The morning after a hat-trick was quieter than the night of one.
Azul discovered that as he walked down the hallway of La Masia, the echoes of celebration already fading into memory. The building moved the same way it always had—doors opening, water running in showers, someone arguing softly about laundry.
Nothing bowed to his achievement.
He liked that.
At breakfast, the teasing began immediately.
Marcos slid into the chair beside him. "So," he said casually, "how does it feel to be the main character?"
Azul didn't look up from his plate. "Hungry."
Laughter rippled around the table.
One of the younger academy players hesitated before speaking. "Can I ask… what were you thinking before the third goal?"
Azul paused. He considered giving a simple answer. Instead, he told the truth.
"I wasn't thinking about the goal," he said. "I was thinking about the defender's feet."
The boy frowned slightly.
"He was leaning too far forward," Azul continued. "That's all."
It sounded almost disappointing in its simplicity.
But that was the point.
After breakfast came recovery. The ice bath felt colder today. His legs were heavy, but in a satisfying way—the kind that confirmed he had given everything.
Later, in the gym, the physio pressed into his calf.
"Tight," she observed.
"Good tight or bad tight?" Azul asked.
"Working tight," she replied. "Don't let it become stubborn."
He nodded.
Training that afternoon was lighter but intense in focus. The coaches didn't praise him. They didn't need to. Instead, they demanded sharper first touches. Faster transitions. Cleaner movement between lines.
During a small-sided drill, Azul lost the ball once under pressure. The defender celebrated like he had scored.
Azul smiled.
Good.
He reset and attacked the next sequence harder, tighter on the ball, more precise. He beat the same defender with a subtle drop of the shoulder, gliding past without flair.
No revenge.
Just correction.
After the session, he stayed behind again with a few teammates. They set up informal one-on-one drills—tight spaces, quick feet, constant pressure. Marcos tried to poke the ball away aggressively.
"You're not getting through me again," Marcos said.
Azul raised an eyebrow. "We'll see."
He began slowly, almost lazily, dragging the ball side to side. Marcos lunged early.
Azul slipped past him in one smooth motion.
They both laughed.
The repetition continued until sweat blurred vision and legs trembled. When they finally stopped, they collapsed onto the grass, staring up at the sky.
"You ever get scared?" Marcos asked quietly.
Azul turned his head. "Of what?"
"Of losing it."
Azul didn't answer immediately.
"Yes," he admitted. "That's why I keep working."
Marcos nodded, satisfied.
That evening, Azul walked alone into the city again. Not far—just enough to breathe air that didn't smell like grass and rubber and effort.
He called his parents as he walked.
His mother answered first.
"We watched it again," she said immediately.
Azul laughed. "Already?"
"Three times," his father added in the background.
They talked about home. About neighbors who now claimed they'd always known he was special. About the bakery that had put up a small sign with his name.
Azul listened quietly, smiling at details that felt both distant and close at once.
"Are you happy?" his mother asked softly.
The question surprised him.
He looked around at the Barcelona street—people moving, conversations blending, life unfolding without pause.
"Yes," he said finally. "But I don't feel finished."
His father's voice came steady through the phone. "Good."
After the call ended, Azul sat on a low stone wall near the training complex and took out his notebook.
He didn't write about the hat-trick.
He wrote about control under pressure.
About how defenders were adjusting now—closing angles faster, doubling sooner. About how he needed to refine his first touch even more, reduce wasted movement.
He sketched small diagrams in the margins—arrows, shapes, tiny circles representing bodies in motion.
When he returned to La Masia, night had fully settled. In his room, he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
He replayed the third goal in his mind once.
Then he erased it deliberately.
Instead, he pictured tomorrow's training. A drill he wanted to try. A tighter turn he could perfect. A hesitation move that needed sharper timing.
The applause from the night before already felt far away.
But that was the rhythm now.
Noise.
Silence.
Work.
Azul turned off the light.
He understood something clearly for the first time:
The hat-trick wasn't the peak.
It was proof.
Proof that the work in the quiet hours mattered.
Proof that the boy from Argentina with impossible vision wasn't chasing a dream anymore.
He was building something real.
And tomorrow, he would start again.