The next few days passed in a blur.
Azul trained like a man possessed—sharp, focused, disciplined. Even when his legs burned, even when the drills felt too heavy, even when fatigue curled around him like a tightening rope, he refused to break rhythm.
He wasn't chasing perfection.
He was chasing readiness.
Because Morales' words replayed in his mind every morning, every night, every breath in between:
*A match soon. Be ready.*
But "soon" was too vague, too abstract. Azul wanted to know **when**, wanted a date, wanted something concrete to grab onto. Instead, he had to train under the weight of uncertainty.
And in La Masia, uncertainty was a dangerous thing.
---
On Thursday afternoon, after an especially intense session of small-sided games, Azul sat on the bench tying his shoes. His shirt was drenched in sweat, his pulse still thumping in his ears.
Pablo flopped beside him with a groan.
"Bro… if they push any harder, we'll need a resurrection, not recovery."
Azul chuckled faintly. "They're preparing us for something."
"Or trying to kill us."
"Maybe both."
Before Pablo could answer, a sharp whistle pierced through the chatter of players. Morales stood in front of the squad, clipboard in hand, posture straight, expression unreadable.
"Gather up."
The players rushed over.
Azul's heart tightened.
This tone. This moment.
He *felt* something coming.
Morales scanned their faces, pausing on each player long enough to keep them on edge. Then he spoke.
"This weekend, the Juvenil A squad will have a friendly behind closed doors. Internal club match. A controlled environment to assess progress."
The boys straightened immediately.
Juvenil A.
That was two levels above Azul.
The highest youth team before Barça B.
Morales continued, "The staff has decided that a few Infantil and Cadete players will be tested."
Murmurs filled the group.
Pablo elbowed Azul lightly, whispering, "This is it. This is so damn it."
Morales raised his clipboard.
He read the names.
"Óscar Cardenal."
Óscar didn't react. He simply inhaled, quiet and expected.
"Pablo Serrano."
Pablo punched the air. "¡Vamos!"
"And…"
Azul's pulse hammered so hard he could barely hear.
"Azul Reyes."
Silence.
For a moment, Azul wondered if he misheard.
If his mind made it up.
If it was wishful hallucination.
Then Pablo grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. "BRO— YOU'RE IN!"
Azul blinked. "I— wait— what?"
Morales spoke again before he could fully process it.
"You three will train with Juvenil A tomorrow. The match is Saturday morning. Be at your best. This is not a formality."
He dismissed the group.
The players exploded into chatter, some congratulatory, some surprised, some jealous. Azul barely heard any of it through the ringing in his ears.
He'd been called up.
Not permanently.
Not officially part of Juvenil A.
Just for evaluation.
But still—
This was the moment boys dreamed of.
This was the doorway to everything.
---
Later, in the locker room, Azul sat on the bench with his bag half-open, staring at nothing.
The rush hadn't faded.
His hands were trembling.
Not with fear.
With belief.
But as he zipped up his bag, another emotion crept in—a colder one.
Doubt.
*What if I'm not good enough yet?*
*What if I embarrass myself?*
*What if they realize Morales made a mistake?*
He felt the old anxiety stirring—the fear of being the outsider, the foreign kid, the late arrival trying to catch up.
Someone sat beside him.
Óscar.
Azul stiffened slightly. Óscar rarely approached others unless necessary.
"You look like you're going to pass out," Óscar said calmly.
Azul exhaled. "I'm… just surprised."
"Don't be."
Azul blinked. "What?"
Óscar leaned back against the locker, arms crossed.
"You earned it. Maybe faster than anyone expected. But you earned it."
Azul swallowed hard. "Thanks."
Óscar's gaze sharpened slightly.
"But listen carefully," he said. "Juvenil A is not like our team. They're faster. Smarter. Stronger. Their tempo is another world. If you hesitate for even two seconds, they'll crush you."
Azul nodded slowly.
"Don't try to impress," Óscar continued. "Just play your game. That's enough."
Azul turned toward him. "Why are you telling me this?"
Óscar hesitated.
Then he answered with quiet honesty.
"Because if you fail, they'll assume everyone from our group is below standard. Your performance reflects on all of us. Including me."
Azul almost choked. "So you're helping me for your own sake?"
Óscar shrugged. "Partly."
Then he added, softer:
"And partly because… you're good. It'd be a waste if you freeze up."
Azul stared at him, unsure what to say.
Before he could respond, Morales' voice echoed from outside the locker room.
"Reyes! A moment?"
Azul stood quickly, nerves rushing back in.
Óscar spoke one last time before Azul stepped out.
"Hey."
Azul looked back.
Óscar nodded once.
"You belong there."
---
Azul followed Morales into the hallway.
The coach didn't speak immediately. He walked with slow, steady steps, hands behind his back. The hallway was quiet except for the distant echo of players joking somewhere behind them.
Finally, Morales stopped near a window overlooking the training pitch.
"You're nervous," he said without turning.
Azul didn't deny it. "A little."
"Good," Morales replied. "Nervous means you care. Just don't let it control you."
Azul breathed in.
Morales continued, "Tomorrow, the Juvenil A staff will judge you on three things: intelligence, adaptability, and courage. Not flashy skills. Not tricks. Courage."
Azul frowned slightly. "Courage?"
"Yes," Morales said. "The courage to demand the ball from older, stronger players. The courage to make mistakes and recover. The courage to trust your instincts."
He turned to Azul fully.
"You have a gift, Reyes. Your perception, your scanning—it's rare. Very rare. But gifts are useless if the player carrying them is afraid."
Azul felt the words sinking into him, anchoring themselves in his chest.
"I'm not afraid," Azul said quietly.
Morales smiled—not wide, but sincere.
"You will be. Everyone is. But you will still play. That's what matters."
A silence passed.
Then Morales placed a hand on Azul's shoulder.
"Tomorrow is the beginning. Not the destination."
Azul nodded, feeling the weight—and the promise—of the moment.
---
That night, lying in bed, Azul stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, he would train with the best youth team Barcelona had.
Tomorrow, he would stand in the same structure Messi once did.
Tomorrow, he would take the first real step toward everything he'd dreamed of since he was a boy juggling a ball in the streets of Buenos Aires.
He closed his eyes.
His last thought before sleep was simple:
*I belong there.*
---
**End of Chapter 33**.