Morning light spilled across the training pitch as Azul stepped onto the grass for his second day with Juvenil A. The air was cool, crisp—one of those perfect Barcelona mornings where the sky seemed polished clean.
Azul inhaled deeply.
No nerves.
Not like yesterday.
Today felt different.
Yesterday he had *feared* the level.
Today he wanted to *match* it.
Pablo jogged up beside him, looking both excited and half-dead from adrenaline.
"Bro, I barely slept. My brain kept replaying every pass from yesterday."
Azul shrugged sheepishly. "Same."
"Did you dream about Ferrer yelling at you?"
Azul laughed. "No. But I did dream about losing the ball every time it came near me."
"Oof," Pablo said. "That's worse."
Óscar joined them without a word. He inspected the field, the players warming up, the distribution grid being set out by assistants.
"You two," he said quietly, "don't relax just because yesterday went well. Juvenil A doesn't care what you did. They care what you do next."
Pablo sighed. "Can you be positive once in your life?"
Óscar stared him down. "No."
Azul grinned.
Everything felt more natural now.
---
As warm-ups began, Azul sensed the eyes on him again—but today, the looks weren't skeptical.
They were evaluative.
Curious.
Measuring him as one of them—and seeing if it held true for a second day.
Sergi, the pivot from yesterday, jogged past.
"Reyes," he said. "You ready?"
"Yes."
"Good. Yesterday could've been luck. Prove it wasn't."
That was Juvenil A in a sentence.
---
The first drill was a **rotational rondo**, but this time Azul wasn't in the middle with the other Cadete boys.
Ferrer pointed at the main circle.
At the top group.
"You three join them."
Azul's heart thumped once.
That circle consisted of the core six starters—players expected to be promoted to Barça B within a year.
They passed faster.
Sharper.
With almost arrogant precision.
Azul stepped in.
The circle expanded to include him.
And then it started.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Angles.
Movements.
Shifts.
The ball never stopped.
Azul touched it only a few times at first—short passes, safe options. He didn't force anything. He simply adapted to their rhythm.
Then, a defender lunged too aggressively.
Azul anticipated it.
He padded the ball past the defender before it arrived, spun into the open lane, and clipped a diagonal pass to the far side of the circle—all in one fluid sequence.
The entire group paused for a half-second.
Not bad.
Not lucky.
Calculated.
Sergi muttered, "Bueno…"
Ferrer's whistle chirped—approval.
Azul allowed himself a small breath.
He belonged.
---
Next came the **positional triangle drill**, designed to manipulate pressing and create overloads.
Ferrer explained while walking between cones.
"You have three seconds to make a decision. Not four. Not five. Three. Think during the movement, not after."
The drill started.
Azul was placed as the left interior, a demanding position requiring:
* constant scanning,
* coordination with the full-back,
* breaking lines with short passes,
* and reading pressure before it formed.
The tempo was brutal.
Balls zipped across zones, players darted in and out of lanes, and the three-second rule felt like a countdown to collapse.
But Azul didn't collapse.
He shifted with the flow.
Opened his body to receive.
Played one-touch when needed.
Held the ball when it demanded patience.
Created angles instead of waiting for them.
Halfway through, Ferrer shouted at a winger who hesitated.
Then he yelled something Azul didn't expect:
"Learn from Reyes! He thinks *before* the ball arrives!"
Azul almost stopped mid-run—shocked.
Even Óscar shot him a quick look of genuine surprise.
Ferrer praising someone was rare.
Ferrer praising a call-up?
Unheard of.
Azul's lungs burned, but he didn't slow. He kept the rhythm.
---
During a break, Azul sat on the grass, sipping water. His shirt clung to him, drenched from effort.
A shadow fell over him.
Sergi.
"You held up well," the older boy said.
Azul blinked. "Thanks."
"You're not fast," Sergi added. "Or strong. But you think faster than most of us. That's valuable."
Azul absorbed that with quiet gratitude.
Another Juvenil A midfielder—shorter, sharper—approached next.
The boy pointed at Azul. "What year are you?"
"2002."
The boy whistled. "Damn. You're young."
"Younger than us by two years," Sergi added.
Azul said nothing.
The boy smirked. "Keep playing like that and we'll all have to watch our spots."
Sergi elbowed him. "Shut up."
Azul tried not to smile.
Compliments in Juvenil A were rare.
Compliments wrapped in threats of competition were gold.
---
Finally came the **11v11 tactical match**—not full intensity, but enough to simulate real pressure.
Ferrer split the group.
Shockingly, Azul was placed on the starting side.
Óscar too.
Pablo on the opposite team.
Azul stood on the left interior again—the same position where Iniesta once danced.
He breathed slowly.
Then the whistle blew.
Immediately, Azul was pulled into the rhythm of the team. The ball moved whip-fast. Players rotated around him like clockwork pieces.
A defender pressed him aggressively. Azul let the ball roll across his body smoothly, stepping into space. He lifted his head—
And the "vision" instinct activated.
The full-back was about to overlap before he even started moving.
The winger was preparing an inside cut.
A pocket was opening between two defenders exactly two seconds ahead.
Azul passed into that pocket before anyone else saw it.
The winger reached it perfectly.
A small ripple of appreciation ran through the attackers.
The match continued.
Pressure increased.
Movements tightened.
Azul stayed calm.
His first mistake came twenty minutes in—he miscontrolled a fast pass and lost the ball.
A defender shouted at him.
Ferrer barked, "AGAIN! FIX IT!"
Azul corrected himself on the next play, turning sharply out of pressure and distributing a clean ball.
For the rest of the session, Azul held steady, neither perfect nor failing—simply solid.
At the final whistle, he collapsed backward onto the grass, panting.
Óscar walked over and offered a fist bump.
Azul bumped back.
"You didn't embarrass us," Óscar said.
"That's high praise from you."
Óscar shrugged. "Don't get used to it."
---
After cooldown, Ferrer addressed the group again.
"Tomorrow, matchday squad will be posted," he said. "Those who trained today are being evaluated. Be ready."
As the players dispersed, Ferrer stopped Azul with a single word.
"Reyes."
Azul froze.
Ferrer waited until they were alone, then spoke in a low voice.
"You held your own today. More than I expected."
Azul bowed his head slightly.
But Ferrer wasn't done.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you will start with the first team. Be early."
Azul's breath caught.
Start?
With Juvenil A?
In a match?
He couldn't speak.
Ferrer gave a curt nod and walked away.
---
Azul stood there, stunned, overwhelmed, electricity racing through his veins.
He didn't just belong.
He would start.
Saturday's match wasn't a test anymore—
It was an opportunity.
And Azul Reyes wasn't going to let it slip.
---
**End of Chapter 35**.