The week after the hat-trick felt heavier than the one before it.
Azul noticed it immediately.
Not in his legs—they felt strong, responsive—but in the air around him. Conversations stopped when he entered rooms. Coaches watched a second longer. Defenders in training stepped closer, sharper, more deliberate. Success had changed the way people interacted with him, even when they tried not to let it.
At breakfast, Marcos slid into the seat across from him.
"You good?" he asked.
Azul nodded. "Yeah."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
Being unknown had been simple. Being promising had been exciting. Being *expected* was something else entirely.
Training that week was intense. Shorter sessions, higher quality. The coaches demanded efficiency now, not effort for its own sake. Azul adapted quickly, moving the ball faster, choosing his moments carefully. Still, he felt the pressure to justify the last match lingering at the back of his mind.
Miravet pulled him aside after one session.
"You don't owe the game anything," the coach said. "It gives you chances. You take them. That's all."
Azul listened, storing the words where he stored everything useful.
The next match came sooner than he liked.
Away again.
A compact stadium.
A team that had studied him carefully.
From kickoff, it was clear they had a plan.
Two midfielders stayed tight to him, one always in front, one just behind. Passing lanes closed quickly. Space disappeared as soon as it appeared.
Azul didn't fight it.
He drifted wider, deeper, anywhere that pulled structure out of shape. He touched the ball often but quietly, letting the game breathe through him rather than forcing it.
In the 14th minute, the first opening arrived.
Azul received the ball near the right half-space, defender tight. He shaped to turn inside, then slipped a disguised pass down the line instead. The fullback overlapped at speed, crossed early.
Goal.
1–0.
Azul jogged back, barely reacting. First assist.
The opposition adjusted immediately, pushing one marker higher to cut the supply. Azul accepted the challenge, dropping even deeper, helping circulate possession, keeping tempo under control.
The game slowed.
That suited him.
In the 33rd minute, Barcelona won the ball high up the pitch. Azul collected it centrally with space ahead of him. The defense backed off, unsure whether to step or retreat.
He waited.
Then accelerated.
At the edge of the box, he didn't overthink. He struck cleanly with his left foot, guiding the ball into the far corner beyond the keeper's reach.
2–0.
He didn't celebrate wildly. Just a raised hand, a steady breath.
One goal.
At halftime, the locker room buzzed with cautious optimism. Miravet spoke briefly, reminding them not to lose discipline. When his eyes met Azul's, he nodded once.
Second half.
The opponent came out aggressively, pressing higher, taking risks. Barcelona absorbed the pressure, then broke through it with patience.
In the 61st minute, Azul found himself double-marked again near the box. Instead of forcing a turn, he laid the ball off first time, then continued his run. The return pass came instantly, splitting the defense.
Azul didn't shoot.
He squared the ball across the face of goal.
Tap-in.
3–0.
Second assist.
The crowd noise softened, resignation creeping in. The rest of the match became about control—keeping shape, managing minutes, avoiding unnecessary risks. Azul stayed involved, directing traffic, slowing the tempo whenever the game threatened to unravel.
When he was substituted late, the applause surprised him. It wasn't thunderous, but it was sincere. Appreciative.
He clapped once toward the stands and jogged off, lungs burning lightly, mind calm.
Back in the locker room, the atmosphere was relaxed. Laughter returned. Music played softly. Marcos nudged him with a grin.
"Quiet day for you," he said.
Azul smiled. "Just working."
Later that night, alone again, Azul sat on his bed with his boots beside him. He flexed his toes, feeling the dull ache of effort settle into his muscles.
One goal.
Two assists.
No headlines screaming history. No chants echoing into the night.
But it felt right.
He opened his notebook and wrote a single sentence:
*Some days you lead by finishing. Some days you lead by letting others finish.*
He closed it gently.
Tomorrow would bring training. New challenges. New expectations.
But tonight, Azul felt balanced.
He wasn't chasing moments anymore.
He was learning how to carry them—quietly, steadily, without letting them bend him out of shape.
And that, he realized, might be the hardest skill of all.