The bruises stayed longer than the applause.
Azul woke up sore in places he didn't know had names. His ribs protested every deep breath, his knee stiffened when he swung his legs out of bed, and his ankle felt like it carried a small stone inside it.
But when he stood, he stood straight.
The match had changed something.
Not in how others saw him — that had already begun — but in how *he* saw himself.
Until now, Azul had been the mind.
The connector.
The one who made football make sense for others.
But watching the replay that morning in the analysis room, something else caught his attention.
The space.
The goal.
### **THE QUESTION NO ONE ASKED**
Coach Miravet paused the footage just after Azul's chipped pass in the previous match.
"Good decision," he said. "Correct timing."
Then he rewound.
Paused earlier.
Azul leaned forward.
The frame showed him at the edge of the box — unmarked — with a narrow shooting lane open before the defenders collapsed.
Miravet didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Azul felt it immediately.
*I could've shot.*
The realization landed quietly, but heavily.
After the session, Marcos nudged him in the hallway.
"You know you had that, right?"
Azul nodded.
Marcos smirked.
"Don't get me wrong — assist was perfect. But next time? Be selfish."
Selfish.
It wasn't a word Azul liked.
But football didn't care about preferences.
### **TRAINING WITH INTENT**
That week, something changed in Azul's training.
He still passed first.
Still controlled tempo.
But now, when space opened near the box, he didn't retreat.
He stepped forward.
In shooting drills, he stayed late.
Practiced striking from awkward angles.
Low drives.
Placed finishes.
Shots through traffic.
The coaches noticed.
So did the defenders — especially when one of his shots clipped the post during a scrimmage and ricocheted into the net.
Miravet blew his whistle.
"Again."
Azul retrieved the ball without expression.
Inside, something stirred.
### **THE NEXT MATCH**
Saturday arrived under clear skies.
A different opponent.
Less physical.
More tactical.
The kind of team that tried to suffocate space with shape rather than force.
Perfect.
In the locker room, Miravet addressed the team.
"They'll let you have the ball. They'll wait for mistakes."
He looked at Azul.
"And when they retreat too deep, punish them."
Azul nodded.
This time, the instruction felt personal.
### **FIRST HALF — WAITING**
The opening twenty minutes were slow.
Barcelona circulated possession patiently, probing without forcing. Azul touched the ball constantly, moving it side to side, dragging markers with him.
But the opponent stayed compact.
No gaps.
No shots.
Then, in the 27th minute, it happened.
A defender stepped out too far.
A midfielder hesitated.
The line wavered.
Azul received the ball just outside the box.
Time slowed.
Normally, he would've slipped the pass wide.
Instead—
He took one touch forward.
The defender froze, expecting the pass.
Azul struck.
Low.
Quick.
Through legs.
The ball skipped across the grass and kissed the inside of the post before rolling in.
Silence.
Then—
Roars.
Azul didn't celebrate wildly. He clenched his fists once, breathing hard.
Goal.
*His* goal.
### **THE SHIFT**
The match changed instantly.
The opponent stepped up.
Space opened.
Now Azul was dangerous in two ways.
Five minutes later, he nearly scored again — a curling effort tipped over the bar.
Marcos laughed as they jogged back.
"About time."
### **SECOND HALF — NO HIDING**
Barcelona led 1–0, but Miravet wasn't satisfied.
"Don't drop," he warned. "They'll chase."
They did.
And chasing created chaos.
In the 61st minute, Azul intercepted a loose pass and drove forward. A defender lunged — missed.
Another closed.
Azul shifted the ball onto his left foot and fired.
The keeper saved — but spilled.
The striker pounced.
2–0.
Assist or not, it started with Azul's shot.
But he wasn't done.
### **THE MOMENT THAT SEALED IT**
In the 78th minute, with legs tiring across the pitch, Azul drifted into space again. The defense hesitated, unsure whether to press.
They waited too long.
Azul unleashed a shot from distance — rising, dipping, unstoppable.
Top corner.
3–0.
This time, he allowed himself a smile.
Teammates swarmed him.
Marcos shouted in his ear.
"Now *that* is control."
### **AFTER THE WHISTLE**
The win felt different.
Not because of the scoreline.
Because Azul had changed the match himself.
In the locker room, Miravet approached him quietly.
"You saw the goal today," he said.
Azul nodded.
"And you took it."
Miravet placed a hand on his shoulder.
"That's the next step."
### **ALONE AGAIN**
That night, Azul sat by the window, city lights stretching endlessly below.
He thought of Messi — not just the playmaker, but the finisher. The moments when he decided a match himself.
Azul understood now.
Vision wasn't just about finding others.
Sometimes, it was about seeing *your own* chance — and having the courage to take it.
And tonight, for the first time, Azul Cortez didn't just control the game.
He decided it.
---
The end