Two days flew by in a blur of tactical drills and physical conditioning.
Sunday arrived.
From the early morning, the city of Madrid was engulfed in an electric, vibrant atmosphere. Even under the scorching June sun, the streets were bustling with movement. This was an unusual phenomenon for a weekend during the off-season; normally, Madrilenians would be in bed or at the coast, but today, the "Showdown of the Century" in the Segunda División was about to unfold.
"What a day! The Mini-Clásico! Only twice a year!"
"Poor Barça is trying to hit a rock with an egg again. Look at their lineup, it's a disaster compared to ours!"
"Castilla has Lucas Vázquez, Cheryshev, and the 'New Cristiano,' Jesé Rodríguez! What does Barça B have? A bunch of kids and a muscle fanatic on the wing?"
Everywhere in the city, the iconic "Los Blancos" jerseys dominated the landscape. Pure, brilliant white. The match was to be held at the Alfredo Di Stéfano Stadium, the home of Real Madrid Castilla. Named after the club's greatest legend, the stadium could hold six thousand spectators, and today, every single seat was occupied by fans eager to see Barcelona's pride dismantled.
The air was thick with the scent of arrogance. The Real Madrid fans were confident; their B-team sat at the top of the table, while Barcelona B had only narrowly avoided the relegation zone the previous season.
2:30 PM. Ninety minutes until kickoff.
The Barcelona B squad had already entered the bowels of the Di Stéfano. While the sounds of celebratory team songs and rhythmic chanting echoed from the home locker room next door, the Barça side was uncharacteristically quiet.
Eusebio Sacristán stood in the center of the dressing room, his brow furrowed as he looked at his players. He knew the statistics as well as anyone: they hadn't won a derby in two years.
"Traoré, put those down!" Sacristán barked, his eye twitching as he looked toward the corner.
Adama Traoré, the seventeen-year-old starting winger, looked up with an embarrassed expression. He had been absent-mindedly lifting a pair of heavy dumbbells he'd found in the auxiliary training area. At 1.7 meters tall, he had the physique of a middleweight boxer, all corded muscle and explosive power. He was a human tank on the wing.
"Focus, Adama," Sacristán sighed. "In this match, Munir will partner with you on the wings. You two are the engines. And in the center... we have Lorenzo."
The room's attention shifted to the locker marked with the number 99.
Lorenzo sat there, pulling on the flamboyant jersey. Since the traditional number nine was occupied by the injured Dongou, Lorenzo had chosen 99, a number that reflected his "outsider" status and his determination to be noticed. He sat with a calm, predatory stillness that contrasted sharply with the nervous energy of the other debutants.
He met Traoré's gaze and raised an eyebrow.
Traoré grinned. Unlike some of the more reserved academy prospects, this Argentinian seemed to have a bit of fire in his soul. "I heard about the trial match, number ninety-nine. Neuhaus said you're a ghost. I hope you're a ghost that can catch my crosses, because I don't slow down for anyone."
"Just put the ball in the box," Lorenzo replied, his voice steady. "I'll make sure it finds the net."
Munir El Haddadi, the elegant playmaker who would be starting on the opposite wing, nodded in agreement. "We need that confidence. Usually, we come here and get suffocated by their press. Today, we need to strike first."
In the back of the room, the twelve-year-old Takefusa Kubo sat quietly on the bench. He was part of the traveling squad, a "guest" of the B-team to gain experience but he was not on the match sheet. He felt like an outsider, watching the rapport between the starting trio with a mix of envy and intense observation.
Sacristán gathered the team into a final, tight circle.
"Listen to me," the coach whispered, his voice gaining a hard edge. "Gerardo Martino is in the VIP box. Arsène Wenger is in the stands. Even Zinedine Zidane is sitting in the dugout next door."
The names caused a visible jolt in the room.
"They aren't here to watch a reserve match," Sacristán continued. "They are here to see who has the heart to survive a Clásico. This is your audition for the rest of your lives. Go out there and take what is yours. For the badge, and for yourselves. Barça!"
"Barça!" the team roared.
As they filed out of the dressing room and into the tunnel, the heat of the Madrid afternoon hit them. Across the narrow corridor, the Castilla players were already lined up. Jesé Rodríguez, the star of Madrid's academy, leaned against the wall, looking at the Barcelona kids with a smirk of pure disdain.
Lorenzo didn't look at him. He adjusted his captain-style tape on his wrists, feeling the Inzaghi positioning and the Drogba strength vibrating in his muscles.
The "problem child" was about to step onto the biggest stage in Spain. And he didn't plan on leaving without the throne.