Azul woke before dawn, the words still echoing in his mind.
*Wait half a second.*
They followed him through the quiet corridors of La Masia, through breakfast, through the bus ride to training. He repeated them without sound, like a mantra that might unlock something deeper if he said it often enough.
The second session with the first team arrived without ceremony, just like the first. Same gate. Same pitch. Same feeling that the air itself was heavier here.
But Azul was different now.
Not calmer.
More aware.
From the first rondo, he noticed the rhythm more clearly. The way the ball never stopped moving, the way players positioned themselves before the pass even existed. He didn't chase touches. He waited for them. When the ball came, he released it quickly, not because he was afraid, but because it was correct.
Still, the pressure was relentless.
A senior midfielder leaned into him on every reception. A defender clipped his heel just enough to remind him of his place. No one spoke. No one needed to.
Azul absorbed it.
Halfway through the session, the coaches set up a positional game. Tight spaces. Limited touches. Goals counted double if scored from outside the box.
Azul's heart rate climbed.
This was his territory.
The ball came to him early, but he resisted the urge to dictate immediately. He circulated, shifted angles, let others take responsibility. He felt invisible for long stretches.
And then the moment arrived.
A pass broke down. The ball bounced loose. Space opened at the edge of the box.
The old instinct flared.
*Shoot.*
He waited.
Just enough for the defender to commit.
Then he stepped past him and struck.
The ball flew low and fast, skimming the grass before smashing into the bottom corner. The keeper reacted late, fingertips brushing air.
No celebration followed.
But something changed.
The next time Azul received the ball, the pressure came a fraction slower.
Respect didn't announce itself loudly either.
After training, as players cooled down, Messi walked past him again.
This time, he stopped.
"Better," he said simply.
Azul nodded, unsure what to say.
Messi didn't wait for a response.
That night, Azul sat alone, stretching carefully, replaying the session in his head. He didn't focus on the goal. He focused on the wait before it. On how uncomfortable it felt to pause when instinct screamed to act. On how powerful that pause had been.
Football, he realized, wasn't just about speed.
It was about *control of time*.
The next weekend, Azul returned to youth competition. The contrast was immediate. More space. More time. More noise from the sidelines. He felt almost overstimulated by how slow everything seemed.
The opponent pressed him aggressively, confident in their plan to suffocate him early. Azul welcomed it.
In the 12th minute, he scored.
Not with brilliance.
With patience.
He received the ball between the lines, let the defender rush him, waited that half-second, and slipped the ball into the corner with barely a swing of his leg.
The goal stunned the stadium.
In the 29th minute, he scored again. This time from distance, the shot bending late, the keeper frozen by hesitation.
By halftime, the opposition changed shape entirely.
By full time, Azul had two goals and one assist.
But it wasn't dominance that stayed with him.
It was restraint.
In the locker room, Miravet watched him quietly as the team celebrated.
"You're learning something most players never do," the coach said later.
Azul looked up.
"You're learning when *not* to act."
The words stayed with him.
Weeks passed like this — alternating between youth matches where he now dictated outcomes with frightening calm, and first-team sessions where he was reminded daily of how far the summit still was.
The comparisons grew louder.
The articles sharper.
The expectations heavier.
But Azul felt strangely insulated from it all.
Because inside him, something had stabilized.
He no longer chased moments.
He waited for them.
The hardest test came on a rainy evening away from home. The pitch was slick, the crowd hostile, the referee inconsistent. Azul was fouled early, then again, then again. Each time he rose without protest, without glare.
In the 71st minute, the score was tied.
Barcelona needed a moment.
Azul received the ball near the box with two defenders closing. He could hear the crowd rising, smell the damp grass, feel the weight of every expectation pressing down on him.
He waited.
Just long enough.
Then he struck.
The ball curled through rain and noise and doubt, slamming into the net.
As his teammates surrounded him, Azul felt something settle deep inside his chest.
Not joy.
Certainty.
Later that night, alone again, he opened his notebook.
He didn't write about Messi.
He didn't write about goals.
He wrote one line, underlined twice.
*The game doesn't reward speed. It rewards timing.*
Azul closed the notebook and lay back, listening to the quiet hum of the city beyond the window.
He wasn't chasing a shadow anymore.
He was learning how to stand in the light — even if only for half a second at a time.
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End