The morning of the match felt different before Azul even opened his eyes.
It wasn't nerves. It wasn't excitement either. It was alignment—the rare sense that body and mind had agreed on the same rhythm. He lay still for a moment, listening to the quiet breathing of La Masia waking around him, then sat up and stretched slowly, carefully, like a man who knew his legs would be busy later.
Breakfast passed in a blur of muted voices and clinking plates. Someone joked about goals. Someone else mentioned the opponent—**Real Betis at home**—a team that played bravely, sometimes foolishly. Azul stored that away.
Bravery creates space.
On the walk to the stadium, the sky over Barcelona was clear, almost offensively blue. Camp Nou rose ahead of them, massive and familiar, but today it felt closer somehow, like it had leaned in.
In the locker room, Miravet spoke calmly.
"They'll press," he said. "They'll try to disrupt you. If you rush, they win."
His eyes settled on Azul for a fraction longer than usual.
"If you see it—take it."
Azul nodded.
The warm-up sharpened everything. The grass felt fast. The ball stuck to his foot. Even the crowd noise felt tuned, as if it rose and fell in time with his breathing.
Kickoff.
From the first minute, Betis pressed high, aggressive and confident. Azul drifted between lines, letting defenders follow him into uncomfortable areas. He touched the ball lightly, often, always returning it quickly. He wasn't trying to dominate yet.
He was measuring.
In the 11th minute, the first crack appeared. Betis's left-back stepped too high, their midfielder hesitated, and Azul slid into the pocket behind them. The ball arrived cleanly.
He didn't shoot.
Instead, he slipped a perfectly weighted pass into the channel for Marcos, who cut inside and finished low at the near post.
1–0.
Azul pointed at Marcos, then jogged back, expression unchanged. The assist felt good—but more than that, it confirmed what he'd sensed.
They couldn't track everything.
Betis responded by tightening their shape, closing Azul down faster, doubling up when he received the ball. He absorbed the attention calmly, letting it pull defenders out of position.
In the 24th minute, it paid off again.
Azul dropped deeper, drawing a midfielder with him, then spun away at the last second. The ball came back to him thirty meters out. The defense hesitated—press or hold?
That half-second was enough.
Azul struck the ball with his right foot, clean and controlled. It rose, dipped, and slammed into the top corner before the keeper could move.
2–0.
This time, he celebrated. Not wildly—but with a clenched fist, a sharp exhale, eyes lifted briefly toward the stands.
First goal.
The game opened.
Betis refused to sit back. They attacked with numbers, forcing Barcelona to defend deeper than usual. Azul tracked back, intercepted passes, slowed counters. He felt everywhere without trying to be.
Just before halftime, Betis pulled one back from a corner.
2–1.
In the tunnel, Azul wiped sweat from his face, heartbeat steady. Miravet caught his eye.
"Don't chase it," the coach said. "Let it come."
Second half.
Betis came out fast, trying to overwhelm Barça early. For ten minutes, the game tilted. Tackles flew. The crowd grew restless.
Then, in the 58th minute, the moment arrived.
Azul received the ball near the center circle with his back to goal. Two players closed him down. He rolled away from the first, nudged the ball past the second, and suddenly space opened like a door left ajar.
He ran.
Not full sprint—measured, balanced, scanning. The defense retreated in panic, unsure who should step up.
At the edge of the box, he shot.
Low. Hard. Across the keeper.
3–1.
Second goal.
The stadium erupted fully now. His teammates swarmed him. Marcos shouted something he couldn't hear. Azul laughed once, briefly, then reset himself.
He knew.
He could feel it.
The game was bending toward him.
Betis, desperate now, pushed higher. Their lines stretched, discipline fraying. Azul stayed patient, resisting the urge to force anything.
In the 71st minute, he delivered the second assist.
A disguised pass, threaded through three defenders, landing perfectly at the feet of the winger cutting inside. The finish was simple.
4–1.
Azul clapped once, sharply.
One goal remained.
Time slowed in strange ways after that. Every touch felt magnified. Every run carried weight. Betis fouled him twice in quick succession, frustration showing.
In the 83rd minute, the chance finally came.
A loose ball at the top of the box. A defender slipping. The keeper slightly off his line.
Azul didn't think.
He struck.
The ball screamed into the net.
For a moment, everything froze.
Then the realization hit the stadium like thunder.
Hat-trick.
Azul stood still, hands on his hips, chest heaving. His teammates crashed into him from all sides. The crowd chanted his name—slowly at first, then louder, rhythm building.
Azul Cortez.
Azul Cortez.
On the sideline, Miravet smiled openly for the first time in weeks.
The final whistle arrived almost as an afterthought.
5–1.
In the locker room, noise filled every corner. Music played. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone poured water over Azul's head. Someone else shoved a match ball into his hands.
"Keep it," Marcos said. "You earned it."
Later, alone again, Azul sat quietly, the ball resting beside him. The adrenaline faded, replaced by a deep, satisfying exhaustion.
Three goals.
Two assists.
But more than that—it had felt natural.
As if this was always where he was meant to arrive.
That night, back in his room, he lay awake longer than usual. Not replaying goals, not imagining headlines.
Just breathing.
Tomorrow would come. Training would resume. Expectations would grow heavier.
But tonight, Azul allowed himself one simple thought before sleep claimed him:
He wasn't just learning the game anymore.
He was starting to shape it.
End.