The referee's whistle signaled the restart, but the air in the Alfredo Di Stéfano had changed. At 2-2 in the sixtieth minute, the "Mini-Clásico" had transcended the typical reserve match. It was now a visceral battle of wills.
The white human wave in the stands cheered with a deafening roar. They weren't just cheering for their team; they were demanding a conquest. Across the technical area, Zinedine Zidane stood like a statue, his eyes tracking every movement of the ball. He had seen his side claw back into the game, but he knew that a draw at home against this Barcelona B squad would be seen as a failure by the Madrid hierarchy.
Lorenzo stood at the center circle, his chest heaving. The sun was beginning to dip, but the heat radiating from the turf was still oppressive. He looked at his teammates, Munir was wiped, and the midfielders, Quintillà and Ilie, were starting to show the tell-tale signs of heavy legs.
However, Lorenzo felt a strange, steady reserve of energy. The recovery potion he had consumed after Fabinho's tackle was doing more than just numbing his ankle; it had provided a secondary boost to his systemic fatigue. While others were beginning to play in "survival mode," he was still in "hunt mode."
Fweet-!
The match resumed. Barcelona B immediately tried to re-establish control, but the rhythm was jagged. Adama Traoré received the ball on the right wing, his massive frame shielding it from the Madrid full-back.
"Go, Adama! Take him!" Sacristán shouted from the touchline.
Traoré didn't need the instruction. He dropped his shoulder, the explosive power in his thighs sending him past the defender like a sprinter off the blocks. He surged toward the byline, drawing the attention of both Nacho and Fabinho.
Lorenzo saw the gap. He triggered the Inzaghi instinct, darting between the two center-backs into an ambiguous, razor-thin pocket of space. It was a run that demanded a perfect delivery.
Traoré delivered. He whipped a low, curving cross into the box, aiming for Lorenzo's stride.
Nacho Fernández, exhibiting the veteran savvy that would one day make him a first-team staple, realized he couldn't beat Lorenzo for speed. Instead, he used his low center of gravity to lean into the striker, forcing Lorenzo toward the left, his non-dominant side.
"He's forcing him wide!" Inés Valdes shouted into her microphone. "Nacho knows Lorenzo is a right-footed predator. He's closing the primary angle!"
Lorenzo felt Nacho's weight against his shoulder. He had a split-second to decide: try to cut back to his right and risk being swarmed by the recovering Fabinho, or take the shot with his left.
He chose the strike. He didn't have time to look at the goal; he relied on his own intuition. He swung his left leg, striking the ball with a clean, sharp contact.
The ball whistled past Nacho's lunging block, heading with terrifying speed toward the far corner. Luca Zidane dived, his body fully extended, his fingertips missing the ball by less than a millimeter.
Clang--!
The sound of the ball striking the outside of the post echoed like a gunshot through the stadium. It ricocheted off the woodwork and rolled out of play for a goal kick.
"Oh! So close!" the Spanish commentator lamented. "0.01 millimeters! Luck has finally smiled upon the house of Zidane. Lorenzo was a breath away from a hat-trick on his debut!"
Lorenzo stood in the box, staring at the post. He wasn't frustrated; he was analyzing. In the Juvenil A leagues, he would have had the extra second to adjust to his right. Here, against Nacho, that second didn't exist.
I need to work on the weak foot, Lorenzo thought, his jaw tightening. At this level, a one-sided striker is a predictable striker.
On the sidelines, Sacristán held his head in his hands, his face a mask of agony. "Just an inch... just one inch and the match is ours."
He turned to his assistant. "We need to make a move. The midfield is dying. Look at them, they can't track back anymore."
"Should we bring on a defensive sub?" Cabezas asked. "A draw away at Madrid isn't the worst result for your job security, Eusebio."
Sacristán looked at Lorenzo, who was already sprinting back to his defensive position to help the team. "No. A draw is for losers. We go for the win. But we need fresh lungs to feed the front three."
Across the pitch, Zidane was making his own moves. He called over a veteran figure from the bench: Pedro Mosquera.
Mosquera was twenty-five, a Getafe loanee who had been brought in to provide leadership to the young Castilla squad. He was a professional in every sense of the word, and his entry into the match in the 75th minute was a clear signal. Zidane was closing the door.
"Mosquera is coming on," Inés Valdes reported. "Zidane is bringing in the 'Old Guard' to stabilize the midfield. He's seen enough of Lorenzo's ghost runs. He wants a veteran to sit in that hole and cut the supply lines."
The fourth official held up the board. The substitutions were made. The final fifteen minutes of the Super Derby were about to begin.
The atmosphere in the VIP box was equally tense. Arsène Wenger was scribbling notes at a frantic pace. "The Argentinian is still running," he noted to Tata Martino. "Look at his gait. He isn't tired. How is a seventeen-year-old outlasting the Madrid midfield?"
Martino didn't answer. He was watching Lorenzo's interaction with Adama and Munir. The three of them were huddled together during the break in play, Lorenzo gesturing toward the gaps in the Madrid defense. He wasn't just a striker anymore; he was taking the lead.
"If we lose this, we're both out of a job," Sacristán's assistant whispered as the match resumed.
Sacristán didn't look at him. His eyes were fixed on the number 99.
The referee blew the whistle. The ball moved to Mosquera, who immediately established a calm, vertical control. Madrid began their final push.
Lorenzo crouched low at the halfway line, his eyes tracking the ball. He could feel the "Stadium Codex" objective humming in his mind. He didn't just want the goals. He wanted the win. He wanted to leave Madrid with the head of the King.
"Ten minutes," Lorenzo whispered, his eyes locked on Luca Zidane. "One more chance is all I need."