Lorenzo didn't wheel away toward the bouncing Barcelona end. Instead, he sprinted straight toward the Real Madrid supporters.
The celebration was totally deliberate — he dropped to his knees, arms spread wide, letting the slick Mestalla turf carry him right up to the section that had spent the last thirty minutes chanting Ronaldo's name. He ground to a halt right at the advertising boards and just looked up at them. There was no aggressive taunting, no dramatic gestures. It was just the undeniable presence of the kid who had scored, standing firmly in the territory of the people who had desperately wanted him to fail.
The stunned, furious silence ringing out from the Madrid section spoke volumes.
Messi reached him first, a wide grin plastered across his face as he grabbed him. "You always have to pick the most interesting side of the stadium, don't you?"
"The other side is already happy," Lorenzo shrugged, catching his breath. "This side needed something to think about."
Busquets arrived at a full sprint, practically throwing himself into the huddle. "Did you see Pepe? He went flying! Literally flying! I've been playing against that man for six years and I have never seen anyone completely knock him off his feet like that."
"Pepe's going to argue it was a foul, you know," Iniesta pointed out, jogging up right behind them with a calm smile.
"Pepe would argue the sky is bright green if it helped his case," Busquets scoffed, waving a hand dismissively.
Martino and Pautasso had come to the edge of the technical area. Martino's celebration was a single clap and a nod — the recognition that the plan had worked, not the performance of surprise. Pautasso was less contained, grabbing Martino's shoulder and shaking it once.
"Watching his progress is honestly despair-inducing," Zidane murmured, his eyes locked on the pitch from the edge of the Real Madrid technical area. He rubbed the back of his neck — that habitual, telling gesture of a man trying to process a problem he doesn't have a tactical answer for.
Ancelotti stood right beside him, his jaw working the gum rhythmically. "He's completely different than he was in the Super Cup. Just half a season has added layers to his game that weren't even there in August."
"In the Super Cup, he was just quick and physical," Zidane said, shaking his head. "Tonight, he's reading our defense before the backline has even finished forming. Pepe is one of the strongest, most ruthless center-backs on the planet, and he just went straight through him."
"Pepe committed too early," Ancelotti countered flatly.
"No, Pepe committed at exactly the right time. The terrifying part is that the right time wasn't nearly early enough." Zidane kept his eyes glued to the pitch. "Carlo — this kid is going to be the best player in the world within two years. We seriously need to start thinking about what that means for us."
Ancelotti didn't break his gaze from the game, his expression hardening. "We still have forty-five minutes out there. Let's worry about the future after the final whistle."
On the far side of the center circle, Ronaldo stood completely alone, hands planted firmly on his hips. His face was a mask of intense concentration, but his jaw was set noticeably tighter than it had been at kickoff. That goal hadn't just been a tactical breakdown; it had come from a kid physically overpowering two of their toughest defenders — including Pepe, a guy who was supposed to be completely immune to that kind of bullying.
Ronaldo took a slow, deep breath, regulating his breathing as his eyes swept over the tunnel, down to the turf, and finally over to the Barcelona players strolling back to their half. He didn't say a single word to anyone.
Up in the neutral section, Cecilia was still up on her feet, caught up in the energy. Garrido, however, remained firmly in his seat.
"He slid right in front of the Real Madrid fans," Cecilia said, her eyes glued to the pitch. "Did you see that?"
"I saw it."
"That takes some serious guts. Sixty thousand people in the stadium, and he intentionally picks the exact section that despises him to lay down a marker."
"He didn't choose the section that despises him," Garrido corrected quietly, his gaze fixed on the field. "He chose the section that fears him. There's a big difference."
Cecilia glanced down at her father, genuinely surprised. It was easily the most perceptive, honest thing he had said about Lorenzo all season. A soft smile touched her lips, and she reached over to give his arm a quick, appreciative squeeze.
"Don't go getting all sentimental on me," Garrido muttered, shifting slightly in his seat. "The match is far from over."
Fweet—!
The match restarted. The intensity in the Mestalla shifted — both sides aware that the scoreline had been broken and that the next fifteen minutes of the first half would determine whether the final remained open or Barcelona pulled away.
Xabi Alonso took control. Real Madrid's deepest midfielder began to dictate the tempo from the base of the midfield triangle — long, switching diagonals from left to right, the kind of passes that compressed Barcelona's midfield and forced them to cover the full width of the pitch. Alonso at thirty-two was slower than he had been but his understanding of space had not declined. Every pass arrived at the right foot, at the right moment, with the right weight. He was the conductor of a system that would, in future seasons, be passed to different hands — but for now, the orchestra answered to him.
Modric supported him from slightly ahead, the Croatian's perpetual motion creating passing options that kept Barcelona's press from settling. Di María drifted between the lines on the left, his feet producing bursts of acceleration that pulled Alves out of position twice in three minutes. On the right, Bale stayed wide, stretching Alba's defensive territory, always threatening to run.
For ten minutes, the possession was Real Madrid's. They didn't create clear chances — Martino's shape was too compact for that, but they kept the ball in Barcelona's half long enough to change the atmospheric pressure inside Mestalla. The Real Madrid fans, silenced by the goal, found their voice again.
Ronaldo received on the left, cut inside Alves with a step-over that carried the specific anger of a man who has been outscored and intends to correct it before halftime. He drove a shot from twenty-five yards that Valdés caught cleanly at chest height. Bale ran at Alba again on the right — the same lane, the same devastating speed — and was finally stopped by a Mascherano recovery tackle at the edge of the area that drew applause from both sets of fans.
Barcelona's response was to hold. Xavi and Busquets built a temporary fortress in the centre of the pitch, denying the vertical lanes, recycling possession when they won it, refusing to engage in the end-to-end rhythm that Real Madrid wanted and needed.
The first half was approaching its final minutes. The score was 1-0. The next goal would define the shape of the evening.
Don't forget to drop those Power Stones on your way out!
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