The media room at the Santiago Bernabéu felt like a pressurized chamber. Carlo Ancelotti sat with a stoic, raised eyebrow, while beside him, Cristiano Ronaldo's expression was a mask of cold, vibrating fury.
Following a home defeat in El Clásico, the air was usually thick with tension, but tonight it was toxic. The Spanish and international reporters weren't just asking questions; they were wielding them like scalpels, looking for the exact nerve to twist. In previous years, the comparison was always Messi. Today, there was a new, younger ghost haunting the room.
"Cristiano, this question is for you!" a reporter from Marca stood up, his voice echoing in the crowded space. "After Real Madrid's 5-0 win against Osasuna in the opening round, you famously said, 'I will remain at the top of the scoring charts until the end of the season.' But it has been exactly one match, and you have already been overtaken by a seventeen-year-old on his debut. Does this suggest a shift in the hierarchy?"
Ancelotti's jaw tightened. Cristiano suppressed a growl, his fingers drumming a sharp, rhythmic beat on the table.
"Do you think this is a comeback? You should know that 2 equals 2, not that 2 is greater than 2!" Cristiano snapped, his eyes flashing.
The latest La Liga Pichichi list had been released minutes after the final whistle. While both Lorenzo and Cristiano sat on two goals, the tie-breaking rules, which prioritized non-penalty goals, placed the Argentinian teenager at the top.
The reporter, sensing blood in the water, persisted. "But one of yours was a penalty. Lorenzo scored both of his from open play, including that long-range strike. In the eyes of the fans, he is the 'authentic' leader of the charts. Do you feel the pressure of the new generation?"
That was the breaking point. Cristiano stood up abruptly, his chair scraping violently against the floor. He didn't even look at the cameras.
"I don't feel pressure from children!" Cristiano retorted, his voice booming. I am done here."
Cristiano stormed out of the room, leaving the reporters in a state of stunned silence. Ancelotti sighed, standing up to follow his star.
While Madrid was simmering in frustration, the atmosphere in the Barcelona media room was one of quiet, almost arrogant triumph. Tata Martino sat with a relaxed grin, but the cameras were all focused on the boy sitting beside him.
"Lorenzo! You've successfully outplayed Ramos and Pepe in a single afternoon," a reporter from El Mundo Deportivo shouted. "The AFA has officially blacklisted you, yet here you are leading the Spanish scoring charts. Do you have a message for the coordinators back in Buenos Aires?"
Lorenzo leaned into the microphone, his expression calm. "I don't play for coordinators. I play for the back of the net. If they want to watch my goals on television instead of from the dugout, that is their choice. I'm focused on winning trophies with Barcelona."
That same night, halfway across the world in Buenos Aires, the AFA headquarters at Calle Viamonte was in a state of absolute chaos.
Marcos, the High-Performance Coordinator, was standing in front of a board of grim-faced directors. On the television screen behind him, Lorenzo's thirty-yard "Batigol" was playing on a loop on the news.
"I told you he was a distraction!" Marcos shouted, though his voice lacked conviction. "He assaulted a staff member! We had to maintain discipline!"
"Discipline?" one of the directors slammed a hand on the table. "The public is calling for your head, Marcos! The video of your son's tackle has ten million views. People aren't talking about discipline; they're talking about how you chased away the greatest teenage talent we've produced in twenty years!"
"Lopetegui is in Madrid right now," another director added, his face pale. "If Lorenzo wears the Red Shirt of Spain in the U21 Euros this weekend, we lose the Beast. Do you realize what that means for our 2018 World Cup cycle?"
Marcos fell silent. He realized that his attempts to bury Lorenzo had only served to build the boy a pedestal in Europe. The AFA was now facing a public relations nightmare that no amount of leaked "thug" reports could fix.
Late that night, Lorenzo returned to his villa in Barcelona. The scent of a home-cooked Argentinian dinner filled the hallway. Lucia was already there, her eyes bright with excitement.
"Lorenzo! Look at this!" Lucia shouted, holding up her phone. "The whole school was watching the game during the break! Even the teachers! All the boys are clamoring for your autograph, and my biology teacher said she's officially a fan!"
Lucia was attending one of the top high schools in Catalonia, a place where Barcelona was more than a club, it was a religion.
"Just the boys?" Lorenzo teased, taking his seat at the table.
Lucia rolled her eyes playfully. "Of course, many girls asked too. But I told them you were 'unavailable' for signatures tonight. I rejected them all!"
Lorenzo laughed, putting on a mock expression of heartbreak. "My career is over before it started! I'm being managed by my own little nanny."
As he began to eat, his phone buzzed on the table. It was Julen Lopetegui.
"Lorenzo! I watched the TV broadcast from Valencia tonight," Lopetegui's voice was electric with energy. "Your performance was explosive! Maintain this form, because the U21 match against France is this weekend. With you as our spearhead, we won't fear their defense."
"France?" Lorenzo asked, his mind shifting into tactical mode.
"They'll send Varane and Umtiti," Lopetegui said. "A Real Madrid star and a future world-class pairing. They're a wall, but after what you did to Ramos, I know you can break them. Be ready."
The call ended, and Lorenzo stared at his plate. He knew the 2013 French U21 squad was a "golden generation." It featured Antoine Griezmann, Paul Pogba, and Alexandre Lacazette. These were the core players who would go on to win the World Cup in 2018.
"Missing a certain teenager from Monaco?" Lorenzo wondered with a smile. In 2013, Mbappé was still a child in the academy, but the team he was about to face was already star-studded.
"Don't think about the game while you're eating," Lucia said, gently pushing a second helping of steak onto his plate. "The dishes can wait for tomorrow. Tonight, you just need to be the boy who came home after a long day."
Lorenzo smiled, the warmth of the villa a stark contrast to the cold war brewing in Madrid and the panic in Buenos Aires. "As you command, Lucia."
[Status: Post-Clásico Recovery.]
[System Note: AFA Internal Conflict triggered. Spain U21 vs France U21 Preparation.]
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