Between the final whistle of the group stage and the preparation for the round of sixteen, Vicente del Bosque gave the squad a full day to breathe.
For most of the players, that meant sleeping until midday, catching up with family over video calls, and staying out of the blazing sun. Left to his own devices, Lorenzo probably would have spent his morning the exact same way, holed up in his room with tactical footage on his laptop.
Fernando Torres and David Villa put an end to that idea immediately. The two veteran strikers dragged the seventeen-year-old out of the hotel lobby on a collective mission to ensure he got some proper fresh air. It turned out to be exactly what he needed. Rio de Janeiro was far too obsessed with football to care about the political noise back in Argentina; to the locals on the street, he was simply a gifted kid playing brilliant football in the most football-crazed country on the planet.
"Look at that over there," Villa said, pointing toward a kid no older than eight who was effortlessly juggling a scuffed, half-deflated ball with both feet. "That is where the magic really starts. You don't find that kind of touch in high-tech training centers. You find it right here on the sand, where kids play until sundown just because they love the ball." He offered a small grin, nudging Lorenzo's shoulder. "Never lose touch with that feeling, kid. The day you stop loving the ball itself is the day you pack your boots away."
"Don't let him get going," Torres chimed in with a laugh, handing a signed hat back to a beaming boy. "Once he starts rambling about growing up on the beaches in Asturias, you'll be stuck listening to him until dinner."
"Asturias has magnificent beaches, Fernando," Villa retorted with feigned offense, adjusting his shades. "They might be freezing cold, sure, but they have character."
Lorenzo laughed along with them, watching the waves roll in. For an hour or two, the suffocating pressure of tournament football felt like it belonged to another world entirely.
His pocket vibrated, pulling him back to reality.
The first notification was from Cecilia. It was a photograph of her living room television screen, showing the exact frame of his airborne volley against Australia, paired with a short message: Explain to me how a normal human being pulls this off. I demand an explanation.
He tapped out a quick reply:
Mostly luck that I caught the drop at the right second.
Her reply arrived five seconds later:
Liar. Nobody gets that lucky with a ball dropping over their shoulder. Just make sure you save some of that "luck" for Mexico.
He was still chuckling at the screen when another message popped up, bringing a much quieter smile to his face.
It was from Lucía.
Your grandfather made it back to Buenos Aires without any issues. He spent the entire flight talking about your debut hat-trick. By the time they landed, the poor stranger next to him probably knew every single goal you have scored since youth football.
Emilio had boarded a return flight immediately after the group opener, insisting that his old knees couldn't handle hanging around Brazil for two weeks straight, though he promised to return the second Lorenzo gave him a good enough reason to book another ticket.
Lorenzo typed back.
How is my mother doing?
Convinced you're skipping meals, naturally, Lucía replied. She told me to make sure you were looking after yourself.
The three typing dots danced on the screen for a moment before she followed up.
So consider that your official reminder. Find some real food that doesn't come out of a blender.
Torres dragged me into a cafe an hour ago and ordered like half the menu for me, Lorenzo texted back.
Excellent. In that case, Torres is officially my favorite player on your squad.
Lorenzo looked down at the screen, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth. That was simply Lucía: no fuss, no grand words, just quietly keeping an eye on his family while he was miles away in Brazil.
He tapped out a brief Thanks, Lucía, knowing she would read between the lines.
The trouble with quiet afternoons was that they left too much room in your head.
Walking along the waterfront while the two veteran strikers debated which Spanish coastline had better seafood, Lorenzo found his thoughts drifting toward the bracket. The tournament was narrowing fast. With every group match wrapping up, the hypothetical pathways were turning into concrete fixtures. If Spain handled their business on their side of the draw and Argentina navigated theirs, there was only one place where those two roads could collide: the final at the Maracanã.
When he stepped back into his hotel room, his phone was vibrating on the bedside table. A video call from Barcelona, where it was already well into the evening.
He tapped accept and propped the phone against a water bottle on the desk. Sofía's face filled the screen, framed by the familiar, neat shelves of her office and the soft glow of dual monitors.
"How are the legs feeling?" she asked without missing a beat, skipping the greeting entirely.
Lorenzo pulled off his trainers and tossed them toward the closet with a quiet chuckle. "Good evening to you too, Sofía. I'm alive."
"I can see you're alive," she said, squinting slightly at the screen as if she could diagnose micro-tears through the camera lens. "You looked fresh against Australia, but television broadcasts don't tell me what your calves feel like forty-eight hours later. How is the workload? Is Del Bosque running you into the ground with the transition drills, or are you actually managing to absorb the sessions?"
"The training has been heavy, but it's manageable," Lorenzo said, stretching his legs out on the edge of the mattress and rolling his ankles. "A lot of short, sharp tactical work instead of endless laps. Honestly, it's pretty close to what we were doing during the Champions League knockout weeks back home. My calves felt slightly stiff after the Curitiba humidity, but the ice baths cleared that up."
Sofía let out a quiet, measuring breath, her eyes flicking to the side as she scrolled through something on her desk. The sharp, slightly guarded tension in her shoulders loosened by a fraction.
"Good," she said, her voice settling into a more normal, conversational rhythm. "That's a relief, actually. I was worried the travel between different climates would start stacking fatigue in your lower back. Just keep an eye on your hamstrings. The group stage gave Vicente room to rotate, but from Mexico onward, games can drag into extra time and penalties. If you start feeling a knot during warmups, don't just tough it out. Tell the team physio, or send me a text."
"I'm not going to play hero with a pulled muscle, Sofía," Lorenzo told her, offering an easy smile. "I promise, if anything feels off, you'll hear about it."
"Make sure I do," she replied, a faint, almost imperceptible curve showing at the corner of her mouth before she cleared her throat and regained her composure. "Drink a full bottle of water and stay off your feet until the team dinner. Take advantage of the rest while you actually have it."
"Will do," Lorenzo said with a quiet chuckle. "Talk to you in a couple of days."
"Stay rested, Lorenzo."
The screen went black. Lorenzo tossed the phone onto the bed and leaned back against the headboard, feeling a quiet sense of reassurance. Even thousands of miles away across an ocean, she was keeping watch, making sure he walked into the knockout rounds with his body in one piece.
Later that night, the system's pale text stirred in the quiet dark.
[You are fixated on the far side of the bracket.]
"Hard not to think about Messi," Lorenzo answered mentally, resting an arm over his eyes. "A year of people at home calling me a traitor, and now we're both in Brazil, chasing the same trophy."
[He is on the other side of the draw,] the system replied, the letters sharpening. [Looking past Mexico toward a final you haven't earned is a quick way to board a flight home. Win the ninety minutes in front of you.]
Lorenzo exhaled, letting the tension settle, and closed his eyes.
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