Azul barely slept that night.
Every time he drifted toward sleep, Andreu Leaf's voice echoed in his mind:
*"We may have a place for you sooner than expected."*
Those words didn't feel real yet. They felt like something from a dream he wasn't supposed to wake up from. Promotion in La Masia wasn't handed out. It was earned through months, sometimes years, of refinement.
For someone like Azul—a newcomer from Argentina, still adjusting to the level—it was almost unthinkable.
And that was what made him nervous.
Recognition wasn't just praise.
Recognition brought **pressure.**
Expectation.
Eyes watching.
Before dawn, with the sky still dim, Azul sat on the edge of his bed, lacing up his running shoes.
He didn't even think about it.
He *needed* to run.
Outside, Barcelona slept in a muffled peacefulness. The city lights glowed faintly, blurred by leftover mist from the night's rain. Azul started jogging down the path around the academy residences, each footstep pounding out the anxious energy coiled inside him.
*If they're watching me now… I can't afford to stay the same.*
His breath condensed in front of him. His heartbeat steadied. The cold morning air filled his lungs like something cleansing.
With every step, the pressure inside him shifted into something else:
Resolve.
---
Training that afternoon began with the usual rhythm, but Azul could *feel* the difference immediately.
Morales watched him longer.
The assistants wrote on their clipboards more often.
Even some players eyed him differently—curiosity, suspicion, maybe even jealousy.
Pablo jogged beside him during warm-ups, smirking.
"You know they're all staring at you, right?"
Azul exhaled. "I noticed."
"You should be happy, hermano. They only stare when you're dangerous."
Azul managed a weak smile. "Or when they want to see if you fail."
Pablo shrugged. "Same thing. Just don't fail."
"Thanks," Azul muttered.
But Pablo wasn't wrong. Azul felt as if an invisible spotlight followed him across the pitch. Every touch felt heavier. Every decision sharper.
Even Óscar seemed more attentive.
During the passing lanes drill, Óscar passed to Azul harder than usual—testing his first touch under pressure, speed, and discomfort. The ball bounced unpredictably on the still-wet turf.
Azul controlled each one.
Not perfectly.
But well.
Better than yesterday.
Óscar's eyes narrowed, unreadable.
---
The main drill of the day was a **positional game with three zones**, a staple of Barça football.
It required:
* intelligence,
* quick distribution,
* spatial awareness,
* and fast adaptation under pressure.
Morales explained the rules with a sharp tone. "This is where midfielders live or die. Make mistakes here, and the game eats you. Understand?"
The boys nodded.
Azul swallowed dryly.
He was midfield today—again. Morales wasn't experimenting. He was shaping him.
The whistle blew.
Immediately, the game exploded with movement—triangles forming and dissolving, defenders pressing like wolves, attackers switching lanes with fluidity.
Azul received the first pass from Óscar. Two defenders collapsed toward him. His Emperor-like perception widened instantly, reading their angles, their momentum.
His brain flicked through options in fractions of seconds.
He turned out of pressure.
Found the pivot line.
Played a vertical pass.
Shifted into a new lane.
Smooth.
A breath later, Pablo barked, "Inside! Inside!"
Azul cut inside. Received again. Defenders closed. He lifted the ball subtly over their legs—a tiny lob, barely a touch—and cushioned it forward.
Morales shouted from the sideline, "GOOD! Don't fear the tight spaces!"
Azul kept moving.
But not everything was perfect.
A few minutes later, he misread an overlapping run. The pass he attempted skidded off the wet grass and got intercepted. The opposing side countered quickly and scored.
Some players groaned.
Óscar glared.
Morales just nodded once, like the mistake was part of the process.
Still, Azul felt the sting.
He jogged back slowly, adrenaline and disappointment mixing in his throat.
*Focus. Adjust. Don't break.*
The drill continued.
Azul forced himself to shake off the error. He sharpened his scanning, pointing, repositioning, demanding the ball even when he didn't feel confident.
And then came the moment that changed the entire session.
---
Óscar had the ball under pressure, back turned, defenders crowding him. It was a dangerous situation—too many bodies, too close.
Óscar needed an outlet.
He called Azul's name once—short, urgent.
Azul sprinted into the pocket of space behind the defenders. He didn't see the ball at first—only the light shift of Óscar's hips, the angle of his shoulders.
That was enough.
Azul anticipated the pass a split second before it came.
He turned with it—first touch smooth, second touch sharp, third touch a release.
He punched a splitting ball through a four-man cluster, sending it diagonally into the attacker's path.
The entire shape of the play broke open.
The attacker finished.
Even the Juvenil A coach watching in the stands leaned forward.
Óscar approached Azul afterward. Not smiling—but not cold either.
"That was… high level," he said quietly, voice steady in the noise of the game.
Azul felt heat rise in his chest.
Not pride.
Something deeper.
Validation.
"Thanks," he said.
Óscar stepped closer. "Don't let the pressure break you. You're being watched. Live with it."
Azul nodded.
Then Óscar added, almost under his breath:
"And Reyes… don't fall."
It was the closest thing to support Azul had ever heard from him.
---
After training, Morales stopped Azul before he could leave the pitch.
"Walk with me," the coach said.
Azul followed through the puddled grass. The sky was clearer today, pale sunlight cutting through the clouds.
Morales didn't speak for a while.
Then finally, as they reached the sideline, he said, "You're progressing faster than expected."
Azul's heart thumped.
Morales continued, "But speed alone doesn't make a great player. What matters is consistency. Anyone can shine once. Only the real ones shine every day."
"Yes, coach."
"You have potential," Morales said. "Real potential. The question is… can you handle what comes with it?"
Azul hesitated. "I think I can."
Morales looked at him then—really looked, as if searching for something beneath Azul's expression.
"You'll have a match soon," he said. "A real one. Your first official test with us."
Azul froze.
"When?" he asked.
Morales smiled faintly. "Soon. Be ready."
A slow rush of adrenaline swept through Azul.
This wasn't just training anymore.
This was the beginning of everything he dreamed of.
---
**End of Chapter 32**