The Calderón dressing room smelled of champagne and cold Madrid air coming through the vents. Busquets was on the table again — this was apparently his permanent post-victory position — conducting an imaginary orchestra while Alves provided the soundtrack from a portable speaker that nobody remembered him bringing.
"After beating these Atlético lads," Busquets announced to the room, "the Copa final is almost certainly Real Madrid. Remember the Clásico at the start of the season? This is our chance to beat them twice."
Pautasso, towelling off nearby, looked mildly worried. "That Clásico worked because nobody expected Lorenzo in the starting lineup. Ancelotti won't make the same mistake twice."
"We still have the LMN," Xavi pointed out, leaning back against his locker. "When it comes to pure attacking threat, our front three is a hell of a lot stronger than people think."
Right then, Martino pushed through the door. He slowly surveyed the chaotic scene — Busquets perched up on the table, champagne pooling on the floor, and Dani Alves's music blasting from the speakers — before walking straight to his tactical board without saying a word.
"Before we even think about the Copa final, we have a Champions League quarter-final second leg," he announced, his voice instantly cutting through the noise. "Manchester United at the Camp Nou. We're up 4-0 from the first leg. We don't give them a single inch. We do not relax."
The entire room went quiet, the energy settling down instantly. Martino had that very particular, rare talent of completely killing a celebration with a single sentence.
Later that night, back in Barcelona, Lorenzo sat in the quiet of his villa and opened the system.
[Side Mission 'Three Battles Against Los Colchoneros' — Complete!]
[Reward: World-class financial advisory team × 1.]
[Effect: Access to an elite network of securities and investment professionals. Strategic counsel for large-scale acquisitions, portfolio structuring, and institutional-level financial planning. The team will make contact through your designated representative.]
His phone buzzed. A message from a number he didn't recognise — formal, brief, referencing Mateo Benitez as the point of contact. An advisory firm. The kind of language that suggested very large numbers discussed in very quiet rooms.
He called Benitez.
"I received a contact from a financial group," Lorenzo said. "Connected to the acquisition fund."
Benitez went quiet for a moment, letting the weight of the conversation settle. "I saw the same message. They're the real deal — top-tier advisory, the exact kind of people who structure massive deals for sovereign wealth funds." He paused, looking intently at Lorenzo. "This isn't the kind of business you handle in a January transfer window, Lorenzo. This is post-World Cup business. Honestly? This is post-career business."
"Yeah, you're right," Lorenzo admitted, taking a breath.
"Good. Because right now, you've got crucial Champions League matches and a Copa del Rey final to think about, and neither of those requires a financial advisor."
Lorenzo smiled, the tension finally breaking. "After the World Cup, then."
"After the World Cup," Benitez confirmed, offering a firm nod. "I'll keep it on the back burner until then."
January compressed.
Three La Liga matches in ten days — the kind of density that tested squads and exposed depth. Martino rotated ruthlessly.
MD18 — Barcelona 6–0 Osasuna, Camp Nou. Messi scored four. Lorenzo added two and an assist. Neymar provided two assists from the left wing. Xavi and Alves rested entirely.
MD19 — Almería 0–6 Barcelona, Estadio Mediterráneo. Lorenzo's hat-trick — the first from open play, the second from a Messi through-ball, the third a header in the final minute. Neymar scored once. Messi added two goals and three assists in a performance that reminded everyone that the best player in the world was still the best player in the world, even when his seventeen-year-old teammate was leading the scoring charts.
MD20 — Barcelona 5–0 Rayo Vallecano, Camp Nou. Martino started Sánchez and Pedro for the first hour, resting the LMN trio's legs. Both assisted Lorenzo before halftime. Messi and Neymar came on at sixty minutes and scored three between them in ten minutes. Lorenzo finished with two goals and two assists.
After twenty league rounds: Lorenzo — 43 goals. Seven behind Messi's single-season record of fifty, with eighteen rounds remaining.
The number sat in the press coverage like a countdown.
Later that evening, Lucia arrived at the villa carrying bags of takeaway and a very specific question.
She let herself right in — she'd had the door code since his first week there, back when she was the only one who actually knew how to organize a kitchen while he stood around completely lost. After setting the food down on the counter, she found him out on the terrace, staring out at the sprawling city lights with his phone flipped face-down on the table beside him.
"Do you ever just get tired of it?" she asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.
Lorenzo glanced back at her. "Tired of what?"
"The scoring. The records. The sheer volume of numbers." She walked over and sank into the chair next to him, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Seriously, every single time I check the news, there's some wild new statistic with your name attached to it. Forty-three goals. Seventeen in the Champions League. Youngest to do this, first-ever to do that, on the verge of breaking some ancient record." She looked at him intently. "Does it even register with you anymore?"
"I focus on the matches," he said simply. "The statistics are just things people talk about afterward."
Lucia gave a soft scoff. "That's a remarkably clean answer. Did you rehearse it?"
"No."
"It definitely sounds rehearsed."
"Everything I say sounds rehearsed to you."
Lucia smiled — that very specific, knowing look she got whenever she was about to drop something she'd been holding onto for a while. "Cecilia called me yesterday. She told me all about the jersey."
Lorenzo paused, keeping his voice steady. "What about it?"
"Just that you told her to wear your jersey before the match." Lucia's tone was carefully, almost aggressively neutral, but her eyes weren't quite pulling off the act. "It's a nice gesture. Very romantic."
Lorenzo cleared his throat, suddenly finding the terrace floor interesting. "It wasn't some big planned thing."
"The best romantic gestures never are." She stood up abruptly, turning her back to head inside. "Come eat. You have Manchester United match in two days and you look like you haven't had a proper meal since you met up with Cecilia." Lorenzo blinked, a little confused by the sharp turn in the conversation, but decided it was safer not to push it.
He followed her into the kitchen. Lucia handed him a plate without really looking at him, immediately busying herself with unpacking the takeaway containers. The food smelled incredible, but the silence settling between them suddenly felt heavy — thick with a strange new texture that hadn't been there six months ago. It was an unspoken weight, something very real that neither of them had dared to put into words.
Lucia, especially, was doing everything she could not to look too closely at it. She had been his anchor since they were kids. She had spent the last five months watching him turn into a global phenomenon, and she had been thrilled for him — genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy. The complication had only crept in when he started asking Cecilia to wear his jersey, when Cecilia started calling him before matches and confidently linking her arm through his in public.
She didn't want to give that complication a name. Naming it meant things had to change.
"Thanks for the food," Lorenzo said softly.
"You're welcome." She immediately picked up her jacket from the back of the chair. "I should head out. Early morning tomorrow."
Lorenzo frowned. "You literally just got here."
She stopped and looked at him. For a fraction of a second, something vulnerable and entirely unguarded crossed her face before she quickly locked it down behind a tight smile. "I know. But you need your rest." She paused with her hand on the door handle. "Good luck against United."
Then the door clicked shut, leaving the villa completely silent. Lorenzo stood in the kitchen with the plate she'd given him and the feeling that something had shifted in the room while he wasn't paying close enough attention to identify what.
[Target: UCL QF L2 — Man Utd at Camp Nou.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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