The nights had started to feel shorter.
Not because time had changed—but because Azul's mind no longer rested the same way. Sleep came, but lightly. Thoughts lingered just beneath the surface, replaying movements, decisions, fragments of matches not yet played.
He woke before the alarm again.
This time, he didn't sit still.
He stood immediately, as if something had called him.
The room was quiet, dimly lit by the faint glow of early morning. His boots rested neatly by the door. His notebook sat closed on the desk.
Everything in its place.
Except him.
There was a restlessness now.
Not nervous.
Not anxious.
Something else.
A pull.
---
Outside, La Masia breathed slowly, not yet fully awake. The air was colder than usual, a light breeze brushing across the training pitch. The grass shimmered faintly under the morning light.
Azul stepped onto it barefoot.
He didn't bring a ball at first.
He just walked.
Each step grounded him, the cool grass pressing against his feet, reminding him of something simple—something real.
He closed his eyes.
Listened.
For a moment, there was no pressure. No expectation. No future to consider.
Just presence.
Then he opened his eyes.
And the feeling returned.
The pull.
This time, he picked up the ball.
---
Training that morning felt different from the first touch.
Not harder.
Not faster.
Clearer.
Azul noticed it immediately.
The way his body moved without hesitation. The way his mind processed options before they fully formed.
It wasn't something he forced.
It was something he stepped into.
During passing drills, his touches were cleaner than usual—almost effortless. The ball stayed close, obedient, responding to even the smallest adjustments.
Marcos noticed.
"You're… locked in today," he said.
Azul didn't answer right away.
"I feel it," he admitted.
"What?"
Azul searched for the word.
"The game."
Marcos blinked.
"That's… vague."
Azul smiled faintly.
"I know."
But it was true.
Everything felt aligned.
---
Miravet noticed too.
He didn't say anything at first.
He watched.
During a high-intensity possession drill, the tempo increased sharply. Players pressed aggressively, closing space quickly, forcing rapid decisions.
Azul didn't rush.
He received the ball with defenders approaching from both sides.
Pause.
Not hesitation.
Control.
He let them come closer.
Then moved.
A small shift of his body. A quick touch forward. The defenders reacted—but too late.
The ball slipped through the gap.
Azul accelerated into open space.
No wasted motion.
No unnecessary flair.
Just perfect timing.
The drill continued, but something had changed.
Even the others felt it.
---
After training, Miravet called him aside.
"Walk with me."
They moved slowly along the edge of the pitch.
"You're seeing it differently today," Miravet said.
Azul nodded.
"I think so."
"Don't chase it," the coach added.
"I won't."
Miravet stopped, turning to face him.
"This feeling… it comes and goes."
Azul listened carefully.
"What matters," Miravet continued, "is what you do when it's gone."
Azul held his gaze.
"I understand."
But part of him didn't want it to go.
---
The afternoon passed quietly.
No extra sessions.
No additional drills.
For once, Azul allowed himself rest.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, letting his body recover.
But his mind remained active.
He replayed moments from training—not mistakes, not highlights.
Flow.
The way everything had connected.
The way decisions had arrived naturally.
It felt…
Right.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his father.
*How are you feeling?*
Azul typed back:
*Clear.*
The reply came quickly.
*Good. Stay there as long as you can.*
Azul smiled slightly.
If only it were that simple.
---
Match day arrived with a strange calm.
The stadium was full.
The noise was there.
But it didn't reach him the same way.
As he walked through the tunnel, boots echoing against the concrete, he felt centered.
Focused.
Not on the result.
Not on the expectations.
On the game itself.
Marcos glanced at him.
"You're quiet."
Azul nodded.
"Just listening."
"To what?"
Azul didn't answer.
Because he didn't know how to explain it.
---
The whistle blew.
From the first touch, it was there again.
That clarity.
The ball moved differently under his feet—not faster, not slower.
Connected.
In the 8th minute, he received the ball near midfield.
One look.
Two.
He saw everything.
The positioning of defenders. The movement of his teammates. The spaces that didn't yet exist.
He played a pass.
Simple.
But perfectly timed.
The forward received it in stride, breaking through the line.
Shot.
Saved.
Close.
Azul exhaled.
The game was opening.
---
Minutes passed, but time felt different.
Slower.
Expanded.
Every moment stretched just enough for him to act.
In the 21st minute, he found himself near the edge of the box.
Defender approaching.
Another closing from the side.
He didn't rush.
A small touch.
Pause.
The defenders committed.
Too early.
Azul slipped between them with ease.
Shot.
Goal.
The net rippled.
The crowd erupted.
But Azul didn't react immediately.
He stood still for a second.
Feeling it.
Then turned and jogged back.
---
The match continued.
But now, everything flowed through him.
In the 34th minute, he dropped deeper to receive the ball.
Pressure came instantly.
Three players.
No space.
He welcomed it.
A quick turn. A flick. A shift of balance.
He moved through them—not with speed, but with precision.
The ball never left his control.
He advanced forward, drawing defenders.
Then—
A pass.
Perfect.
Assist.
Goal.
Marcos ran toward him, shouting.
"You're everywhere!"
Azul smiled.
Because it felt true.
---
Halftime came, but it felt unnecessary.
The rhythm hadn't broken.
In the locker room, Miravet spoke, but Azul barely registered the words.
Not because he wasn't listening.
But because he was already inside the game.
---
Second half.
The opposition adjusted.
They pressed harder.
Closed space quicker.
Tried to disrupt the flow.
For a few minutes, it worked.
The game became messy.
Unpredictable.
But Azul didn't force anything.
He waited.
And then—
It returned.
In the 63rd minute, he received the ball near the sideline.
Tight space.
Limited options.
He paused.
The defender hesitated.
That was enough.
Azul moved.
A quick flick over the foot. A spin. A burst of acceleration.
The crowd rose.
He cut inside.
Another defender stepped up.
Azul didn't stop.
He struck the ball with the outside of his foot.
The shot curved beautifully, bending around the keeper.
Goal.
Silence for a split second.
Then explosion.
---
Now, he felt it fully.
Not just control.
Not just expression.
Something deeper.
Connection.
The game wasn't something he played.
It was something he was part of.
Every movement mattered.
Every decision shaped what came next.
---
In the 79th minute, one final moment arrived.
Azul received the ball just outside the box.
Three defenders.
No clear path.
He could pass.
He should pass.
But something told him—
Now.
He moved.
A quick step. A drag back. A shift.
The defenders reacted.
But not fast enough.
He created space.
Shot.
The ball dipped late, slipping under the crossbar.
Goal.
Hat-trick.
The stadium erupted completely.
This time, Azul didn't hold back.
He exhaled sharply, raising his arms slightly, letting the moment exist.
Not for long.
Just enough.
---
The final whistle came soon after.
Victory.
But more than that—
Something else.
---
In the locker room, the noise returned.
Laughter. Shouts. Music.
But Azul sat quietly for a moment, holding the match ball in his hands.
Marcos dropped beside him.
"I don't know what that was," he said.
Azul looked at the ball.
"Neither do I."
"But it was… different."
Azul nodded.
"Yeah."
---
Later that night, alone again, he opened his notebook.
For a long time, he didn't write.
He just thought.
About the feeling.
The clarity.
The connection.
Then, finally, he wrote:
Sometimes the game chooses you.
He paused.
Then added:
When it does, don't resist it.
He closed the notebook gently.
Laying back on his bed, he stared at the ceiling once more.
The feeling would fade.
He knew that.
Miravet had said it.
But now—
He also knew something else.
He could find it again.
Not by chasing it.
But by becoming the kind of player it returned to.
Azul Cortez had felt the game call his name.
And for the first time—
He had answered completely.