The days after the second goal didn't explode the way people expected.
They settled.
Azul discovered this on a quiet morning when his alarm rang at six, just like it always had. No trumpets. No cameras waiting outside La Masia. Just the familiar hum of the building waking up, doors opening, footsteps in the corridor.
Great moments, he was learning, were loud only once.
Everything that followed was quiet work.
He showered, dressed, and went down to breakfast. The same tables. The same cereal. The same coffee that tasted a little too bitter no matter how much sugar he added. A few younger players glanced at him, then looked away quickly, as if staring too long might break something.
Azul sat with Marcos and two defenders from his age group.
"Still feels weird seeing your name on the screen," Marcos said, scrolling through his phone.
Azul shrugged. "I don't watch."
"You should," one of the defenders said. "They're already arguing about you."
"That's exactly why I don't," Azul replied.
They laughed, but the truth lingered.
After breakfast came schoolwork. Azul sat in a small classroom with a notebook open in front of him, listening to a teacher explain something about history he half understood. His body was present, his mind drifting between dates on the board and the feel of the ball leaving his foot the night before.
He forced himself back.
If football demanded total focus, so did everything around it. He had learned that early.
Training began mid-morning. Not with the first team today, but with the youth squad. The rhythm changed immediately. More talking. More emotion. Less precision.
Azul adjusted.
He led without commanding, corrected without embarrassing. When a younger midfielder misplaced a pass and dropped his head, Azul jogged over.
"Again," he said. "You saw it. That's enough."
The boy nodded, shoulders easing.
During shooting drills, Azul stayed longer than required. Not because he needed to impress anyone, but because repetition grounded him. He practiced finishing with both feet, from angles he knew would appear rarely—but when they did, they would matter.
Between drills, his knee tightened slightly.
He noticed.
He stopped.
That was new.
Lunch passed quietly. He ate with appetite but without rush, listening more than he spoke. Someone mentioned the possibility of national team attention. Someone else mentioned contracts.
Azul said nothing.
Afterward came recovery. Ice baths. Stretching. Silence. He closed his eyes and let his breathing slow, counting each inhale and exhale until the noise in his head softened.
In the afternoon, he walked into the city with permission, alone. Barcelona moved around him unconcerned, people living lives that had nothing to do with football. He liked that. He liked being anonymous for a few hours.
He stopped at a small café, ordered tea, and sat by the window with his notebook. He didn't write about matches or goals. He wrote about how his legs felt heavier on stairs lately. About how time seemed to bend on the pitch. About how waiting—really waiting—was harder than running.
A group of kids passed outside, arguing loudly about a missed penalty in some other game. One wore a Barcelona shirt with Messi's name on the back.
Azul looked away.
Back at La Masia, evening training with the first team awaited. This session was lighter, focused on positioning and movement. Azul drifted between lines, adjusting, learning how little he needed to move to change everything.
At one point, he and Messi occupied the same pocket of space. It lasted less than a second before Messi shifted away, opening the lane.
Azul noticed.
He always noticed.
After training, as the sun dipped low, Azul stayed behind again. Stretching. Light jogging. Alone with the fading sounds of the facility.
Miravet passed by on his way out.
"You could go home," he said.
Azul smiled faintly. "I know."
Miravet studied him. "Just don't forget to live too."
That night, Azul video-called his parents. The connection was shaky, the image grainy, but their faces were clear enough.
"You look thinner," his mother said immediately.
"I'm eating," Azul replied.
His father smiled. "How do you feel?"
Azul considered the question carefully.
"Tired," he said finally. "But… right."
That answer seemed to please them more than anything else.
After the call, Azul lay on his bed, scrolling briefly through messages before setting the phone aside again. Outside, the city lights blinked steadily, indifferent to ambition.
Tomorrow would bring another alarm. Another session. Another chance to wait half a second longer or shorter than before.
He closed his eyes.
Football was no longer just ninety minutes.
It was mornings and afternoons, silence and noise, restraint and effort, the discipline to stop when necessary and the courage to act when the moment arrived.
And in the days in between the goals, Azul Cortez was learning who he was becoming—off the pitch as much as on it.
Not a headline.
Not a comparison.
Just a boy, growing carefully into something lasting.
End.