The next match week arrived without ceremony.
No buildup videos. No dramatic headlines taped to locker room walls. Just another fixture circled in red on the board: **Villarreal away**. A difficult pitch. A disciplined team. The kind of game that punished impatience.
Azul felt it the night before, lying awake as the hallway lights dimmed at La Masia. Not nerves—he had learned to recognize those. This was something else. A quiet pressure, like standing at the edge of a pool and knowing the water would be cold.
He welcomed it.
Matchday morning began with routine. Breakfast was quieter than usual, everyone conserving words the way runners conserve breath. On the bus, Azul sat by the window, earbuds in, but no music playing. He preferred the hum of the road, the vibration reminding him that movement was happening even when he stayed still.
Villarreal's stadium felt tighter than Camp Nou, the stands closer, the air heavier. Warm-up passes skipped faster on the grass. The crowd was already restless.
Miravet's instructions were simple.
"Patience," he said. "They'll try to rush you."
Azul nodded. He already knew.
The match opened aggressively. Villarreal pressed high, forcing quick decisions. In the 8th minute, Azul received the ball at the top of the box with space—real space. His body set automatically, left foot ready.
He could have shot.
He didn't.
The angle wasn't clean enough. The defender's weight was wrong. The keeper was too set. Azul laid the ball off instead, recycling possession.
A teammate threw his hands up briefly.
Azul ignored it.
The game moved on.
Minutes stacked. Tackles came harder. The referee let things go. Azul took a shoulder to the ribs, rolled, got up without complaint.
In the 27th minute, Villarreal scored.
A fast break. A low cross. A finish from close range.
1–0.
The stadium erupted.
Azul stood at the center circle, breathing slowly, eyes scanning. He didn't look angry. He looked awake.
Barcelona responded with control, but not threat. Villarreal's lines stayed compact, daring Barça to force something.
At halftime, the locker room buzzed with frustration.
"We need shots," someone said.
Miravet looked at Azul. "You're seeing it?"
"Yes," Azul replied.
"Then trust it."
Second half.
In the 54th minute, Azul found himself in the same space as before—edge of the box, defender closing, keeper ready. The moment replayed itself, almost mockingly.
This time, he shot.
Not hard.
Not flashy.
Placed.
The ball skimmed the grass, slipped under the defender's leg, kissed the inside of the post, and crossed the line before the keeper reacted.
1–1.
Azul didn't celebrate wildly. He raised a hand, then turned back toward midfield. But something shifted. The pressure he'd felt all day released, replaced by clarity.
The game opened.
Villarreal pushed forward again, leaving cracks. In the 71st minute, Azul intercepted a pass and drove forward. He didn't overthink. He didn't wait.
He struck from distance.
The shot bent away from the keeper's reach, dipping just enough.
2–1, Barcelona.
This time, he let himself smile.
The final minutes were tense but controlled. When the whistle blew, Azul bent over, hands on knees, lungs burning.
Two shots.
Two decisions.
Two goals.
Back on the bus, Marcos nudged him. "So that's what happens when you shoot."
Azul exhaled. "Only when it's right."
That night, alone again, Azul replayed the first chance—the one he hadn't taken. He understood it now. Growth wasn't about shooting more.
It was about knowing when hesitation had turned into fear.
Tomorrow, training would continue. Muscles would ache. Film would be reviewed. New weaknesses would appear.
But tonight, Azul allowed himself one truth:
Sometimes the most important goal isn't the one you score.
It's the one you finally choose to take.
End.