Saturday morning arrived with the kind of tension that tightened the air around La Masia.
Not loud tension.
Not chaotic.
A quiet, heavy pressure—like the calm before a storm that everyone *knows* will strike.
Azul stepped through the entrance, bag slung over his shoulder, heart beating with controlled rhythm. He wasn't trembling. Not like the first day. Not like the second.
Today, he was focused.
Determined.
Ready.
He arrived forty minutes earlier than required, only to find someone already on the pitch passing a ball against the wall.
Óscar.
He didn't look surprised to see Azul.
"You're early," Óscar said.
"So are you."
Óscar trapped the ball, rolled it under his foot, and said, "Early means you're serious. I like to win."
Azul smirked. "I like to play well."
"Same thing," Óscar said.
They passed in silence for a while—simple touches, simple rhythm, letting the cold morning air sharpen them.
Eventually, footsteps approached.
Pablo stumbled onto the field, yawning loudly.
"Do you guys sleep at La Masia? What the hell?"
Azul laughed. "We're preparing."
"I'm preparing too," Pablo said. "For a nap later. A long one."
Óscar stared at him. "You talk to cope."
"You're damn right."
---
**Inside the Locker Room**
At 9:00 sharp, Ferrer entered the room with his usual intensity. The players sat up immediately.
"Listen carefully," Ferrer began. "This match is a controlled friendly. No fans. No pressure from outside. Only from me."
Some boys chuckled nervously.
Ferrer continued, pacing before the squad.
"We are testing tactical understanding, discipline, and decision-making. Not heroics. Not chaos. This is not street football. This is Barcelona. Our identity is non-negotiable."
He clicked a remote, and the board lit up with the lineup.
Azul traced it carefully.
He was starting as the **left interior midfielder**.
Óscar at right interior.
Sergi as pivot.
A strong midfield.
And incredibly, *he* was part of it.
Ferrer pointed to Azul.
"Reyes. Today your job is simple: connect play, break lines, and help us control rhythm. Do not overcomplicate things. Your game is best when it's clean."
Azul nodded.
Then Ferrer looked at him more directly.
"And one more thing—"
Azul straightened.
"Don't try to be Messi."
The room stilled.
Ferrer didn't smile when he said it. He wasn't warning harshly; he was grounding Azul firmly.
He continued:
"Messi plays like Messi. You play like Reyes. Understand?"
"Yes, coach."
"Good."
---
**Walkout to the Pitch**
The teams exited toward the field tunnel. It wasn't a stadium, just the private training pitch, but it still felt monumental.
Standing across the field were Juvenil A's permanent starters—the ones who played league matches, the ones Azul had admired from afar.
Today, they were opponents.
Azul breathed out slowly.
His heart was firm.
Not frantic.
He scanned the pitch—automatic, instinctive.
He saw the winger adjusting his stance.
Saw the pivot checking his shoulder.
Saw the full-back on the other side bending his run slightly too early.
It was all information.
All patterns.
All pieces to arrange.
Sergi leaned in beside him. "First five minutes, keep it simple."
"I know."
"And don't hide," Óscar added from his right. "Take the ball. Demand it."
Azul nodded.
Then Ferrer shouted from the sideline:
"Ready!"
Both teams moved into formation.
Azul took his position in the left half-space—his new territory.
The whistle was seconds away.
He closed his eyes once.
He saw flashes:
* His mother wiping sweat from his forehead after street matches in Argentina.
* His father adjusting his boots before local tournaments.
* Lionel Messi on the television—dancing past defenders.
* The dream of wearing this badge on his chest.
* The promise he made to himself in Buenos Aires.
*One day, I'll stand where he stood.*
He opened his eyes.
Sergi tapped his elbow.
"Welcome to Juvenil A football."
The referee lifted the whistle to his mouth.
---
**Kickoff**
The shrill blow cut through the morning air.
Sergi tapped the ball sideways.
Azul moved instantly.
The match had begun.
The tempo was fast from the first touch. The older players pressed aggressively, challenging the call-ups early.
A defender sprinted toward Azul before he even received the ball.
Azul let the pass roll across his body, pivoting away into space before the defender reached him.
Small.
Clean.
Simple.
But effective.
He tapped the ball to Óscar—safe recycling.
Óscar returned it with a quick bounce pass.
The message was clear:
*We trust you. Don't freeze.*
Azul lifted his head and saw the winger drifting inward.
A passing lane opened for a fraction of a second.
He sliced a low pass between two defenders—threading a needle.
Perfect weight.
Perfect timing.
The winger took it, accelerated, and forced the other team back.
The sideline murmured with approval.
Azul's heartbeat steadied.
He could do this.
---
**Ten Minutes In**
Juvenil A's permanent players started increasing pressure. Their forwards pressed higher, pushing Azul and Óscar into tighter spaces.
A ball bounced awkwardly toward Azul near the touchline—dangerous, risky.
A defender came flying in.
Azul cushioned the ball with his instep, let it rise, and flicked it backward over the defender's leg—barely a few centimeters of space to work with.
He landed on the other side, regained control, and sent a grounded pass to Sergi.
The defender blinked.
Sergi grinned.
"Cheeky."
Ferrer barked from the sideline:
"Don't get cocky, Reyes!"
Azul nodded.
It wasn't cockiness.
It was instinct.
---
**The First Real Test**
Midfield triangle.
Pressing trap.
High intensity.
Three opponents swarmed him at once—the exact scenario Ferrer warned about.
Azul didn't panic.
He scanned—
One defender approached too wide.
Another anticipated a backward pass.
The third was baiting the interior lane.
Azul stepped forward *instead* of retreating.
He pierced the gap between the first two defenders with an explosive touch—not fast, but perfectly angled.
The midfielders stumbled.
He escaped.
Then he made the simplest pass available, grounding it right to Óscar.
Óscar didn't hesitate—he turned and lofted it behind the defensive line.
Their winger sprinted onto it, nearly breaking free.
Nearly.
But it was enough.
Enough for Ferrer to nod.
Enough for the players to look at Azul differently.
He wasn't a visitor.
He was part of the engine.
---
**Halftime Approaches**
By minute twenty-five, Azul felt the difference in this level:
* The constant press.
* The speed of transitions.
* The mental load of scanning every two seconds.
* The intensity of controlling rhythm under pressure.
It was exhausting.
But exhilarating.
Every touch mattered.
Every decision changed the flow.
Azul received a pass from the full-back with an attacker barreling toward him.
One mistake here and they'd concede a counter.
Azul spun sharply, using the defender's momentum to slip past him.
The sideline reacted again—half surprise, half approval.
Even Ferrer's eyebrows lifted slightly.
---
**Near the End of the Half**
Azul played a one-two with Óscar, stepped into the box, and nearly created a scoring chance—but the ball was cleared last-second.
Still, the movement was clean.
Smart.
Intentional.
As the referee lifted the whistle for halftime, Azul felt sweat dripping down his neck, lungs heaving.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes of belonging.
Of keeping up.
Of proving himself.
He wasn't the best on the pitch.
But he was *good enough*.
And sometimes, that was more powerful than brilliance.
The whistle blew.
Halftime.
---
Azul jogged off the field.
Sergi slapped his back.
Óscar nodded approvingly.
Pablo gave him a thumbs-up from the opposite side.
Ferrer didn't speak yet.
He just looked at Azul.
A long, evaluating look.
But not cold.
Not doubtful.
Measured.
Then, finally, Ferrer said quietly:
"You're not overwhelmed."
"No, coach."
"Good," he said. "Because the second half will be harder."
Azul swallowed.
He nodded once.
He was ready.
---
**End of Chapter 36**.