Halftime in the small La Masia locker room didn't feel like a break.
It felt like the eye of a storm.
Players wiped sweat from their brows. Some leaned forward with hands on their knees, catching their breath. Others stared at the tactics board, memorizing movements they already knew by heart.
Azul sat quietly on the bench, inhaling slow, steady breaths. His pulse hadn't fully settled, but his mind was clear.
He replayed the first half in his head:
* The good decisions.
* The mistakes.
* The near chance inside the box.
* The pressing traps.
* The moments he escaped with inches to spare.
He wasn't perfect.
But he didn't need perfect.
He needed to continue.
Ferrer walked into the center of the room. Instantly the chatter died.
"Listen," he began, voice low but sharp. "Good half. The tempo is correct. But we're not dominating enough."
His eyes scanned the players.
"You're letting the other side press too aggressively. They're not faster. They're not stronger. They're simply anticipating better. Fix it."
He pointed at Sergi.
"You control height."
Pointed at Óscar.
"You control transitions."
Then—
He pointed directly at Azul.
"And you—Reyes—control rhythm."
Azul felt his stomach tighten.
Rhythm.
The most precious thing in Barça's football.
"Don't force anything," Ferrer continued. "But don't hide. I don't want safe football. I want intelligent football. Use your eyes."
Azul nodded once, feeling the weight of the responsibility settle on him like a cloak.
Pablo whispered to him, "Bro, you're literally a kid and he gave you the conductor's baton. Crazy."
Óscar added dryly, "Don't choke."
Azul smirked. "Thanks for the support."
Ferrer clapped his hands.
"Ready."
---
**Returning to the Pitch**
The sunlight was brighter now, warming the perfectly cut grass. Both teams jogged back into position.
Azul rotated his shoulders, rolled his neck, exhaled.
Sergi leaned close.
"Start aggressive," he said. "Make them react to you."
Óscar added, "And don't hesitate. Your hesitations are loud."
Azul acknowledged both.
Then the whistle blew.
---
**Second Half Begins**
The opposition came out flying.
High press.
High intensity.
High risk.
They wanted to break Azul's rhythm early.
The pivot of the opposing team rushed him immediately, sliding into his lane.
Azul reacted before the ball even reached him—he stepped sideways, making himself invisible to the pressing angle. The pass arrived exactly where he moved.
One-step advantage.
Just enough.
He passed to Sergi.
Received it back instantly.
Two defenders converged.
Azul's eyes darted—mapping space, movements, angles.
He tapped the ball backward to the center-back.
Safe.
But not retreating.
Resetting.
The team reorganized.
The press dissolved.
Sergi whispered as he jogged past, "Good. Patience wins."
---
**A Dangerous Moment**
Ten minutes into the second half, Azul faced his first real mistake.
He received a pass with his back turned, intending to shield—
—but the defender was faster than expected.
The collision was hard.
Azul lost balance.
Lost control.
Lost the ball.
The opposing side countered instantly.
No time to apologize.
No time to freeze.
Azul sprinted back, adrenaline flooding his chest.
A through ball slipped under the arm of their defender—straight into the penalty box.
The striker wound up.
Óscar yelled, "TRACK BACK!"
Azul dove into the lane—not for a tackle, but to block the shooting angle.
The striker hesitated half a second.
Just half.
The keeper closed the gap.
Shot saved.
Rebound cleared.
Crisis averted.
Azul bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Óscar approached him.
"Next time," he said, "don't wait for pressure. Turn faster."
Azul nodded. "Understood."
"Good," Óscar added. "Because you recovered well. That matters."
---
**The Turning Point**
Five minutes later, Azul found himself in space near the left half-space.
He received the ball from the full-back and saw something subtle:
* The opposing pivot stepping too forward,
* The right center-back leaning outward,
* A vacuum forming behind them.
Azul didn't think.
He simply played what he saw.
A disguised pass—soft, angled, perfectly weighted—into that vacuum.
Their striker accelerated.
One touch.
Two.
Shot—
Blocked narrowly.
But the pass?
That pass was the spark.
Sergi jogged over and slapped Azul's shoulder.
"There we go. That's rhythm. That's what Ferrer wants."
Azul breathed out, relieved.
---
**The Midfield Battle**
The next phase became a war of attrition.
Ball lost, ball recovered.
Press, escape, press again.
One-touch combinations.
Sharp transitions.
Azul stayed disciplined:
* scanning every moment,
* adjusting his body orientation,
* never panicking under pressure.
His passes weren't always perfect.
But his decisions were consistent.
And in this level, consistency was power.
---
**Minutes 55–70: Dominance Building**
The call-up team began controlling the match.
Óscar orchestrated diagonals.
Sergi controlled height.
And Azul—quietly, steadily—sewed phases together.
He linked:
* midfield to wing,
* wing to pivot,
* pivot to interior,
* interior back to defense.
Small things.
Invisible things.
But essential things.
At one moment, Ferrer shouted from the sideline:
"REYES! EXCELLENT! KEEP MOVING!"
Azul didn't turn to look.
He just kept playing.
---
**The Final Stretch**
In the last ten minutes, the energy dipped for both teams. Heavy legs. Slower presses. More space.
Azul wanted to finish strong.
At minute 78, he intercepted a careless pass, turned sharply, and burst forward.
He wasn't fast.
But the timing was perfect.
He slipped a pass to Óscar, who flicked it behind the line.
The winger arrived—
And shot—
Straight at the keeper.
Groans echoed.
Still, it was the right play.
Óscar looked at Azul after the sequence.
"You read that before it happened."
Azul shrugged slightly. "It was there."
"That's why you belong."
---
**Full-Time**
The final whistle cut through the exhaustion.
Players dropped to their knees, some shaking hands, others embracing out of mutual respect.
Azul exhaled deeply.
His legs burned.
His lungs hurt.
His body screamed.
But his mind?
Clear.
He had survived.
More than survived—he had **played**.
Ferrer approached slowly.
The players parted for him.
He stopped in front of Azul.
The coach studied him for a long moment.
"Reyes," Ferrer said quietly, "good match."
Azul's heart thumped.
Ferrer continued:
"You didn't try to be a hero. You didn't try to imitate anyone. You made mistakes—but you fixed them. And you kept rhythm."
Then, with a rare, almost invisible smile:
"You showed you can compete at this level."
Azul swallowed hard.
"Thank you, coach."
Ferrer placed a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"Rest. Monday we talk about your future."
And he walked away.
---
Azul froze.
*Monday.*
*His future.*
Sergi, overhearing, whistled. "Damn. That means something."
Óscar nodded once. "Prepare well."
Pablo slung an arm around Azul's shoulder, laughing breathlessly.
"Bro… BRO… Monday is your destiny appointment!"
Azul didn't laugh.
He just breathed—deep and steady.
He wasn't dreaming anymore.
He was climbing.
And on Monday… he would find out how high.
---
**End of Chapter 37**.