The celebration was Lorenzo's loudest of the evening. He rounded the goal and ran to the Barcelona fans, arms raised, screaming into the noise. The speed duel with Bale had produced something beyond a goal — it had produced a moment that would be replayed for years.
Busquets arrived at a full sprint, practically throwing his arms up in disbelief. "You actually outran Gareth Bale! You completely left him in your dust! I've been playing against that man for three years and I have never seen anyone make him look slow like that."
Xavi swooped in next, wrapping a firm arm around Lorenzo's shoulder, his eyes wide with intensity. "One more, Lorenzo. One more and you have a hat-trick in a Copa del Rey final. Do you actually grasp what that means?"
"It means I shouldn't stop running yet, right?" Lorenzo said, letting out a breathless laugh.
"It means you'd be the youngest player in football history to ever do it," Xavi said, his voice dropping to a serious, awe-struck tone. "And we're talking youngest by years, kid, not even months."
Martino and Pautasso were at the edge of the technical area, restraining themselves from running to the corner flag. Martino clapped once and turned back to the pitch.
Inside the Real Madrid penalty area, the atmosphere felt absolutely funereal.
Casillas stood glued to his line, methodically ripping open the velcro on his gloves to retighten them before adjusting the captain's armband snug against his sleeve. He was desperately searching for the right words, the kind of speech that could spark a miracle from 3-1 down in a cup final. He had pulled off those miracles before—Istanbul in 2002, those legendary, defying comebacks at the Bernabéu, those nights where sheer force of will had been enough to bend reality. But tonight, the opponent wasn't tiring, and the gap felt completely unbridgeable.
Pepe strode aggressively into his own goal, scooped the ball out of the mesh, and booted it violently into the stands. The Barcelona fans overhead showered him with a wall of mocking applause.
Over on the right flank, the tension boiled over as Bale clashed with Carvajal. "Where the hell were you?" Bale barked, chest heaving. "I had to track back all the way from the halfway line because you were completely out of position!"
Carvajal snapped his head back, defensive. "I was covering the overlap! You were the nearest man—"
"Nearest doesn't mean it's my responsibility!"
Ramos stepped right between them before the argument could escalate any further. "Save it," he growled, pushing them apart. "Not now, guys."
Near the center circle, Ronaldo stood completely isolated. He looked up at the glowing scoreboard — 3-1 — and bent double, hands resting on his knees. He clenched his fists tightly, a look of pure, unadulterated frustration flashing across his face. Every single broadcast camera in the Mestalla caught it instantly. The raw helplessness, the agony, the specific torment of a man who had publicly vowed to dominate this match, only to find himself completely starved of the goals he lived for.
On the Real Madrid touchline, Ancelotti methodically unwrapped a fresh piece of chewing gum — his third of the evening.
"Not even twenty minutes have passed since the second half started, Carlo," Zidane said, stepping up beside him. "This is a championship match. A final. The stakes are entirely different."
"I know the stakes, Zizou." Ancelotti's voice remained even, but he was chewing with an unusual, tense force. "Trust our players. Real Madrid is not just any team. We have a dressing room full of world-class superstars. They know exactly what this match means."
"Do they? Because their body language right now suggests—"
"Body language isn't the same as intent," Ancelotti cut him off softly, keeping his eyes locked on the pitch. "Just watch."
Fweet—!
The restart confirmed Ancelotti's prediction — partially. Real Madrid attacked with everything.
Ronaldo moved permanently to the centre, positioning himself as a target man between Piqué and Mascherano. Bale and Di María operated as twin wingers, interchanging positions on the right side where the majority of Real Madrid's attacks had originated all evening. Marcelo pushed so far forward that his position was closer to a winger than a full-back. Effectively four forwards, three midfielders, and three defenders — the formation of a team that had decided to gamble everything on the next twenty minutes.
Barcelona withdrew. The defensive shape tightening around the penalty area like a closing fist. Lorenzo, Messi, and Neymar stayed high, three counter-attacking threats that prevented Real Madrid from committing their full defensive line.
The next fifteen minutes produced a storm of Real Madrid attacks and a wall of Barcelona resistance.
In the 62nd minute, Ronaldo received from Modric twenty yards out, opened his body, and drove the ball over the crossbar. In the 66th, Di María beat Alves on the dribble and won a corner — Ramos rose highest but headed it two yards wide of the far post. In the 70th, Bale ran at Alba for what felt like the tenth time, cut inside onto his left, and curled a shot that Valdés pushed around the post with both palms.
In the 73rd, Modric found Ronaldo in genuine space at the edge of the area — unmarked, balanced, the kind of position he had scored from a thousand times. He struck it first-time, powerfully, with conviction. The ball sailed over the crossbar and into the upper tier.
Ronaldo threw his hands up. He turned away from the goal and walked back with his head down. The frustration was no longer contained — it was structural, written into his posture, visible from every seat in the stadium. Every missed shot added to the accumulation — the season-long narrative of watching Lorenzo score in every competition while his own Clásico record remained blank.
"Ronaldo's fifth shot of the second half," Inés noted. "All have missed the target. The desire is evident but the precision is absent. This is the signature of a player whose emotional state is overriding his technical instincts."
Up in the neutral section, Cecilia watched Ronaldo's reaction, her face clouding with a complicated mix of sympathy and awe.
"He's suffering," she said quietly, almost to herself.
Garrido glanced over at her, his voice detached. "He's losing. There's a big difference."
"No." Cecilia shook her head, her eyes locked on the isolated figure near the center circle. "He's genuinely suffering. Just look at him. He wants to score more than he actually wants to win."
Garrido went quiet for a moment, letting the roar of the stadium fill the silence between them. "So? Your Barcelona boy doesn't have that problem."
"No," she said softly, a quiet realization settling in. "He doesn't."
On the pitch, the clock passed the 75th minute. Barcelona were comfortable. Real Madrid were desperate. The gap between those two states was widening with every minute.
Santiago's voice from the booth: "Time is running out for Real Madrid. Fifteen minutes remain in the Copa del Rey final. Ronaldo has not scored. Barcelona lead by two. The trophy is within touching distance."
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