Matchday arrived quietly.
No nerves buzzed through Azul when he woke—just focus. The kind that settled deep in the chest and stayed there, steady and warm. He dressed, ate, stretched, and walked to the bus with the rest of the squad as if it were any other day.
But it wasn't.
This was his first start in a match that mattered beyond development. Bigger crowd. Sharper eyes. A game that would be talked about whether he succeeded or failed.
On the bus, Marcos nudged him with an elbow. "You good?"
Azul nodded. "Always."
Marcos smirked. "That's terrifying."
The stadium greeted them with noise that wrapped around the players like a living thing. Azul jogged out for warm-ups, eyes scanning the pitch automatically. The grass was fast. Slightly damp. Perfect for quick touches.
As he stretched, he caught sight of a familiar figure near the tunnel.
Messi.
Not watching closely. Not staring.
Just there.
Azul felt the weight of that presence—not pressure, but gravity. Something that pulled him forward instead of pushing him down.
The whistle blew.
From the first minute, the game moved quickly. The opposition pressed high, aggressive, trying to unsettle Barcelona early. Azul dropped deeper at first, offering angles, playing one-touch passes to escape pressure.
In the 12th minute, the opening came.
Azul received the ball near the right half-space, body open. Before the defender stepped, he already saw the run—Marcos bursting through the center channel.
No hesitation.
A perfectly weighted through ball split the line.
Marcos finished cleanly.
One assist.
Azul didn't celebrate wildly. Just a raised hand. A nod. Back to position.
The game continued, tense but controlled. The opposition adjusted, marking Azul tighter now, trying to cut off his influence. He welcomed it.
More attention meant more space elsewhere.
In the 29th minute, that space came back to him.
A loose clearance bounced just outside the box. Azul moved toward it, let it roll across his body, and struck it first time with his left foot.
Low. Precise. Inside the post.
The net rippled.
His first goal of the match.
The crowd roared, louder now, recognizing what was happening even if they didn't yet believe it.
Azul jogged back, heart pounding, breath quick but controlled. He glanced toward the bench.
Messi was smiling.
Halftime came with Barcelona ahead, and the dressing room buzzed with energy. The coach spoke briefly, firmly, reminding them to stay disciplined. When he looked at Azul, he nodded once.
That was enough.
The second half began with the opposition desperate, pushing numbers forward. In the 58th minute, that desperation turned into vulnerability.
Azul picked up the ball near the center circle. Two defenders stepped toward him.
He slowed.
Then accelerated.
A sharp cut inside. A drag back. Another burst forward. He slipped past the first defender, then the second, gliding into the space they left behind.
At the edge of the box, he slipped a pass wide to Marcos, who crossed low and fast.
Azul didn't stop his run.
He met the ball at the near post and redirected it with a simple touch.
Goal number two.
The stadium erupted again.
On the sideline, teammates leapt to their feet. On the pitch, defenders stared at the grass, hands on hips.
Azul felt it now—not arrogance, not ego—but clarity. Every movement felt inevitable. Every decision arrived early, clean, unquestioned.
The third moment came late.
The opposition were broken now, chasing shadows. In the 81st minute, Azul received the ball just outside the box with his back to goal. He felt the defender close in.
Instead of turning, he rolled the ball gently to the side, let the defender overcommit, then spun away into the space.
One touch to set.
One touch to shoot.
The ball curled into the far corner, brushing the inside of the net like it belonged there.
Hat-trick.
For a second, Azul stood frozen.
Then his teammates were on him—arms around his shoulders, voices shouting, laughter spilling out uncontrollably. Marcos yelled something unintelligible directly into his ear.
Azul laughed for the first time that night, fully and freely.
When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard told the story clearly. But the feeling inside him was quieter than expected. Grounded. Real.
In the dressing room, the celebration was loud but short-lived. Music played. Someone danced badly. Someone else filmed everything.
Azul sat for a moment, tying and untying his boots slowly, letting the night settle.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his mother.
*We couldn't sit down. We screamed. We cried. We're so proud.*
Another from his father followed.
*Remember this feeling. Then go back to work.*
Azul smiled.
Later, as the stadium emptied and the noise faded, he walked past Messi in the corridor. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Messi said quietly, "Good game."
Azul met his eyes. "Thank you."
Messi paused, studying him just a second longer. "Keep your feet on the ground."
"I will," Azul replied.
That night, back at La Masia, sleep didn't come easily. His body was exhausted, but his mind replayed moments—dribbles, passes, finishes.
Not the goals.
The spaces.
The work.
The details that led there.
Before finally closing his eyes, Azul wrote one line in his notebook:
*Three goals don't make you great. What you do tomorrow does.*
And with that thought anchoring him, he finally let the night take him—ready for whatever came next.