After the brief disruption on the sidelines, the match at the Ezeiza Training Center resumed. The scorching afternoon sun continued to bake the turf, but the atmosphere on the field had grown significantly colder.
Lorenzo's side, Team B, maintained an undeniable dominance. It wasn't because the team was playing with any particular cohesion; it was entirely because Lorenzo was operating on a level these local youth players couldn't comprehend. Every time he touched the ball, the game seemed to simplify. His positioning was clinical, his touches were minimal, and his vision for the open space made the opposing defenders look like they were running through heavy sand.
However, a strange tension began to permeate the pitch. As the "Spanish-Argentine" wonderkid continued to outshine everyone, his own teammates grew increasingly hesitant. They saw the murderous glares Marcos, the High-Performance Coordinator, was casting from the sidelines. They knew that in this camp, being a "good teammate" to Lorenzo was a quick way to find yourself on the permanent bench.
Fear, more potent than the heat, began to dictate the play.
Midway through the half, a Team B midfielder intercepted a lazy, arrogant pass from Facundo. He had a clear lane to send Lorenzo through on goal, a pass that any professional would make in their sleep. But as the midfielder looked up and saw Facundo sprinting toward him with a snarl, his composure shattered. He inexplicably fumbled the ball, tripping over his own feet and practically handing it back to the "Prince" of the academy.
The coaching staff on the sidelines didn't even blink at the blatant display of cowardice. In fact, Coach Raul let out a visible sigh of relief.
"Great recovery, Facundo! Drive it forward!" Raul shouted, his voice thick with forced encouragement.
Facundo, emboldened by the scripted gift, began a series of heavy-touched dribbles. He caught a glimpse of Lucia in the stands and tried to perform a flashy, unnecessary step-over. It was slow and telegraphed. Before he could even complete the second rotation of his foot, a white-shirted figure flashed past him like a sudden gust of wind.
Lorenzo didn't even have to break stride. He plucked the ball from Facundo's feet with the surgical precision of a master thief and pivoted toward the goal.
The silence that followed was broken only by a few scattered titters from the journalists near the fence. The "National Talent" had been humiliated by a kid who looked like he wasn't even breaking a sweat.
Facundo's face turned a shade of purple that looked physically painful. The embarrassment, witnessed by the media and the girl he was trying to impress, snapped the last thread of his restraint.
"Get him!" Facundo screamed, his voice cracking with rage. "I don't care about the ball! Take him out of the game! Break his damn legs!"
The Team A defenders, desperate to stay in the good graces of the Coordinator's son, hesitated for only a fraction of a second before launching themselves into a coordinated assault. In this environment, loyalty to the boss's son was the only currency that guaranteed a professional contract.
Lorenzo felt the shift immediately. The game was no longer about football; it had become a hunting expedition.
"Watch out!" a voice cried from the sidelines.
A defender lunged with a waist-high tackle that Lorenzo narrowly avoided with a sharp burst of acceleration. Two seconds later, another player came flying in from the blind side, aiming directly for his standing leg. Lorenzo hopped over the challenge, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't have anyone warn him, he only had his training at La Masia and a survivor's instinct.
He looked around. Team B had completely stopped running. They stood like statues, watching their best player be hunted down by a pack of wolves.
Then came the final blow.
Lorenzo had just rounded a third defender when Facundo finally caught up. The "Prince" didn't even pretend to look at the ball. He launched a two-footed, studs-up lunging tackle aimed straight at Lorenzo's right ankle. It was a career-ending move, executed with pure, concentrated malice.
The reporters gasped. Lucia gripped the wire fence, her knuckles white.
Using every ounce of his natural agility, Lorenzo twisted his body in mid-air. The metal studs grazed his shin, tearing through his sock and leaving a jagged, bloody line across his skin, but the full force of the impact missed his bone. He landed heavily, the sting of the wound radiating up his leg.
Lorenzo looked down at the blood and then at Facundo, who was standing up with a smug, self-satisfied smirk.
"That's what you get for coming here and acting like you're better than us, you Spanish prick," Facundo hissed, leaning over him. "This is Argentina. You're nothing here."
The arrogance, the blatant disregard for the sport, and the attempt to take away his livelihood triggered a rage Lorenzo hadn't felt in either of his lives. The "red mist" descended.
Lorenzo exploded upward.
Before Facundo could react, Lorenzo's fist connected squarely with his jaw. The "Prince" went down like a sack of potatoes, blood spraying from his split lip.
The stadium went dead silent.
"You want to play rough?" Lorenzo growled, his voice low and dangerous. As Facundo tried to scramble away, Lorenzo delivered a brutal, controlled kick to his chest, not to kill, but to leave a mark that would never fade. The steel studs of his boots left deep indentations in the fabric of Facundo's jersey, mirroring the "tackle" he had just received.
Facundo wailed, rolling on the turf and clutching his ribs.
The other players were paralyzed. They were academy boys, raised in a sheltered world of privilege. They had never seen someone retaliate with such cold, clinical violence.
"Stop! Stop him right now!"
Marcos, the Coordinator, was charging onto the field, his face contorted with fury. He had seen his son struck down, and his first instinct wasn't to check on the boy's health, but to destroy the person who had dared to defy the hierarchy.
Marcos swung a wild, uncoordinated punch at Lorenzo.
Lorenzo ducked the blow effortlessly. He caught the older man's arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved him toward the dirt. "You should teach your son how to tackle," Lorenzo said, spitting on the grass. "And you should learn how to run a selection that isn't a national embarrassment."
Staff members finally swarmed the pitch, pulling Marcos away and surrounding the weeping Facundo. Coach Raul was frantically shouting into his radio, his face pale as he looked at the reporters who had captured the entire debacle on camera.
"You're finished!" Marcos screamed, his voice hoarse as he was held back by three assistants. "I'll have you banned from every stadium in South America! You'll never wear this jersey! You'll rot in a jail cell for assault!"
Coach Raul pointed a trembling finger at the exit. "Expelled! Get out! You are permanently blacklisted from the National Team! You will never represent Argentina as long as I am in this position!"
Lorenzo didn't argue. He didn't plead. He simply walked toward the sidelines, ignoring the vitriol being hurled at him by the "loyalist" players who had finally found their courage now that the danger had passed.
He packed his bag in a locker room that smelled of sweat and stagnant ambition. He felt a strange sense of lightness.
Blacklisted? He let out a short, sharp laugh. To these people, the National Team was a throne to be inherited. To Lorenzo, it was supposed to be a temple. If the temple was filled with frauds, he was happy to be cast out.
He walked out of the Ezeiza main gate without looking back. He had come here hoping to find the heart of Argentinian football. Instead, he had found a carcass being picked clean by vultures. He only had a torn sock, a bleeding shin, and a cold resolve that the world would soon know his name, not through a coordinator's favor, but through the back of the net.