Goals change the way people look at you.
Azul noticed it before anyone said a word.
The training pitch felt the same. The grass smelled the same. The routines didn't shift. But the eyes—those were different now. Teammates lingered a second longer when he spoke. Defenders watched his feet instead of his shoulders. Coaches wrote his name down more often.
And the numbers had begun to follow him.
Three goals in four matches.
For a midfielder his age, at this level, it mattered.
### **THE AFTERMATH**
The Monday review session was quieter than usual.
Coach Miravet stood at the front of the room, remote in hand, replaying clips from the weekend. Azul sat near the middle, back straight, hands folded, heart steady.
The first clip showed his opening goal again.
Miravet paused it at the moment before the shot.
"Tell me," he said, without looking at anyone in particular, "why this worked."
A defender spoke.
"They backed off."
Another added.
"He shifted the ball fast."
Miravet nodded.
Then he turned to Azul.
"And why did *you* shoot?"
The room went silent.
Azul chose his words carefully.
"Because they expected me not to."
Miravet smiled faintly.
"Exactly."
He clicked the remote again, showing the ball hitting the net.
"When you add goals to vision," he continued, "you force defenders into uncertainty. And uncertainty creates chaos."
His gaze stayed on Azul for a long moment.
"Chaos wins matches."
### **THE PRESSURE BUILDS**
By midweek, whispers had turned into conversations.
A scout from the first team watched one training session. Another from the national youth setup appeared near the fence, pretending to check his phone while tracking movement.
Azul felt it, but he didn't let it show.
He still arrived early.
Still trained late.
Still iced his knee at night.
But now, expectation followed him everywhere.
When he missed a shot in scrimmage, someone sighed.
When he passed instead of shooting, someone muttered.
It was subtle.
But heavy.
### **THE CALL HOME**
That Thursday night, Azul called his parents.
The video connected, revealing his mother's familiar kitchen and his father leaning into frame.
"You scored again," his mother said immediately.
Azul smiled.
"So I've been told."
His father studied him closely.
"You look tired."
"I'm fine."
A pause.
Then his father said, "Be careful with the noise."
Azul nodded.
"I know."
"Good," his father replied. "Football remembers arrogance. And it punishes it."
After the call ended, Azul lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Goals brought attention.
Attention brought danger.
### **THE NEXT TEST**
The upcoming match was circled on the schedule.
Top of the table.
Best defense in the league.
They conceded barely a goal every three games.
Miravet's instructions were brief.
"They'll suffocate the center. They'll force you wide. And they'll wait for mistakes."
He looked directly at Azul.
"So don't force anything."
Azul understood.
This wasn't about chasing goals.
It was about choosing them.
### **MATCH DAY**
The stadium buzzed with tension.
From the first whistle, the opponent pressed intelligently, closing passing lanes, doubling up on dangerous areas. Azul found himself marked closely, sometimes by two players rotating shifts.
He didn't panic.
He drifted wider.
Dropped deeper.
Let the game come to him.
First half passed without goals.
Frustration grew in the stands.
In the 41st minute, a chance came.
Azul intercepted a loose clearance and found himself twenty-five meters from goal. Space opened briefly.
He thought of shooting.
Then saw the defender sprinting.
He passed.
The crowd groaned.
At halftime, Marcos leaned over.
"Why didn't you take it?"
Azul shrugged.
"Wasn't clean."
Marcos studied him.
"Good."
### **SECOND HALF — ADAPTATION**
The opponent adjusted after the break.
They pushed higher.
That was the invitation.
In the 58th minute, Azul received the ball between lines and turned sharply. One defender lunged — too late.
Azul accelerated.
Another stepped up.
He slipped past him.
Now he was free.
The keeper advanced.
Azul didn't blast it.
He placed it.
Low.
Calm.
Precise.
Goal.
The stadium erupted.
Azul jogged back, expression controlled, heart racing.
That goal didn't come from power.
It came from patience.
### **THE RESPONSE**
The opponent equalized ten minutes later from a corner.
1–1.
Momentum shifted.
The match tightened, nerves stretched thin.
Miravet shouted instructions, urging calm.
Azul wiped sweat from his face and refocused.
This was the moment.
### **THE DECISION**
In the 84th minute, Barcelona won a free kick just outside the box.
Marcos looked at Azul.
"You taking it?"
Azul hesitated.
The wall was tall.
The angle tight.
But the keeper leaned slightly left.
Azul saw it.
He nodded.
The whistle blew.
Azul struck the ball with the inside of his foot, curling it around the wall.
It dipped late.
The keeper reacted — too slow.
Net.
2–1.
Azul stood still as the stadium exploded.
This time, he allowed himself a breath.
### **FINAL WHISTLE**
The victory felt earned.
Not stolen.
Not gifted.
In the locker room, Miravet approached Azul once more.
"You're learning when to pass," he said.
"And when to finish."
Azul met his gaze.
"I'm still learning."
Miravet nodded.
"Good. So are the best."
### **LATE NIGHT THOUGHTS**
That night, as the city slept, Azul replayed the free kick in his mind.
Not the goal itself.
The moment before.
The decision.
Because that was the difference now.
He wasn't just seeing the game.
He was choosing how it ended.
And somewhere, whether watching or not, Messi's shadow no longer felt like something to chase—
But something to grow beyond.
---
End