Azul woke up thinking it had been a dream.
For a few seconds, the room looked the same as it always had. The same pale walls. The same narrow bed. The same faint hum of the city waking beyond the window. His body ached in a familiar way, the kind of deep soreness that followed a hard match, but his mind felt strangely light.
Then he saw the boots.
They were still by the door, mud flecked across the soles, laces loosely tied from the night before. First-team boots. First-team grass.
Reality returned all at once.
He sat up slowly, heart beating faster now, and reached for his phone. Notifications filled the screen—messages, missed calls, articles, clips. His name repeated in headlines, paired with words like *debut*, *decisive*, *calm*. Some went further than that. Some went too far.
Azul locked the screen again.
He wasn't ready to read himself through other people's eyes.
At breakfast, the atmosphere at La Masia had shifted. Conversations paused when he entered, then resumed louder, almost forced. A few younger players stared openly. Others offered quick congratulations, careful not to linger.
Marcos sat beside him and slid a piece of fruit across the table.
"Sleep?"
"A bit," Azul said.
Marcos grinned. "You never forget the first."
Azul smiled faintly but didn't respond. He wasn't thinking about the goal anymore. He was thinking about the touches before it. The moments where the game had threatened to outrun him—and hadn't.
Later that morning, Miravet called him in.
The coach looked tired, but pleased. There was no celebration in his office, no talk of destiny or next steps. Just analysis.
"You didn't hide," Miravet said, scrolling through clips on his tablet. "And you didn't rush."
Azul nodded.
"That's why it worked."
Miravet leaned back. "Now comes the difficult part."
Azul already knew what he meant.
The call-ups would increase.
The noise would grow louder.
And the margin for error would shrink.
That afternoon, Azul trained again with the first team.
This time, the welcome was different.
Not warmer.
Sharper.
Challenges came harder. Passes arrived quicker. Expectations were no longer implied—they were assumed.
In one drill, Azul misplaced a pass under pressure. The play broke down instantly. A senior player turned toward him, frustration flashing across his face.
"Earlier," the man snapped.
Azul nodded once. "Yes."
No excuses.
No explanations.
He corrected it the next time.
Messi watched from a distance during a break in play, hands on hips, expression unreadable. Azul didn't seek his approval. He focused on the rhythm, on finding that internal metronome that kept him balanced no matter the tempo.
At the end of training, as players filtered off the pitch, Messi walked alongside him.
"Tomorrow will be harder," he said casually.
Azul glanced at him. "I know."
Messi smiled slightly. "Good."
The media storm arrived that evening.
Barcelona released a short clip of Azul's goal. The views climbed rapidly. Analysts broke down his movement frame by frame. Former players praised his composure. Others warned against rushing him.
Azul watched none of it.
Instead, he called home.
His mother cried. His father stayed quiet longer than usual.
"You looked like you belonged," his father finally said.
Azul exhaled slowly. "I felt like I did."
"That's important," his father replied. "Don't lose that feeling. The world will try to take it from you."
The next matchday, Azul wasn't in the starting eleven.
He expected that.
The coach told him so plainly, without apology. "Be ready."
He was.
Barcelona struggled again, creativity stalling against a compact defense. The stadium grew restless. Whistles surfaced between bursts of applause.
In the 72nd minute, the coach turned.
Azul rose immediately.
This time, the crowd reacted instantly. A ripple of anticipation moved through the stands, curious, hopeful, demanding.
He stepped onto the pitch with the score still level.
The opponent adjusted at once. A midfielder shadowed him closely. A defender stepped up earlier than before. They had studied him.
Good.
The first few minutes passed without incident. Azul touched the ball sparingly, keeping it simple, drawing markers, releasing pressure.
Then, in the 80th minute, space appeared.
Just for a moment.
Azul received the ball near the right half-space, back to goal. He felt the defender's weight against him, the second man closing.
He waited.
Half a second.
He turned inside, slipped the first challenge, and carried the ball toward the edge of the box. The keeper shifted. The defender hesitated.
Azul shot.
This one was saved—well saved.
But the rebound fell kindly.
Another goal followed.
Azul didn't get the assist on the scoresheet. He didn't need it.
Barcelona won 1–0.
After the match, the coach spoke to the press.
"He understands timing," he said. "That's rare."
Azul watched the interview later, briefly, then turned the phone face down.
That night, exhaustion finally claimed him.
As he lay in the dark, his thoughts drifted—not forward, but inward. He understood now that success wouldn't arrive all at once. It would come in fragments, in moments where he either stayed true to his understanding of the game or surrendered it for approval.
He thought again of that half-second.
How it had changed everything.
Not by speeding him up.
But by slowing the world down just enough for him to act.
Tomorrow would be harder.
The day after that, harder still.
But Azul no longer feared the climb.
He had felt the summit under his feet, if only briefly.
And he knew he could stand there—so long as he waited for the right moment to move.
---
End