The morning sunlight washed over La Masia's courtyard as Azul finished tying his boots, ready for another day of training. His mind was still replaying flashes from the Villarreal match—the perfect through-ball, the split-second read of the defender's hesitation, the way it all felt like the Emperor's Eye was evolving again.
But today… today felt different. Lighter. Brighter. As if something good was already waiting for him.
He stepped into the entrance hall—and froze.
Two familiar figures stood near the reception desk, holding small suitcases and smiling through exhausted eyes.
**His parents.**
"¡Mamá! ¡Papá!" Azul rushed forward, his voice cracking. He hadn't expected them for another week.
His mother wrapped him in a hug so tight he nearly lost his breath.
"Ay, mi hijo… look at you. You look stronger. Taller. And thinner—are you eating enough?"
"Mamá…" He laughed, but his throat tightened. He didn't realize how much he missed this—her warmth, her voice, her fussing.
His father placed a hand on Azul's shoulder. A proud, steady grip.
"Good to see you, champ."
Coming from him, that one sentence was as emotional as a speech.
Azul tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "How did you get here so early? I thought your flight landed tonight."
"Overbooked," his father said. "They moved us to an earlier one. Lucky us."
Lucky indeed.
### **THE TOUR OF HIS NEW WORLD**
Azul insisted on showing them around La Masia—his new home, his new universe.
They walked past the study rooms, the dining hall where his friends were already peeking curiously, then the training fields glowing under the mid-morning sun.
"This is where I train almost every morning. That one is where Coach Roca makes me run until I question my life choices."
His father chuckled. "Good. Builds character."
His mother looked at the field like it was sacred. "It's beautiful, Azul. You're playing on the same grass where some of the greatest players trained. And now… now you are here."
Azul felt a small wave of pride bloom in his chest.
But there was something else beneath it—a quiet pressure. A reminder of everything he had promised them, everything they had sacrificed so he could chase this unlikely dream.
### **CAFÉ CON FAMILIA**
He took them to a small café just outside the academy grounds—a simple place with wooden chairs and pictures of FC Barcelona legends lining the walls.
They sat by the window. His mother ordered medialunas even though she said they'd "never be as good as back home."
His father drank his coffee black, eyes always surveying, absorbing the city as if he were trying to memorize it.
"So," his father finally said. "Word reached Argentina. Your debut with the Juvenil B boys… and that pass you made against Villarreal. People are talking."
Azul tried to brush it off. "It's nothing. I just saw the gap."
"Exactly." His father smiled. A small, rare smile—but one Azul treasured. "Only you would see it."
His mother leaned in, softer but firmer.
"Azul, we just want to know… are you happy here?"
The question hit him harder than he expected.
He took a breath. Thought of the early mornings, the intense training, the pressure of being the foreign kid, the loneliness some nights, the thrill of improving, the feeling of walking onto the training pitch knowing he belonged there.
"Yes," he said finally. "It's hard. Really hard. But… I love it."
And he meant every word.
His mother reached over and squeezed his hand.
"That's all we wanted to hear."
### **THE MATCH THEY DIDN'T EXPECT TO SEE**
As they finished lunch, Azul's phone buzzed.
From: *Coach Roca*
*"Azul. I need you dressed and ready in 30 minutes. Friendly match. Show your parents what you're made of."*
Azul stared at the screen, then looked up at them slowly.
His mother gasped. "We get to watch you play?"
"Not just watch," Azul said, heart suddenly pounding. "I think… he wants me to start."
His father nodded with that same understated pride.
"Then let's go."
### **WALKING ONTO THE FIELD LIKE A PRO**
The small training pitch's bleachers were half-full—mostly academy kids and staff, but Azul spotted his parents instantly, sitting side by side, hands clasped tightly.
He warmed up with the team, feeling their eyes on him the whole time.
He wanted to do well for the team.
For himself.
But today, especially—
*For them.*
As he stepped onto the field for kickoff, something settled inside him. A new calm.
A new kind of clarity.
Not the Emperor's Eye.
Not a tactical advantage.
Something deeper.
*This is who I'm doing this for.*
### **THE GAME BEGINS**
Barcelona's opponent was a local youth club—older, stronger in some positions, eager to make a statement against Barça's academy.
Perfect.
From the opening whistle, Azul felt sharp.
Every movement around him unfolded in clean lines and patterns.
Every opponent's shift, every teammate's run, every gap in the midfield—it was all there, clear as water.
At the 12th minute, he received the ball.
Two defenders rushed him.
He slipped between them with a glide that felt almost instinctive, then threaded a pass between three players—one only someone with the Emperor's Eye could even imagine—setting up the striker for a clean finish.
1–0.
Azul didn't celebrate.
He looked straight at the stands.
His parents were on their feet.
His chest tightened.
### **A GOAL OF HIS OWN**
Near the end of the half, he intercepted a pass, cut left, and drove forward with space ahead.
The defenders hesitated—not sure whether he would pass or dribble.
He struck from outside the box.
The ball curved beautifully into the top corner.
2–0.
Azul heard shouting—his mother screaming his name in pure disbelief, his father clapping with a pride that reached him even from the field.
He allowed himself a small smile.
### **AFTER THE WHISTLE**
The moment the match ended, Azul jogged to the sideline. His parents rushed down, meeting him before he even reached the barrier.
His mother hugged him so hard his ribs protested.
"Azul… ¡mi campeón!"
His father placed both hands on his shoulders.
"That," he said, eyes glistening just a little, "was the best thing I've ever seen."
Azul didn't know what to say. His throat was tight. His eyes stung.
He didn't cry.
But he almost did.
For the first time in months, he felt whole.
He wasn't just Azul the player, Azul the foreign kid, Azul the La Masia recruit.
He was Azul—*their son*—and they were here, in his new world, watching his dream slowly take shape.
---
**End of Chapter 38**.