The morning of the Juvenil A training session arrived far too quickly.
Azul woke before his alarm, the sky outside barely shifting from night to dawn. His heartbeat was steady, not wild like yesterday—controlled, focused. He dressed slowly, carefully, as if each part of his kit needed to be perfect to match the level of the players he was about to face.
When he walked into the training building, Pablo was there waiting for him—smiling like he wasn't nervous at all.
"Ready to dance with the big boys?" Pablo grinned.
Azul smirked. "If we die, we die together."
"That's the spirit."
Óscar arrived moments later. He didn't smile. He didn't speak. But he gave Azul and Pablo a single nod.
It meant:
*Stay sharp.*
*Show them who you are.*
*Don't embarrass me.*
They followed the hallway to the adjoining pitch where Juvenil A trained.
Azul had been there before, of course—he'd watched their sessions from afar. But being on **their** pitch felt different.
The grass looked greener.
The lines sharper.
The space somehow wider and tighter at the same time.
And the players…
They were bigger.
Older.
More confident.
Every movement efficient, purposeful.
These were boys on the verge of professional football.
Some would go to Barça B next season.
Some would sign contracts in Europe.
Some would represent Spain in youth World Cups.
Azul swallowed hard.
Pablo whispered, "Okay. Now I'm scared."
Óscar replied without turning, "Then don't show it."
---
The Juvenil A coach, **Coach Ferrer**, approached them. He was tall, stern-eyed, his posture straight as a steel pole. Rumor had it he rarely smiled, and never without a reason.
He looked the three of them over like a man evaluating equipment rather than teenagers.
"You're the call-ups from Cadete?" Ferrer said.
"Yes, sir," Óscar answered instantly.
"Good." Ferrer lifted a clipboard. "Listen carefully. Today is not about showing off. Today is about fitting into our rhythm. We are preparing for a top-level youth tournament. If you disrupt our structure, you're out. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," they chorused.
Ferrer's gaze shifted to Azul, assessing him for a second longer than the others.
"You're the Argentine boy."
Azul nodded. "Yes, sir."
"I heard you read the game well."
Azul hesitated. "I try."
"Don't try," Ferrer said. "Do it."
And that was the end of that.
---
The warm-up began immediately.
Azul felt its difference instantly.
There was no wasted movement.
No joking.
No slow players.
The pace was faster.
The touches sharper.
The expectations higher.
Azul focused intensely, pushing himself to match the rhythm. Pablo struggled a bit at first, but his physicality made up for it. Óscar matched them almost perfectly.
Then came the **rondo**.
A 10v2 with Juvenil A players forming the circle.
Azul, Óscar, and Pablo stood outside.
Ferrer pointed.
"You three go in."
Azul's stomach flipped.
He stepped inside with Pablo and Óscar.
The ball zipped around them instantly—so fast he barely saw it leave one foot before it arrived at another.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
One-touch.
No hesitation.
It was like they shared a single mind.
Azul darted left, cutting a lane. But the pass slipped through anyway—too quick. Pablo lunged and missed by centimeters. Óscar read one attack and blocked the passing angle perfectly, forcing a turnover.
But the ball moved again before they could breathe.
Azul felt the pace swelling around him, stretching his awareness like a muscle about to snap.
He activated his internal rhythm.
Scanning.
Anticipating.
Reading weight shifts.
Body angles.
Subtle hints.
Passing patterns.
He cut one pass.
Then another.
Then almost intercepted a third.
The circle slowed—just a fraction—in response to his reading.
A few Juvenil A players glanced at him, mildly surprised.
That was enough to keep him moving.
When the drill ended, Azul was panting, legs burning, but he had survived.
Ferrer's eyebrows raised by barely a millimeter.
Which was the equivalent of applause.
---
The next drill was **positional play**—the true heart of La Masia.
Two teams.
Three zones.
Constant rotations.
One-touch requirements.
Minimal space.
Maximum intelligence.
Ferrer divided the players.
To Azul's surprise, he wasn't put on the weaker side.
He was placed with the **starting Juvenil A midfielders**.
"What?" Pablo hissed. "You're playing with THEM?"
Azul nodded, still stunned.
Óscar looked at him once. "Don't mess it up."
The drill began.
Immediately, Azul understood why Juvenil A was different.
Their tempo wasn't fast—it was *relentless*.
The ball moved constantly.
The players already knew where to be before the pass was made.
They didn't think.
They reacted based on principle and instinct.
Azul's mind raced to keep up.
One player, a tall pivot named **Sergi**, shouted at him: "Move! No standing! Move into the half-space!"
Azul obeyed.
The ball came to him.
Two defenders closed fast.
Azul turned—not fully, just half-turned, enough to open his body.
He saw three options instantly:
* Backward safe pass
* Sideways support
* Forward risk split
He chose the third.
He slipped a tight pass through the defenders into the feet of the advancing interior.
Ferrer's whistle blew once—short, approving.
The drill continued.
Azul grew into it.
He made mistakes—two poor touches and one misread—but he also created three openings that even Óscar from his own team would've praised.
Halfway through, Sergi clapped his shoulder.
"You're different," he muttered. "Keep that up."
That simple comment lit Azul's chest like fire.
---
After an hour, when the session finally slowed down, Ferrer gathered the players.
"You three," he said, pointing at the Cadete boys, "stay."
The Juvenil A players dispersed.
Azul's heartbeat rose.
Ferrer looked at them, expression unreadable.
"You all exceeded expectations. You integrated better than most call-ups we've had."
Pablo almost fainted on the spot.
Óscar remained stoic, though his eyes gleamed.
Ferrer turned to Azul last.
"You," he said. "Reyes."
Azul straightened.
Ferrer studied him for a moment, then exhaled sharply.
"You see things early. Very early. That's rare at your age."
Azul nodded silently.
"But," Ferrer added, "your decisions are sometimes slower than your vision. You hesitate when you should trust yourself."
Azul absorbed the critique.
"Tomorrow," Ferrer said, "fix that."
Azul blinked. "Tomorrow?"
Ferrer nodded once.
"You're all training with Juvenil A again. And Saturday, you will play."
Pablo almost yelled.
Óscar bowed his head with pride.
Azul?
He didn't speak.
He just breathed out.
Deep. Slow. Heavy.
Saturday.
His first match at the highest youth level in Barcelona.
---
That night, Azul lay in bed—but unlike before, he didn't feel overwhelmed.
He felt ready.
Really ready.
The fear was still there.
It might always be there.
But something had changed in him today.
Something solidified.
He had trained with giants.
And he didn't break.
Tomorrow, he would do it again.
Saturday, he would step onto the pitch wearing the crest Messi once wore—against players older, stronger, better—
And prove he belonged.
---
**End of Chapter 34**.