While Lorenzo was settling into his villa in Les Corts, the lights were burning late in a building adjacent to the Camp Nou: the administrative offices of Barcelona B.
Inside his top-floor office, Eusebio Sacristán, the head coach of the reserve team, rubbed his temples with a groan of frustration. The weight of his position felt heavier than ever.
"The match against Castilla is this weekend," Sacristán muttered, staring at a medical report on his desk. "And Dongou had to pick up an injury now? Of all the times..."
"We haven't beaten Castilla in the league for three consecutive years," he continued, his voice rising with anxiety. "If we lose again at the Mini Estadi, the media will crucify us. They won't just ask for my head, they'll say La Masia is dead!"
Real Madrid Castilla, the eternal rival. In Spanish football, the animosity between Barcelona and Real Madrid isn't confined to the first teams. The rivalry between the "B" teams in the Segunda División was often just as fierce, fueled by young players desperate to prove they were ready for the biggest stage.
In recent years, however, the balance had shifted. While the Barcelona first team was still basking in the glow of its golden era, the B team had been struggling. The output of world-class talent had slowed, and the squad was dangerously close to the relegation zone of the second tier.
"We need to pull players up from the Juvenil A squad immediately," Sacristán said, looking at his assistant, Cabezas. "We need fresh legs, someone who isn't afraid of the white shirt."
Cabezas nodded, flipping through a folder of scouting reports. "The U-19s have a few interesting prospects. There's the Japanese kid, Takefusa Kubo. They're calling him the 'Messi of Japan.' His technical growth has been incredible lately. He could play as a false nine or out on the wing."
Sacristán frowned. "Kubo? He's talented, sure, but look at the Castilla defense. They have tigers back there, Nacho, Casado... they play like veterans. An undersized youth player might get bullied off the pitch in a match this physical."
Cabezas cleared his throat and pulled out another file. "There is... one more option. But he's a bit of a gamble."
"Go on," Sacristán sighed.
"Lorenzo. The Argentinian-Spanish striker. He was the bronze boot winner in the U-17 league last season. Physically, he's a beast, 184cm, strong, and he has a clinical edge we haven't seen in the academy for a while."
Sacristán leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Lorenzo? I know that name. He's the one who just got into that massive brawl at the Argentinian national trials, isn't he? The one the AFA just blacklisted?"
"The same," Cabezas admitted. "He has a reputation for being a 'problem child.' He doesn't take kindly to provocation, and he's had a few run-ins with other players at La Masia when things got heated. They say he plays with a chip on his shoulder the size of a mountain."
Sacristán let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "So you want me to trust our most important match of the season to an impulsive hothead who just got kicked out of his own country's selection? A kid who starts fights instead of following tactics?"
"He scores, Eusebio," Cabezas countered. "In the last three training matches before he left for South America, he had five goals. He's a natural 'nine', exactly what the first team is looking for, and exactly what we lack."
Sacristán stood up and walked to the window, looking out toward the darkened stands of the Camp Nou. The pressure was suffocating. If he failed to produce results, his tenure was over.
On the other side of the rivalry, Real Madrid's academy, 'La Fábrica,' was booming. They had Jesé Rodríguez, the "New Cristiano" along with Álvaro Morata and Lucas Vázquez. These were players who were already knocking on the door of Madrid's first team.
"Fine," Sacristán said finally, turning back to his assistant. "Arrange a full-contact training scrimmage tomorrow morning between the B-team and the Juvenil A standouts. I want to see this Lorenzo for myself. If he's as good as the stats say, I'll deal with his temper. But if he's just a thug who can't handle the pressure, I want him buried in the reserves until his contract expires."
Cabezas nodded and hurried out to make the arrangements.
Left alone, Sacristán slumped back into his chair. He picked up the roster for the weekend's match against Castilla and stared at the empty space in the striker position.
"I don't want to be the coach who presided over the decline of La Masia," he whispered to the empty room. "Please, let one of these kids be the savior we need."
His eyes drifted to Lorenzo's file. The photo showed a young man with a cold, focused gaze, a look that didn't belong to a student, but to a predator.
"Twenty goals," Sacristán muttered, recalling a boast he had heard about the boy's ambitions. "If you can give me even one against Castilla, I'll give you the world."