better.
He used his body as a shield, not a tool for speed.
Tap.
Turn.
Slip pass.
Better.
Soon, the rhythm returned — not perfect, not effortless, but intentional.
Óscar, who was opposite him, gave a small grunt of approval.
---
But the biggest test came during the full-field tactical game.
Morales split them into two teams and assigned Azul to play as the advanced interior — the player responsible for connecting midfield to attack and controlling tempo in the final third.
The pressure there was suffocating.
Every touch mattered.
Every movement had a consequence.
One wrong idea could collapse the whole structure.
Azul's hip sparked in pain during the first sharp turn, but he focused on his vision instead — let the field breathe before he did.
Thirty seconds into the game, he received between two defenders. Óscar shouted, "Turn! Turn!"
Azul pivoted left — the wrong direction.
A defender pounced.
Ball lost.
Counterattack.
Goal conceded.
Morales blew the whistle so sharply the whole pitch froze.
The coach walked directly to Azul.
"Do you know what you did wrong?" he asked.
Azul nodded once. "Turned blind. Didn't scan long enough."
Morales stared at him for a moment, then said quietly:
"You don't need to be the fastest. You need to be the smartest. Use your eyes, not your legs."
Azul exhaled, grounding his breathing.
The whistle blew again.
Restart.
This time, Azul scanned *twice* before receiving.
He saw it — the defender cheating right, expecting the same mistake.
Azul let the ball roll across his body.
The hip flared — but the turn succeeded.
He launched a through pass.
A perfect split.
A near goal.
Morales clapped once.
"Much better."
Azul allowed himself a small breath of relief.
---
As training ended, Azul collapsed onto the grass, heartbeat steady but body trembling.
Óscar dropped beside him. Not close. Not friendly. But not distant either.
"You did good today," Óscar said, looking up at the sky.
"You yelled at me four times," Azul replied.
Óscar shrugged. "I yell at people I expect things from."
Azul didn't know how to respond to that, so he let silence settle between them.
Then Óscar added, "But don't hide injuries. If you break yourself, we're down a good player. I don't like being down good players."
Azul turned his head. "I'll be careful."
Óscar nodded, satisfied.
"And Reyes?"
"Yeah?"
"That pass in the second half… that was elite."
Azul looked back up at the sky.
His chest warmed. Not from praise — but from confirmation.
He was growing.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But undeniably.
---
That night, in his notebook, Azul wrote:
*Day 3: Harder. Hip tight. Mistakes early. Adjustment good. Morales expects more. Óscar pushing me. Pressure rising. But something is changing… I can feel it.*
He hesitated, then wrote one final line:
*The breakthrough is close.*
---
**End of Chapter 25**