Before the ceremony began, the Barcelona players formed a circle near the centre of the pitch. Busquets started singing.
"Lorenzo, Lorenzo! Camp Nou's darling, La Masia's treasure! He gives Barça new life, scoring goals like breathing! He is the Son of God, the nightmare of defenders! He is strong and robust, fast and fearless! He is a passionate fellow — and his phone never stops ringing!"
The squad joined in, arms over each other's shoulders, swaying, the lyrics carried more by enthusiasm than melody. Messi was laughing too hard to sing. Iniesta managed two lines before dissolving. Piqué bellowed the chorus in a baritone that carried to the stands.
Lorenzo stood in the middle of the circle, match ball still under his arm, shaking his head.
"Which one of you wrote this?"
"I did," Busquets said, looking immensely proud. "It's called 'The Song of Lorenzo.' I had the inspiration the night after the Napoli match."
Xavi smiled. "It's perfect for tonight. A hat-trick in the Copa del Rey final, against Real Madrid, with Casillas and Ronaldo on the other side."
"The phone line is a bit much," Lorenzo said.
"The phone line is the most accurate part," Busquets replied.
The ceremony followed the traditional format, starting with the refereeing team stepping up to receive their commemorative medals. Then, the Real Madrid players filed up the temporary podium to receive their runner-up medals first. Ancelotti led the way — his gum still working rhythmically, his expression completely blank, carrying the quiet dignity of a world-class manager who has stood on the losing side of finals before and knows exactly how to handle the walk.
Once they descended, the Madrid players swallowed their pride and formed a guard of honor on both sides of the walkway, applauding politely as the Barcelona squad began to file through toward the podium.
Benzema shook Lorenzo's hand firmly, leaning in close. "You were better tonight. Simple as that."
Modrić followed right behind, offering the same firm handshake accompanied by a slow, respectful nod that carried far more weight than any words could.
Di María broke the tension by warmly embracing Messi and Mascherano, sharing that unique, unspoken bond that international teammates always hold on to, even when their clubs are actively at war on the pitch.
When Bale reached Lorenzo, he stopped in his tracks. He stared at the young forward for a beat and let out a heavy sigh. "You're too fast, kid. And trust me, I don't say that to anyone."
Lorenzo gave a modest shrug. "You're still one of the fastest players in the world."
"That is genuinely the worst compliment I've ever received," Bale said, a wry smile breaking across his face as he patted Lorenzo's shoulder and kept walking.
Morata and Nacho appeared next, stepping up together. They had been Lorenzo's teammates just months ago during the U-21 Championship, but the vast gulf between where they were right now and where he stood was written all over their faces.
"We watched the hat-trick from the bench," Morata admitted, shaking his head. "I swear, the entire dugout just went dead silent after the third one went in."
"Even Varane," Nacho chipped in, cracking a slight grin. "And you know Varane doesn't react to anything."
Then came Ronaldo.
As Lorenzo moved down the line of the guard of honour toward the podium, he caught sight of the Portuguese forward standing near the end. Ronaldo's jersey was untucked, his chest still heaving slightly, his expression tightly controlled. He had fought bitterly for his goal tonight — that bullet header that had dragged Madrid back to 3-2 and briefly reignited their hope — but the night ultimately belonged to the kid walking toward him.
When Lorenzo reached him, Ronaldo didn't just stand there applauding. He stepped forward slightly, blocking the path for a split second. The handshake they exchanged lasted longer than any of the others — three seconds, maybe four — the specific, lingering duration of two apex competitors acknowledging each other without conceding an inch of pride.
There was zero hostility in Ronaldo's face. Instead, his eyes locked onto Lorenzo's with a look of pure, intense recognition — the exact same resolute, unbroken gaze from the tunnel before kickoff, but now carrying the heavy weight of a ninety-minute battle that hadn't gone the way he had promised it would. It was the ultimate acknowledgment one elite athlete gives another when the contest has been entirely genuine and the result completely undeniable.
Holding the handshake, Ronaldo leaned in slightly, his voice low but completely clear over the din of the stadium. "You played well tonight, kid."
He gave Lorenzo's hand one final, firm squeeze, released his grip, and nodded toward the trophy presentation stage ahead, letting the young forward pass.
The Barcelona players surged onto the podium. Families appeared from the tunnel — Messi sat at the edge with Antonela and Thiago, the toddler immediately fascinated by the confetti. Busquets stood with his wife, still humming his song.
Cecilia climbed the steps, weaving through the crowded section until she finally found Lorenzo near the front. When she looked at him, her smile had that brave, deliberate quality of someone who had actively chosen to just be completely present and happy in the moment, leaving all the complicated feelings to be dealt with tomorrow.
"Where's Lucia?" Lorenzo asked.
"She's coming. She needed a minute."
Lucia appeared at the base of the podium stairs. She had fixed her makeup and straightened her jacket and her expression was composed — the particular composure of someone who has made a decision to be where her friend needs her to be, regardless of what it costs. She climbed the steps and stood beside Lorenzo on his other side.
"You came back," he said.
"Of course I came back." Her voice was light. "You just won a trophy. I'm not going to miss the photograph."
Cecilia reached across Lorenzo and squeezed Lucia's hand briefly. Lucia squeezed back. The gesture was small and private and contained an entire conversation that neither of them would have in front of the cameras.
Near the front of the podium, Xavi stood cradling the heavy Copa del Rey trophy. The veteran captain took a brief moment to look down at the gleaming, engraved silver, then back at the raucous squad gathering behind him, before his eyes finally settled on the seventeen-year-old who had just carried them across the finish line with a historic hat-trick. Turning around amidst the absolute chaos of the celebrations, Xavi grabbed Lorenzo by the shoulder and firmly pulled him forward to the very edge of the stage.
"This trophy belongs to all of us," Xavi said, shouting slightly to be heard over the din, a proud smile breaking across his face. "But the night? That belonged entirely to you."
Together, they gripped the silver handles — Xavi's experienced hands on one side, Lorenzo's champagne-soaked grip on the other — and hoisted it high into the air.
At that exact second, the Mestalla completely exploded. The sound that tore through the stadium wasn't just the standard roar of a home crowd or the synchronized chanting of a typical away end. It was the raw, unadulterated, full-throated ecstasy of twenty-five thousand traveling Barcelona fans who had made the journey to Valencia and had just been handed the unforgettable evening of their lives.
Fireworks showered above the podium. The Barcelona fans sang — the same songs they sang at Camp Nou, carried here across three hundred kilometres and delivered with the particular intensity of fans who have won a trophy in enemy territory. In the VIP section, Cruyff stood and applauded — the man who had built the first Dream Team, watching the boy who might anchor the next one.
Beside him, Rivaldo smiled quietly.
The trophy glittered under the floodlights. Lorenzo held it high and the noise washed over him like weather.
[Status: Copa del Rey Champions.]
Don't forget to drop those Power Stones on your way out!
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