The sun dipped behind the rooftops of Barcelona as Azul walked his parents back toward their small hotel near La Rambla. The evening breeze carried music, distant laughter, and the hum of a living city—so different from home, yet warm in its own way.
His father wheeled the suitcase behind him. His mother held onto Azul's arm like she used to when he was little.
"Tomorrow," she said with a smile, "we want a full tour of the city. All of it. Everything you've seen since you arrived."
Azul laughed softly. "Everything? That might take a week."
"We'll manage," his father said. "We're not that old."
He *was* that old—at least compared to the parents of many players at La Masia—but he said it with such dry humor that Azul couldn't help but grin.
### **GOODNIGHT FOR NOW**
When they reached the hotel entrance, his mother kissed his forehead—something she hadn't done since he left Argentina.
"Sleep well, Azul. You have training tomorrow?"
"Always."
She sighed. "Then go. Rest those legs."
His father gave a small pat to his shoulder. "We're proud. No matter what."
Azul nodded, more grateful than he could express.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
He turned and walked back toward the metro, the city lights reflecting off the pavement. He felt light—energized—filled with a warmth he hadn't felt since arriving in Spain.
Family could do that. Even in a foreign country.
### **THE NEXT MORNING**
Training was sharper than usual. Azul felt it from the moment he stepped onto the pitch. His passes were crisp, his vision clearer, his movements more decisive.
Maybe it was the confidence from yesterday.
Maybe it was the calm from seeing his parents.
Maybe both.
Coach Roca called him over halfway through the session.
"You're playing with more control today. Something's changed."
Azul hesitated, then answered honestly.
"My parents… they came. Yesterday."
Roca nodded once, eyes softening slightly.
"Ah. That explains it. Sometimes the heart needs that. Even the best players forget."
Then his face returned to its usual sternness.
"Good. Now keep it. Don't let this be temporary."
"I won't."
### **THE SURPRISE WAITING OUTSIDE THE GATE**
After training, Azul showered quickly and jogged outside, eager to take his parents on the tour they'd asked for.
He expected to see them waiting near the academy gate.
He didn't expect them to be talking to someone in a bright Barça jacket.
And certainly not *that* someone.
Azul slowed, blinking in disbelief.
Jordi, the academy's head scout—the man who had selected Azul personally—was standing there with a warm smile.
"Azul," Jordi called out. "I was hoping to speak with your parents while you finished training."
Azul's mother clasped her hands together. "He told us everything. How hard Azul works. How talented he is."
His father added, "He said Azul's progress is rare. That he has qualities they don't see often."
Azul felt his face warm. He wasn't used to this kind of praise.
Jordi turned to him.
"I wanted them to know that their son isn't here by luck. He's earning every minute."
Azul swallowed. "Gracias."
Jordi wasn't done.
"And… I also wanted them here when I tell you this."
Azul's heart stuttered.
His mother leaned closer. "Tell him what?"
Jordi looked directly at Azul—eyes sharp, excited, like he was watching something bloom.
"The club is considering moving you to **Juvenil A** early."
His mother gasped. His father's eyebrows lifted. Azul stood frozen.
Juvenil A.
The top youth category.
One step below Barça B.
Two steps from the first team.
It felt unreal.
Too soon.
Too sudden.
"But…" Azul managed. "I'm still… 15."
"Correct," Jordi said. "But age isn't the only measure. Some players rise faster. And Azul—your vision, your reading of the game…"
He tapped his temple.
"There is something inside your head the coaches can't teach."
Azul felt the words sink into him slowly—terrifying and exhilarating at once.
"We're not promising anything," Jordi added. "But if you keep performing as you are, the promotion will come."
He turned to his parents one last time.
"You raised a rare one."
Then he walked away.
### **THE SILENCE AFTER THE STORM**
For a moment, none of them spoke.
His mother's eyes were glistening.
"Azul… you didn't tell us you were this good."
"I didn't know," he admitted quietly.
His father put a hand on his shoulder.
"This is big. Really big."
Azul wasn't sure what he felt most—joy, fear, pressure, or all of them tangled together.
Promotion meant playing against older players.
Stronger.
Faster.
Tactical monsters.
He could fail.
He could be benched.
He could be swallowed up by the pressure.
But he also had a chance… a real chance… to climb toward his dream.
To reach Messi's world.
To become worthy of the Emperor's Eye.
### **A NEW DETERMINATION**
His father spoke again, voice steady and deep.
"Listen to me, Azul. You were born for this. Maybe not to be Messi—no one can be Messi—but to be *you.* A version of yourself the world remembers."
Azul breathed in, slowly.
The fear eased.
The doubt settled.
He nodded firmly.
"Okay," he said. "If Juvenil A is the next step… then I'll be ready."
His mother pulled him into a hug.
"You already are."
And Azul felt something shift inside him.
Not the pressure of expectation.
Not the fear of failing.
Something stronger.
*Belief.*
---
**End of Chapter 39**.