Morning arrived before Azul felt ready for it.
His alarm buzzed softly on the small table beside his bed, vibrating against the wood. For a moment, he stayed still, staring at the ceiling while the faint blue light of dawn seeped through the curtains.
The matches were starting to blur together now—training, recovery, preparation, performance. A rhythm so steady that days sometimes felt like echoes of each other.
But the pressure inside those days was changing.
Azul swung his legs off the bed and sat there quietly for a moment, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His body felt strong, but heavier than usual. Not tired exactly—just aware.
Aware of the expectations building around him.
Downstairs, the dining hall buzzed with conversation. The academy players were louder than usual this morning. A few of them had newspapers folded beside their plates.
Marcos slid into the chair next to Azul with a grin.
"You're famous again today."
Azul raised an eyebrow. "Again?"
Marcos pushed the newspaper toward him.
On the front of the sports section was a photo of Azul mid-stride, eyes focused forward, the ball glued to his foot. The headline read:
**THE NEXT ARCHITECT OF BARCELONA?**
Azul studied it for a moment before folding the paper neatly and pushing it aside.
"It's just a headline," he said.
Marcos shrugged. "Sure. But people are starting to believe it."
Azul picked up his fork.
"Belief doesn't score goals."
Training began earlier than usual that day. The coaching staff wanted to simulate high-pressure match scenarios—fast transitions, aggressive pressing, minimal space.
The drills were relentless.
Players closed in from every direction, forcing Azul to make decisions almost instantly. Sometimes he escaped with a sharp turn or clever pass.
Other times he lost the ball.
Each mistake stung slightly more now.
Not because the coaches yelled—they didn't—but because he felt the eyes around him.
Teammates expected him to find solutions.
The coaches expected him to create them.
During one drill, a defender stole the ball cleanly from him, knocking it away before he could turn.
The whistle blew.
"Reset," Miravet called calmly.
Azul jogged back to position, breathing steady.
Marcos glanced at him. "You good?"
"Of course."
The next sequence began.
This time, when Azul received the ball, he didn't try to out-dribble the defender.
He passed immediately.
The ball moved quickly through three teammates before returning to him in space. He advanced forward and slipped a precise through-ball behind the defense.
Goal.
Miravet nodded.
Azul felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.
After training, he stayed on the field with Marcos and two other teammates. They worked on quick passing combinations near the edge of the box.
Short touches.
Sharp angles.
Constant movement.
"Again," Marcos said, placing the ball down.
Azul received it, turned, and curled a shot toward the top corner.
It rattled the crossbar.
Marcos laughed. "Almost."
"Almost isn't enough," Azul replied.
They repeated the drill until sweat soaked through their shirts and the sun climbed high above the training ground.
Later that afternoon, Azul walked through the quiet hallways of La Masia with his phone pressed to his ear.
His mother answered on the second ring.
"You sound tired," she said immediately.
Azul smiled slightly. "Just training."
"You're working too much."
"I'm working enough."
She paused before speaking again.
"We're proud of you, you know."
Azul stopped walking.
"I know."
His father joined the call a moment later.
"I saw the article," he said.
Azul groaned softly.
"Relax," his father continued. "It's good attention."
"It's also pressure."
"That never goes away," his father replied calmly. "The trick is learning which pressure matters."
Azul leaned against the wall, thinking about that.
"What pressure matters?" he asked.
"The one you put on yourself."
The words lingered in his mind long after the call ended.
That evening, instead of going straight to his room, Azul walked toward the training pitch behind the academy building.
The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky orange and pink. The grass looked darker in the fading light.
He dropped the ball at his feet and began dribbling slowly across the field.
No cones tonight.
No drills.
Just instinct.
He let the ball move naturally beneath his boots, experimenting with small touches and quick shifts of direction. Sometimes he accelerated suddenly, imagining defenders chasing him.
Other times he stopped completely, practicing the pause that had become such a powerful weapon in his game.
He thought about the headline from the newspaper.
*The next architect of Barcelona.*
The words felt heavy.
Azul stopped near the center circle, resting one foot on the ball.
He wasn't trying to become something for headlines.
He was trying to become something for himself.
The next match arrived two days later.
The stadium atmosphere felt different this time—louder, more expectant. Word of Azul's recent performances had spread quickly.
As the players warmed up on the pitch, he could feel thousands of eyes watching every touch.
Marcos nudged him during stretching.
"Relax," he whispered. "You've done this before."
Azul nodded.
But inside, his heart beat slightly faster than usual.
The match began at a furious pace.
The opposing team pressed aggressively, refusing to give Azul space to breathe. Every time he received the ball, two defenders closed in immediately.
The first twenty minutes were difficult.
He lost possession twice trying to dribble through tight spaces.
The crowd murmured.
Azul forced himself to slow down.
*The game only looks fast when you're late.*
He remembered the words from his notebook.
In the 29th minute, he received the ball deep in midfield with a defender approaching quickly.
Instead of rushing forward, he took one calm touch sideways.
The defender lunged.
Azul slipped past him effortlessly.
Suddenly the field opened up.
He carried the ball forward, scanning the movement of his teammates ahead. Marcos was making a run toward the right side of the box.
Azul delivered a perfectly weighted pass through the defensive line.
Marcos struck it first time.
Goal.
The stadium erupted.
Marcos sprinted toward Azul with a grin, wrapping him in a quick embrace.
"That's better," he laughed.
The rest of the match unfolded more smoothly.
With the pressure slightly eased, Azul began controlling the tempo again. His passes came sharper, his movements more confident.
In the 61st minute, he found himself just outside the penalty area with the ball at his feet.
A defender stepped forward cautiously.
Azul performed a subtle feint, shifting his weight as if preparing to pass.
The defender leaned the wrong way.
In a single motion, Azul cut inside and unleashed a curling shot toward the far corner.
The ball bent beautifully through the air before nestling into the net.
Goal.
The crowd exploded again.
Azul raised one arm briefly in celebration before jogging back toward midfield.
He didn't need a dramatic reaction.
The feeling inside was enough.
When the final whistle blew, Barcelona had secured another comfortable victory.
In the locker room afterward, the atmosphere buzzed with excitement. Teammates laughed and replayed moments from the match.
Marcos threw a towel at Azul.
"You're making this look easy."
Azul caught it and shook his head.
"It's not."
Later that night, back in his room, Azul opened his notebook again.
He stared at the blank page for a moment before writing slowly:
*Expectation grows every match.*
He paused.
Then added another line.
*So must I.*
He closed the notebook and leaned back in his chair, listening to the quiet hum of the building around him.
Outside, Barcelona's city lights shimmered in the distance.
Azul Cortez understood something clearly now.
The expectations around him would only grow heavier with time.
But he wasn't afraid of that weight anymore.
Because every training session, every match, every quiet hour alone with the ball was slowly preparing him to carry it.
And he intended to carry it a very long way.