The day after the match began the same way most of Azul's days did now—with soreness before thought.
He rolled onto his side, legs heavy, calves tight, hips stiff from the accumulated minutes. He stayed there for a moment, breathing slowly, checking in with his body the way the physios had taught him. Nothing sharp. Nothing wrong.
Good enough.
Downstairs, La Masia was already alive. Plates scraped. Chairs shifted. Someone laughed too loudly for the hour. Azul grabbed his tray and joined Marcos and two others at their usual table.
"You're getting annoying," Marcos said between bites.
Azul glanced up. "Good morning to you too."
"You make it look easy," Marcos continued. "One goal, two assists. No drama."
Azul smiled faintly. "It wasn't easy. It was simple."
"That's worse," Marcos said. "That means you're thinking too much."
They laughed, and the tension broke the way it often did—quickly, naturally. That was one thing Azul valued more than anything else: being able to sit here, eat badly cooked eggs, and still feel like himself.
After breakfast came recovery. Ice baths first, then stretching. Azul sat on the edge of the tub, legs submerged, teeth clenched against the cold. Across from him, a defender groaned loudly.
"How do you stay calm all the time?" the defender asked.
Azul shrugged. "I'm not calm. I just don't rush."
The defender shook his head. "Same thing."
Training that morning was light but precise. Rondos with strict touch limits. Positional drills focused on movement without the ball. Azul floated through it all, letting his body recover while his mind stayed sharp.
But it was the afternoon session he was waiting for.
After lunch and a short rest, Azul headed back to the pitch alone. No coaches. No teammates. Just him, a ball, and a half-empty training ground bathed in soft sunlight.
Dribbling.
This was where he returned to basics.
He placed cones in uneven lines, deliberately messy. Football wasn't clean. Defenders didn't step at the same angles every time. So he practiced chaos—tight touches, sudden stops, changes of pace.
He worked on deception.
A glance one way, touch the other.
A pause, then explosion.
Dragging the ball back under his sole, then pushing it forward with the outside of his foot.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His calves burned. Sweat soaked through his shirt. But his touches stayed sharp.
What he chased now wasn't flair.
It was control.
He imagined defenders from recent matches. The way one leaned too far forward. The way another reached instead of stepping. Azul practiced punishing those habits, over and over, until the response became automatic.
When Marcos wandered over eventually, he stopped at the edge of the pitch and watched.
"You do this every time?" he asked.
Azul nodded, breath steady. "Almost."
Marcos whistled softly. "That explains a lot."
They stayed a while longer, passing the ball back and forth, lighthearted, competitive without stakes. It felt good—football stripped of pressure again, reduced to movement and rhythm.
That evening, Azul went back inside, showered, and changed. His phone buzzed as he tied his shoes.
His mother.
He smiled before answering.
The call connected with the familiar delay, the image slightly pixelated but warm all the same. His parents sat close together on the couch back home, evening light spilling in through a window behind them.
"You look tired," his mother said immediately.
Azul laughed. "That means it's working."
His father nodded. "We watched the match."
Azul leaned back against the bed. "All of it?"
"Every minute," his father said. "Your mother shouted at the screen."
"That's not true," she protested. "I encouraged."
They talked about small things. About food. About weather. About how his younger cousin had started playing in midfield and now refused to pass the ball to anyone.
Azul listened more than he spoke.
At one point, his father grew quiet.
"You know," he said carefully, "no matter what happens, we're proud. Goals, assists—those are moments. But the way you carry yourself… that's what lasts."
Azul swallowed.
"I'm trying," he said.
"We know," his mother replied softly.
After the call ended, Azul sat still for a while, phone resting in his hands. The distance felt heavier on nights like this, when things were going well. Success made absence louder.
The next day brought another full training session with the first team. The tempo was high, the margins thin. Azul was challenged constantly, defenders stepping closer, midfielders testing his balance.
During a small-sided game, he tried something new—a tighter dribble under pressure, a sharper change of direction. It worked once. Failed the next time.
He adjusted.
Later, after a particularly clean take-on that drew a quiet reaction from the coaches, Marcos jogged past him.
"New move?" he asked.
"Old one," Azul replied. "Just refined."
That night, exhaustion hit him harder than usual. He lay in bed, legs aching deeply now, mind replaying touches instead of goals. He welcomed it. This kind of tired meant growth.
Before sleeping, he opened his notebook one last time.
He didn't write about the match.
He wrote about dribbling.
About how beating a man wasn't about humiliation, but creation. About how every successful take-on bought time, bent shape, changed numbers.
He wrote one final line and underlined it once:
*Control the ball, control the moment.*
Azul closed the notebook and turned off the light.
Tomorrow would be another mix of school, training, laughter, pain, repetition. Another quiet day building something that only showed itself on weekends.
And as sleep finally pulled him under, he felt grateful—not just for the goals or assists, but for the work no one applauded.
Because that was where he was becoming who he needed to be.