The final eight minutes passed without incident. Martino made two substitutions — Sergi Roberto for Xavi, Pedro for Neymar — and Barcelona held the ball in midfield with the patience of a team that had already won and was waiting for the scoreboard to confirm it.
Ronaldo tried. He drove at Piqué twice, won a free kick from twenty-five yards, and curled it into the wall. On the other side, Ancelotti brought on Varane for the exhausted Pepe and Morata for Benzema. Neither change produced anything.
The final whistle cut through the Mestalla night.
Barcelona 4–2 Real Madrid.
The Barcelona section erupted in a sustained, physical explosion of sound that carried across the stadium and out into the Valencia evening. A championship banner unfurled from the front of the Blaugrana stands, the red-and-blue fabric dropping twenty rows. Fireworks crackled above the main stand.
On the pitch, the Barcelona players converged. Busquets sprinted from the halfway line toward the nearest group of teammates and dived into the celebration. Messi embraced Iniesta. Piqué lifted Mascherano off the ground entirely. Martino walked onto the pitch and was immediately swallowed by the group.
"FOUR-TWO! IT IS ALL OVER!" Santiago bellowed from the booth, his voice completely raw after ninety minutes of pure drama. "Barcelona defeat Real Madrid to claim the Copa del Rey final! A historic hat-trick from Lorenzo, making him the youngest player to ever score three in Clásico history and shattering Paulino Alcántara's record from 1916 by over two years, has officially secured Barcelona's twenty-seventh Copa del Rey title!"
On the other side of the pitch, the Real Madrid players stood in various postures of defeat.
Modric lay on the grass, energy spent. Ramos stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the Barcelona celebration with the expression of a man processing something he cannot change. Alonso walked slowly toward the tunnel without looking back.
At the center circle, Ronaldo bent double, resting his heavy forearms against his knees to support his weight. His face was a mask of intense frustration and sheer exhaustion, mixed with a look that was far harder to define — a stubborn, unyielding refusal to accept that the evening had actually slipped away from them like this. He had fought hard to get his goal, but Lorenzo had answered with three. The entire final had been framed as a direct battle between the two of them, and right now, the cold numbers on the scoreboard told the whole story.
On the touchline, Ancelotti sat in the outermost seat of the dugout. His gum had been discarded. His expression was blank.
"Our counter-attacking speed was completely overwhelmed," he said to Zidane without turning his head. "Their transitions were faster than ours in every phase. Their number nine carried the ball at speeds our defenders couldn't match."
"Should we have brought on Khedira earlier?" Zidane asked.
"Perhaps. But the problem was never one player." Ancelotti exhaled.
In the VIP section, the broadcast cameras panned over to capture three legendary figures watching the closing moments in stunned silence. Luís Figo, the man who famously crossed the bitter divide from Barcelona to Real Madrid to become an iconic figure for both clubs, sat with his arms tightly folded across his chest, his expression completely unreadable. Right beside him, Roberto Carlos and Ronaldo Nazário, two defining icons of Madrid's legendary Galáctico era, could only shake their heads in quiet disbelief at what they had just witnessed.
As those iconic faces flashed onto the massive stadium screens, a ripple went through the crowd. The Madrid fans let out a collective, melancholic sigh at the sight of their old heroes, while the traveling Barcelona faithful erupted into a fresh wave of cheers, thoroughly enjoying the symbolic passing of the torch taking place right before their eyes.
The MVP announcement came through the stadium speakers as the award ceremony preparations began.
"Copa del Rey Final — Most Valuable Player: Lorenzo, FC Barcelona."
The traveling Barça faithful erupted into a massive, deafening roar. Lorenzo stood near the touchline, cradling the hard-earned match ball snugly under his arm before stepping forward to accept the trophy from the president of the Spanish Football Association. It was a whirlwind moment: a firm handshake, a few brief words of congratulations, and the blinding flash of cameras capturing the definitive photograph of the night.
Up in the commentary booth, Inés wrapped up the broadcast by delivering the final, definitive statistical summary of the night.
"Three goals, one assist," she said, her voice filled with quiet awe. "He becomes the youngest player to ever score a hat-trick in Clásico history, beating the previous record by two years and four months. That brings his tally to an unbelievable fifteen goals in just ten Copa del Rey appearances this season, safely securing his spot as the tournament's absolute top scorer and the undisputed Final MVP."
Near the mouth of the player tunnel, Cecilia stood waiting. She had quietly slipped away from the neutral section while the wild celebrations were still unfolding out on the pitch. Her jacket hung unzipped, revealing the number nine jersey underneath—the exact same one she had worn back at the Calderón.
He caught sight of her before she could even say a word. There was no clever banter or teasing remark this time. Instead, she just stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him, burying her face straight into his champagne-soaked jersey, holding onto him like she never wanted to let go.
"You were incredible," she murmured against his shoulder.
Lorenzo rested a hand on the back of her head, leaning into the embrace. "Thank you. You didn't come all this way to watch the match alone, did you? Where's your dad?"
"Still up in his seat," she said, a slight smile in her voice. "I think he's still processing everything."
"Is he alright?"
"Well, he muttered 'that boy is going to be the death of me' and then completely shut up. I think that's his way of saying he's proud, even if he'll never admit it out loud."
Behind them, Lucia appeared at the tunnel entrance. She had watched the match from a completely different section — entirely by choice — claiming she preferred to watch football without having to listen to running commentary from people who actually knew the players off the pitch. Her face carried that sharp, deliberate composure of someone who had been crying privately and had stopped just in time to look perfectly normal. Her eyes were still a little red around the rims, but her voice was steady when she broke the silence.
"Congratulations," she said.
She directed the words at Lorenzo, but her gaze lingered on the two of them — taking in the way their arms were locked around each other, the way Cecilia's cheek rested naturally against his damp jersey, and the quiet, effortless intimacy of two people who no longer needed to explain what they meant to one another.
"I almost didn't," she admitted, pausing for a brief second. "But I think I would have regretted missing it more than I hated the flight." She took a breath, her expression softening. "You deserve this. All of it."
Before the moment could stretch out or demand any more words, she turned on her heel and walked back into the depths of the tunnel. Her footsteps echoed sharply down the narrow concrete corridor until she disappeared around the bend.
Cecilia, still holding Lorenzo, felt the shift — the slight tension in his body when Lucia had appeared, the way his gaze had followed her into the tunnel for a beat longer than necessary. She didn't comment on it. She had known for weeks what it was. She had known before Lucia herself had known.
"She'll be fine," Cecilia said quietly, her voice gentle.
Lorenzo didn't answer right away. He stared at the empty corridor for a moment before murmuring, "I know."
"No, you don't," Cecilia countered softly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. "But that's okay. You'll figure it out."
She leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, before turning to head back toward her parents' seats. She left him standing completely alone at the mouth of the tunnel — cradling the match ball under one arm, the MVP trophy heavy in his other hand, and carrying the sudden, heavy realization that the simplest parts of his life weren't going to be simple anymore.
Don't forget to drop those Power Stones on your way out!
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