The dressing room at Mestalla had been borrowed for the evening and the Barcelona players were treating it as if they owned the building.
Busquets was on the table. This was now tradition — every post-championship dressing room, Busquets on the table, conducting. The Copa del Rey trophy sat beside him like a co-presenter. The rest of the squad formed a circle, arms linked, reprising 'The Song of Lorenzo' with decreasing accuracy and increasing volume.
Lorenzo grabbed the champagne bottles from the table and sprayed them indiscriminately. Piqué received the majority. Alves received the rest. Messi sat in the corner with Thiago on his lap, shielding the toddler from the chaos with the particular expertise of a father who has celebrated many trophies and knows exactly how far the spray carries.
Martino appeared at the dressing room door and just stood there for a second, taking in the beautiful chaos. Champagne was dripping from the ceiling, Busquets was standing on a table conducting an imaginary choir, and the Copa del Rey trophy was currently serving as a makeshift microphone stand. After joining in the laughter and celebrating with the squad for a few minutes, Martino slipped away, heading straight for the tactical whiteboard mounted on the wall.
"We have four massive La Liga matches left this month," he said, turning to his assistant Pautasso and Xavi, who had both detached themselves from the party to join him. "And then our Champions League semifinal kicks off next month."
Pautasso let out a breath, looking visibly relieved. "Fighting on two fronts instead of three makes things a lot easier. Plus, the squad is in great shape—we've managed to avoid any widespread injury crises."
"Smart rotation kept everyone fresh," Martino agreed, nodding. "Well, that and Lorenzo's freakish physics." He glanced across the roaring room at the seventeen-year-old, who was currently laughing and dodging a charging Busquets. "The kid never needs a rest, and his body just refuses to break down. Even the medical staff can't explain it."
Xavi looked over at the whiteboard, his expression turning sharp and focused. "The road ahead isn't going to be easy, boss. Look at the other three semifinalists. Juventus, Real Madrid, Bayern Munich — every single one of them is absolute elite class."
"Bayern especially," Martino muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the board. "Guardiola has them playing on another level this season. And let's not forget what happened last year — Heynckes' side absolutely dismantled us 7-0 on aggregate."
"That was a completely different Barcelona," Xavi said firmly, his voice steady.
Martino looked at his veteran captain for a long, quiet second. "Yes. It was."
The unsaid truth hung in the air between them, heavy and undeniable. The Barcelona that had been torn apart by Bayern a year ago hadn't had Lorenzo. This one did.
Later on, when the wild celebrations had finally died down and the players were slowly filtering out toward the team bus, Lorenzo sat quietly in front of his locker. The dressing room was empty, the air still smelling faintly of stale champagne and deep heat rub, as he finally let the system settle.
[Ding! Side Mission 'Third Championship' — Complete!]
[Reward: Copa del Rey Champion Chest × 1.]
[Opening Copa del Rey Champion Chest...]
[Congratulations! You have received: 'Denilson Super Step-over Template'!]
[Effect: Integrates the step-over dribbling mastery of Denilson de Oliveira — the Brazilian genius who invented the modern step-over and held the world transfer record in 1998. Enhances feint frequency, foot speed during deceptive dribbling, and the ability to wrong-foot defenders through rapid directional changes. Practical and injury-safe — unlike the pendulum dribble, the step-over does not place excessive strain on the knees.]
Lorenzo absorbed the template. The sensation was different from the physical upgrades — lighter, concentrated in his feet and ankles, a nimbleness that hadn't been there before. The step-over was deceptively simple in concept: the foot circles over the ball without touching it, the body sells the direction change, the defender's weight shifts, and the attacker goes the other way. In practice, it required foot speed that most players couldn't produce consistently and timing that separated the useful from the spectacular.
Denílson's career became a famous cautionary tale of unfulfilled potential — moving for a world-record fee at just twenty-one, only to find himself drifting from the global spotlight by the time he reached twenty-eight. Yet, while his career didn't scale the historic heights everyone expected, the signature step-over he brought to the world stage took on a life of its own, outliving his playing days and inspiring generations of wingers decades later. Ronaldo Nazário had used it at Inter. Ronaldinho had combined it with the elastico at Barcelona. Cristiano Ronaldo had built entire highlight reels around it at Old Trafford. All of them had borrowed from Denilson's invention and improved it in their own image.
Now, it was Lorenzo's turn to make it his own.
In the quiet of the dressing room, his phone buzzed against the bench.
Lucia.
I'm sorry I left like that. At the tunnel. I should have stayed.
He read the message twice. The dressing room was almost completely empty now, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint, distant echo of fans still singing outside the Mestalla.
He typed back: You came back. That's all that matters.
A few seconds ticked by. The typing bubbles appeared, vanished, and appeared again.
Cecilia squeezed my hand on the podium, her reply finally came through. I think she figured out something I haven't even said out loud yet.
Lorenzo stared at the screen. From the shower room down the hall, he could hear Busquets loudly off-key singing a victory chant. He looked back down at his phone and typed: You don't have to explain anything if you're not ready to.
I know. That's the problem. I don't know when I will be. Maybe not for a while.
There's no timer on this, Lucia.
A long pause followed. The longest one yet. He watched the screen, waiting.
Thanks for not making things weird.
You're my oldest friend, Lorenzo replied instantly. Nothing between us is weird.
Everything between us is weird, she shot back. But thanks for pretending it isn't.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — the bittersweet smile of a seventeen-year-old who had just won the Copa del Rey, only to realize the simplest relationship in his life had just become the most complicated.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, slung his kit bag over his shoulder, and walked out toward the team bus. Behind him, the Mestalla floodlights were slowly shutting down, casting long shadows across the concrete. The trophy was packed away in the bus trunk. The grueling February schedule was waiting.
The European press carried the Copa del Rey final for three days.
"Barça Genius Shines in Copa del Rey!" — Mundo Deportivo.
"Double Victory Over Real Madrid This Season!" — Sport.
"An Unstoppable Monster!" — AS.
"Four Goals Conceded, Saint Casillas's Helplessness" — Marca.
Fifteen Copa del Rey goals in ten matches. Final MVP. Youngest Clásico hat-trick in history. Third career title in six months.
The season was not finished. The La Liga title race continued. The Champions League semi-finals were approaching. And somewhere in Brazil, the World Cup was five months away.
[Status: Copa champion. Denilson template acquired.]
Don't forget to drop those Power Stones on your way out!
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