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These days, the Atlético Madrid coaching staff had arranged for the squad to sit down and review all of this season's Champions League Round of 16 ties.
To be honest, the results were a little unexpected for Lance, though still perfectly logical when you thought about it.
Aside from Lance himself, who could have predicted that the leaders of the Premier League in the 2015-2016 season would be unfancied Leicester City? Manchester City, Chelsea, Arsenal, Liverpool, Tottenham, all the clubs everyone had tipped for the top, had underperformed badly. Leicester had quietly and methodically climbed to the summit, and all of England was stunned.
Before the season kicked off, the odds on Leicester winning the title had been 5000-1. That was longer than the odds on Kim Kardashian becoming President of the United States. It was that absurd.
Perhaps Lance was the only person on earth who truly understood what the "Leicester City Miracle" meant. The football world had already been reshaped by his presence, and yet even that couldn't stop the magical Foxes from marching towards the title.
As for Manchester United, well, ever since Ferguson retired and David Moyes and Van Gaal had taken the reins one after the other, could anyone seriously still expect great things from them? That club was rotting from the inside.
Chelsea, who had been one of Europe's finest just a few years back, had collapsed spectacularly this season. Mourinho had been brilliant in his first two years back at the club, but year three had arrived with its familiar chaos. The so-called "Mourinho Third Year" curse had struck again.
Their defeat to the rising force of Paris Saint-Germain was no upset. Paris had world-class talent throughout the squad: Lavezzi, Ibrahimović, Di María. Backed by the financial power of a state, how could they possibly be considered weak? The arrogant English press had walked into that tie with the same old condescension, still clinging to the idea that Ligue 1 was a backwater and the Premier League the pinnacle of the game.
In reality, the Premier League had not been especially strong in Europe for some time. Chelsea lost 1-2 at Stamford Bridge in the first leg, and 1-2 again at the Parc des Princes.
The old guard, Drogba, Ramires, Essien, Willian, Lampard, Terry, Čech, had either aged or moved on. The squad was mid-transition, the changing room was reportedly in disarray, and Mourinho had already discarded De Bruyne. A poor result was entirely predictable.
Bayer Leverkusen's 3-2 win over Zenit Saint Petersburg had been a tighter affair. Lance genuinely hoped his former club could go further. They were a side that had reached the Champions League semi-finals two years running, and even without their headline names, they still had plenty of fight.
Kießling, Lars Bender, Rolfes and several of his old teammates had done just enough. But the road ahead would be far harder. Without Lance, he struggled to see how Bayer Leverkusen could win another knockout tie at this level.
Barcelona 5-1 Arsenal barely warranted analysis. Even in their prime, when Arsenal had Robin van Persie leading the attack, a strong collection of Premier League midfielders, and Wenger at his best, they still could not beat Barcelona.
Now Arsenal were in a prolonged slump, trophyless for years, with Wenger under mounting pressure and no dominant figure in the squad. They were never going to trouble Barcelona.
Since being knocked out by Lance, Barcelona had gone away and reflected hard. The MSN trio of Messi, Suárez, and Neymar were now firing on all cylinders. This Barcelona side might well be Atlético Madrid's most dangerous opponent in the entire competition.
The footage they had reviewed left the whole Atlético squad quietly rattled. Simeone was watching with a deep frown, jaw set, expression unreadable. If the draw paired them with Barcelona in the quarter-finals, it would be the toughest possible test.
The other ties offered less tactical value. They were mostly exercises in superior firepower or fortunate timing. The match between defending champions Juventus and multiple-time champions Bayern Munich was the exception. Both sides were evenly matched and neither could land a decisive blow. It went to 2-2, then 4-4 after extra time, and ultimately came down to penalties.
In the end, it was a matter of nerve and fortune. Pogba, Juventus' standout player, wobbled at the crucial moment. His run-up stuttered, and the resulting penalty was a soft, half-height effort right in the middle of the goal. Those are the easiest saves a goalkeeper can make, and Neuer put it away without fuss.
Bayern Munich advanced, alongside Wolfsburg and Bayer Leverkusen, meaning three Bundesliga sides had made the quarter-finals. La Liga matched them exactly, with Real Madrid, Barcelona and Atlético Madrid all through.
The two leagues were the clear winners of the round. Manchester City remained the Premier League's sole survivor, and Paris Saint-Germain flew the flag alone for Ligue 1. Serie A and every other league had been completely swept aside.
Italian football was in a long, slow decline. The economic troubles, the shadow of the Calciopoli scandal, the general dysfunction of the domestic game. The national team, once world champions and European champions and the most feared side on the planet, were now a cautionary tale, barely scraping through qualifying campaigns.
That evening, the Champions League quarter-final draw ceremony was held in Monaco. The venue for the 2016 Champions League Final had been confirmed as the San Siro in Milan. The draw guest was an Inter Milan legend and captain of the 2009-10 Champions League-winning side, Javier Zanetti.
Lance watched it all from home, video-calling Chloe so they could follow it together.
"Lance, I'm so nervous. What if it's a terrible draw?"
"I've got a solution."
"Go on then."
"Send me a picture of your legs. You won't be nervous once you do."
"You pervert!"
Chloe shot back with genuine indignation. Lance grinned. He enjoyed teasing her far too much. There was something endlessly entertaining about watching that little face go red.
Eventually the ceremony got through its formalities and moved to the draw itself.
The first pairing Zanetti pulled out was an all-Bundesliga clash.
Bayern Munich vs. Bayer Leverkusen!
On screen, Sascha, who was attending the ceremony in person, looked visibly pained. Lance could practically hear him cursing under his breath. Bayern had grown stronger this season whilst Bayer Leverkusen had weakened. With that shift in balance, dealing with them again would be a serious ask.
The next tie drawn was Real Madrid vs. Wolfsburg.
The bad news: it was unlikely that too many Bundesliga sides would make the semi-finals. The good news: at least one of them was guaranteed a place.
With four teams now placed, Atlético Madrid had three possible opponents remaining: Manchester City, Barcelona, or Paris Saint-Germain.
Sure enough, Zanetti reached into the bowl and drew the name first.
"Atlético de Madrid!"
A sharp intake of breath rippled around the venue, audible even through the screen.
The tension in the room had just peaked.
Atlético fans were understandably anxious. Any of the remaining three opponents would be a serious battle. But Barcelona in particular was the one nobody wanted. If they were going to face Barcelona, the fans would much rather it happened in the semi-finals.
As things stood, Atlético, Barcelona, Paris Saint-Germain, and Manchester City were all in the same half of the draw. Only one of those four would reach the final.
The fans of Barcelona, Manchester City, and Paris were just as nervous, for their own reasons. Nobody relished the prospect of facing Atlético Madrid. The memories of Real Madrid, Barcelona, Manchester United, and Arsenal all being knocked out in the previous two seasons were still raw. Getting past Lance was no straightforward thing.
This cheerful, East Asian-faced young man had somehow become the most feared name in European football. To the other seven teams in the draw, he might as well have been the Grim Reaper himself, scythe in hand.
"Lance, what if it's Barcelona? That would be awful."
"It's fine. Whoever we get, we're reaching the final."
His voice was completely steady. The small knot of anxiety Chloe had been carrying instantly dissolved, replaced by something warm and reassuring, as though his confidence had reached right through the phone.
It felt like being held. Ahhhh, Chloe, stop it!
"Are you alright? Your face has gone red again."
"It's the lighting! Just the lighting!" She quickly angled the camera away and scrambled for a change of subject.
Lance nearly lost it. This girl was impossibly easy to fluster. She reacted like this before he had even properly teased her. He genuinely wondered what she would be like if things between them ever progressed further.
He set that thought aside and turned back to the screen, where Zanetti cracked open another small ball and unfolded the slip of paper inside.
"Manchester City!"
Manchester City!
Not Barcelona!
A quiet exhale.
That was a relief. It looked as though Barcelona would be waiting for them in the semi-finals, if both sides got through.
Lance was perfectly happy with that. Last season's semi-final had been against Barcelona too, and he had eventually made the final only to miss it through suspension, watching the Champions League trophy slip away. The regret of that night still sat somewhere in the back of his mind.
This time it would be different. UEFA had changed the accumulated yellow card suspension rules, wiping the slate clean before the semi-finals. His chances of actually playing in the final were far greater now.
This time, I am not missing that trophy again.
He fired off a quick message.
Lance: "We get to meet!"
Kevin: "Get lost. I genuinely do not want to see you. Damn it."
Lance smiled at his phone.
Winding up De Bruyne had its own particular satisfaction, honestly not far behind teasing Chloe.