The next few days flew by in a blur—training sessions, tactical meetings, recovery routines—yet Azul felt every second with renewed intensity. The possibility of being promoted to **Juvenil A** hovered over him like a shadow and a spotlight at the same time.
He wasn't officially called up yet.
But rumors moved fast inside La Masia.
Some teammates congratulated him.
Others watched him more closely—curious, cautious, even competitive.
And Azul?
He stayed quiet.
Training, thinking, preparing.
Until one morning, everything changed.
### **THE SUMMONS**
Azul had just finished warming up when Coach Roca called out across the pitch:
"Azul! Office. Now."
His teammates' heads snapped around.
Some raised eyebrows.
Some smirked knowingly.
Azul forced his breathing to steady and jogged off the field. His heart thumped harder with every step up the stairs.
When he opened the office door, he found not only Coach Roca… but two men he had never seen before. Both wore Barça jackets with gold detailing—slightly different from the youth staff.
Roca gave a short nod. "Sit."
Azul sat.
One of the unfamiliar coaches leaned forward.
"You're Azul Cortez/Reyes?"
"Yes."
"I'm Coach Miravet. I work with **Juvenil A**."
Azul's breath froze.
"And I," said the second coach, "am Assistant Coach Roca—your possible new coach."
Azul stared at them. Words nearly left him.
Coach Miravet continued, calm and matter-of-fact:
"We've been reviewing your matches. Villarreal. Málaga. Even the friendlies. Your vision and anticipation stand out. You break defensive lines before they form. Players like you are rare."
Azul didn't move.
Coach Roca, the familiar one, added, "They want to see if you can do it against older players. Stronger ones. Smarter ones."
Azul swallowed.
"So you want me to train with Juvenil A?"
Miravet nodded.
"*Tomorrow morning.*"
Azul exhaled slowly. It wasn't promotion yet—not officially. It was a test.
A trial.
The lion's den.
"And Azul," Miravet added, "don't think of this as pressure. Think of it as an opportunity to measure yourself."
Roca smirked. "And don't embarrass me."
Azul managed a small, nervous laugh.
"I'll do my best."
### **TELLING HIS PARENTS**
He left the office and stepped outside just as the sun began breaking through the morning haze.
He didn't text his parents.
He didn't call.
He *ran* to the hotel.
Half out of breath, he knocked on their door. His father opened it, bleary-eyed, clearly still half asleep.
"Azul?" he said. "Did you forget something?"
"No," Azul said, panting. "I… I got called to train with Juvenil A. Tomorrow. First session."
His father blinked.
Then the pride hit his face like a sunrise.
His mother appeared behind him, hair messy, eyes wide. "Did we hear that right?"
Azul nodded.
She pulled him into a hug so sudden he nearly stumbled.
"This is incredible!"
His father gave his shoulder a solid squeeze.
"This is just the beginning."
Azul felt the truth of those words deep inside.
### **FACING THE GIANTS**
The next morning came faster than he had hoped.
He woke before his alarm, nerves swirling inside him.
He showered quickly, dressed in his training kit, and walked to the Juvenil A pitch—the "upper pitch," as the younger players called it.
It felt different.
The grass looked sharper.
The goals sturdier.
The atmosphere heavier.
Older players were already warming up—stronger, taller, with broader shoulders and sharper movements. Some looked like they were close to professional level.
A few glanced at him.
Whispers.
"That's the kid?"
"The one from Juvenil B?"
"Roca's prodigy?"
He tried not to react.
Coach Miravet walked over.
"Cortez. You start in midfield. Just play your football. Don't force anything."
Azul nodded.
His heart was hammering.
But his mind… his mind felt strangely clear.
### **THE FIRST TOUCH**
The scrimmage began.
The moment the ball rolled toward him, two players pressed aggressively—closer, faster than anyone in Juvenil B ever had.
Azul's body reacted before he consciously chose.
A quick turn.
A feint.
A slip pass between the defenders into space.
The ball found the winger in stride.
Azul didn't even watch the play unfold fully—he felt it.
The Emperor's Eye pulsed in his mind, mapping the pitch, reading movements, predicting options.
The pace was fast.
The pressure high.
The challenges harder.
But he wasn't drowning.
**He was swimming.**
Better than expected.
### **WINNING THEM OVER**
Twenty minutes in, something happened that shifted everything.
One of the older midfielders—Tall, broad-shouldered, probably seventeen—tried to body Azul off the ball.
Azul braced.
Lowered his center of gravity.
Held his ground.
The midfielder grunted in surprise.
Azul slipped a pass around him, then accelerated into space for the return ball.
The older players exchanged looks.
Respectful looks.
One even muttered, "Okay, the kid can play."
Azul felt a small spark of pride.
### **THE MOMENT THAT MATTERED**
In the last play of the scrimmage, a counterattack initiated. The ball came to Azul at midfield.
Three defenders converged.
Azul's vision exploded.
Lines.
Paths.
Gaps.
Options.
He saw the winger sprinting outside.
The striker cutting inside.
The left-back overlapping.
The defenders shifting.
He made the impossible pass—the one only he could see—splitting the field with a curved ball that bypassed five players and landed perfectly at the striker's feet.
A simple finish.
Goal.
The scrimmage ended.
Silence for a moment.
Then applause from Coach Miravet.
"Good," he said. "Very good."
Azul exhaled.
### **AFTER TRAINING**
As he walked off the pitch, one of the older players approached—a midfielder named Marcos, known for being brutally honest.
"You're small," he said.
"But you've got eyes, kid. We need that."
Azul smiled.
"Thanks."
Marcos smirked.
"Don't thank me yet. If you stay with us, you're gonna suffer."
Azul's eyes lit with determination.
"I'm ready."
### **THE VERDICT (COMING SOON)**
As he walked toward the locker room, Miravet called out:
"Cortez. Go home and rest. We'll talk tomorrow."
Those words echoed in Azul's head the whole walk back.
Tomorrow.
His future—his real future—might be decided tomorrow.
Would he rise?
Or return to Juvenil B?
Either way…
He was no longer afraid.
---
End