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The sun beat down on the Las Rozas training base, the headquarters of Spanish football. For Julen Lopetegui, today was the first true test of the squad he intended to lead to European glory. He stood on the touchline, a whistle around his neck and a tactical folder in his hand, watching the twenty-two best young players in Spain organize themselves for a full-field scrimmage.
"Vests on! Let's see some intensity!" Lopetegui shouted. "Lorenzo, Jesé, Camacho, Nacho... you're in the Blue Vests. Team A."
"Morata, Koke, Isco, Muniain... you're in Red. Team B. De Gea, you're in goal for Red. Let's go!"
The grouping was calculated. Lopetegui had placed the two rival strikers, Morata and Lorenzo on opposite sides. He wanted to see if the "Beast of Barcelona" could maintain his form when surrounded by the elite technical midfielders of the Spanish system.
Near the center circle, Koke, the engine of Atlético Madrid, adjusted his socks and glanced at Morata. "Hey, Álvaro. I heard the first team is promoting you next season. Benzema's shadow looks quite comfortable, doesn't it?"
Morata rolled his eyes, the sting of the Mini-Clásico defeat still fresh in his mind. "I'm not interested in being a shadow, Koke. I'm interested in winning the starting spot for the Euros. And that starts with putting that Argentinian kid back in his place."
Koke followed Morata's gaze to Lorenzo, who was quietly taking his position. "He's got a Barcelona first-team contract in his pocket, Morata. He's not a 'kid' anymore. He's a professional obstacle."
Inside Lorenzo's mind, the System's interface flickered to life.
[Ding! Detecting that the Host is currently embedded in the talent-rich Spain U-21 National Team.]
[New Side Mission Dispatched: The Starting Point of the Euros!]
[Objective: Conquer your teammates on the pitch and the coaches on the sideline with a dominant performance in today's scrimmage.]
[Reward: "Ambidextrous Mastery" Attribute! (Non-dominant foot finishing increased to 90% of primary foot strength).]
Lorenzo's eyes sharpened. This was the exact missing piece he had identified after his narrow miss at the Di Stéfano. A world-class striker couldn't afford to have a "weak" side.
The whistle shrieked, and the match began.
Lorenzo tapped the ball to Jesé and immediately moved into the final third. The pace of this session was leagues above the Segunda División. These weren't just B-team prospects; these were starters for Manchester United, Atlético Madrid, and Málaga. The ball moved with a terrifying, rhythmic speed, one-touch passing that felt like a biological extension of the players themselves.
"Stay tight on him!" David De Gea shouted from the Team B goal.
De Gea, the reigning "Spider" of Manchester United, stood 1.92 meters tall, his reach spanning nearly the entire goal frame. He had studied the footage of Lorenzo's hat-trick. He knew about the power and the Panenka. But De Gea was a Premier League veteran; he wasn't about to be intimidated by a seventeen-year-old.
For the first fifteen minutes, Team B dominated possession. Isco and Koke dictated the tempo, forcing Team A to chase the ball in a relentless "rondo" across the entire pitch. Lorenzo spent most of his time defending, using his 91 Physicality to disrupt Koke's passing lanes.
Then, the transition happened.
Nacho intercepted a loose ball from Muniain and immediately fired a vertical pass to Jesé. Jesé didn't hesitate. He spun away from Isco and looked up.
Usually, Morata would be calling for the ball, demanding it at his feet so he could turn. But Lorenzo was doing something different. He didn't call for the ball. Instead, he made a sharp, diagonal sprint away from the center, dragging the Team B defenders toward the corner.
"Clever," Lopetegui muttered on the sideline, his eyes narrowing. "He's opening the lane for Jesé."
Jesé saw the space. He drove forward, but as the defense shifted to cover his run, Lorenzo executed a perfect, "Inzaghi-style" reverse pivot. He vanished from the defenders' peripheral vision and reappeared in the "D" outside the penalty area.
Jesé saw the blue vest flashing in the center. With a precise poke of his toe, he threaded the needle.
Lorenzo received the ball with a velvet first touch. He didn't stop to think. He knew that De Gea was already coming off his line, making himself massive.
"I've got you!" De Gea roared, his long legs spreading to cut off the angles.
Lorenzo felt the pressure. He could feel the Drogba template integration giving him the balance to withstand a late challenge from the defender. He didn't look for the top corner. He remembered the lesson from the Di Stéfano: speed of execution was more important than aesthetic perfection.
He swung his right leg. It wasn't a blast of power; it was a low, vicious ground-shot that hugged the turf like a hunting snake.
De Gea reacted with the reflexes that had made him a legend at Old Trafford. He clamped his legs together, trying to execute a "hockey-style" save. But the ball moved with a strange, spinning velocity. It caught the inner edge of De Gea's foot and deflected directly between his legs.
Nutmeg.
The ball rolled with agonizing slowness into the center of the net.
1-0.
"My God," Lopetegui whispered, scribbling a note. "He just nutmegged the best goalkeeper in the Premier League."
The pitch fell silent for a heartbeat. Jesé was the first to arrive, laughing as he slapped Lorenzo on the back. "A nutmeg on De Gea? You're going to be the most hated man in the locker room, Lorenzo!"
Lorenzo stood up, nodding toward De Gea. It wasn't a taunt; it was a professional acknowledgment. "Good reaction, David. It was a lucky spin."
De Gea stood up, dusting the grass from his knees. He didn't look angry; he looked focused. "Don't count on that luck a second time, kid. I know how you move now."
Across the pitch, Morata stood with his hands on his hips, his face dark with frustration. He had spent ten minutes demanding the ball and had managed zero shots. Lorenzo had touched the ball once and scored.
"Are you seeing this, Koke?" Morata hissed.
"I'm seeing a striker who knows how to find a gap," Koke replied dryly. "Maybe if you stopped complaining and started running like him, I'd find you more often."
Lopetegui checked his watch. "Again! Same intensity! Lorenzo, keep that movement up. Jesé, good vision."
Lorenzo jogged back to the center circle. He could feel the "Ambidextrous Mastery" mission progress bar filling up. He had the attention of the coaches. He had the respect of Jesé. But most importantly, he had shown the elite stars of the Spanish system that he wasn't just there to fill a roster spot. He was there to lead.
The Beast had arrived at Las Rozas, and the starting "number nine" jersey was no longer Morata's to lose. It was Lorenzo's to take.
[System Note: Side Mission Progress - 40%.]
[Status: Leading the Scrimmage 1-0.]
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