The Assistant Coach, Cabezas, was the first to reach Lorenzo as the players began their trek back toward the tunnel. He didn't just offer a handshake; he pulled the seventeen-year-old into a fierce, jubilant embrace, nearly lifting him off the grass.
"Lorenzo! You're not a striker, you're a nuclear warhead!" Cabezas shouted, his voice cracking with a mixture of adrenaline and pure professional relief. "To do that in the house of Di Stéfano... I'm proud to have been your coach for a single afternoon. Because I know, I know we won't be able to keep you in the B-team after tonight."
Sacristán joined them, his face flushed but his eyes unusually bright. He looked at the match ball tucked under Lorenzo's arm and then at the dejected white jerseys of the Madrid players leaving the pitch. "You silenced them, Lorenzo. Not with words, but with a hat-trick that made their captain look like a spectator. The Mini-Clásico hasn't seen a performance like that in a decade."
Lorenzo gave a humble nod, but his expression remained sharp. "I was just finishing the service, Coach. Adama and Munir did the heavy lifting."
"Service?" Adama Traoré laughed, slapping Lorenzo's shoulder with enough force to make his jersey snap. "I hit a cross and you turned it into a highlight reel. Give me that ball, I'm going to make sure every one of us signs it before we hit the bus. This belongs in a trophy case, not a gear bag."
As Adama trotted off with the ball, Lorenzo was intercepted by the ESPN Sur crew who were already positioned, their lenses focused on the boy who had just become the most searched name in Argentinian sports.
"Lorenzo, the footage of the Panenka is already being replayed on every screen in Buenos Aires," Inés said, her tone professional yet eager. "The AFA Coordinator, Marcos, hasn't released a statement yet, but the public pressure is immense. Do you feel that tonight was your 'vindication' for the Ezeiza blacklist?"
Lorenzo looked into the camera, his gaze steady. "Vindication implies I had something to prove to them. I don't. I play for the people who believe in the football, not the politics. If the AFA wants to ignore goals in the Clásico, that's their prerogative. I'm a Barcelona player now."
"Speaking of national teams", "Julen Lopetegui was seen leaving the VIP box minutes ago. The Spain U-21 Euro squad has an opening. If the Red Shirt calls tonight, will you answer?"
Lorenzo paused, the weight of the question hanging in the air. It's a choice of the heart, not just the jersey. Right now, my heart is focused on the professional contract I'm supposed to sign tomorrow."
High above the pitch, Julen Lopetegui was indeed moving with a frantic urgency. He navigated the corridors of the Di Stéfano, his mind already calculating the paperwork required to cap Lorenzo for the Spanish youth ranks.
"The boy is a predator, Carlo," Lopetegui said to Ancelotti as they walked toward the elevators. "He has the 'Argentinian grit' but he's been polished in our academy. If I don't get him into the U-21 squad for the Euros this month, the AFA will find a way to apologize and snatch him back."
Ancelotti adjusted his coat, a cynical smile playing on his lips. "Good luck, Julen. But you saw the boy's eyes. He doesn't look like someone who can be easily swayed by a 'maybe.' He wants the big stage. And speaking of the big stage..."
Ancelotti's phone buzzed. It was a text from Zinedine Zidane, who was still on the touchline. 'Ancelotti, don't even try to scout him for the first team. Martino is already in the tunnel. We missed our chance.'
Six hundred kilometers away, the villa in Castelldefels was quiet, save for the sound of the pool filter. Lionel Messi put his phone down, his expression thoughtful.
"Aimar is sending a scout on the 9:00 PM flight from Buenos Aires," Messi said to Mascherano. "The AFA realized they can't 'blacklist' the top-scoring teenager in Spain without looking like amateurs. They want to fix the relationship before Lopetegui gets a signed commitment."
Mascherano emerged from the water, his arms resting on the edge of the pool. "The boy has leverage now. He can demand an apology from Coordinator Marcos and a guaranteed spot in the U-20 World Cup squad. But if I were him... I'd wait to see what Tata Martino says tomorrow morning."
"Martino won't wait," Messi noted, a rare glimmer of competitive anticipation in his eyes. "He's been looking for a striker who can play as a pivot for Neymar and me. Lorenzo has the frame for it. He's the first kid I've seen since I joined the first team who actually looks like he could handle the physicality of a La Liga center-back."
Inside the away locker room, Lorenzo sat on the wooden bench, listening to the shouting and celebrations of his teammates. The door opened, and the noise died down instantly.
Eusebio Sacristán walked in, accompanied by a man in a sharp, professional suit, the Barcelona B Administrative Director. Behind them stood Gerardo Tata Martino, the manager of the first team.
The room went silent. Every player, from Adama to Munir, stood up out of respect.
Martino walked straight to Lorenzo. He didn't look at the other players; his eyes were fixed on the boy who had just silenced Madrid.
"Lorenzo," Martino said, his Argentinian accent thick and commanding. "I don't believe in long speeches. You showed me today that the Segunda División is too small for your boots. I've already spoken to the club president."
Martino reached into his jacket and pulled out a folder. "This is a professional contract with a first-team clause. You sign this tonight, and you report to the Joan Gamper training center at 9:00 AM tomorrow. You'll be training with Messi, Neymar, and Xavi."
A collective gasp went through the room. A direct call-up after a single B-team match. It was unheard of.
Lorenzo stood up, meeting Martino's gaze with the same unyielding focus he had shown on the penalty spot. "I'll be there, Coach."
"Good," Martino said, a faint, predatory smile appearing on his face. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, the speed of the game triples. I want to see if you can survive the rondo."
As Martino walked out, Lorenzo felt the weight of the folder in his hand. The professional journey to the summit of the football world had officially begun.
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