Under the vast Turin night sky, the Allianz Stadium began its slow, heavy bleed of supporters.
The Juventus faithful filed toward the exits in that distinct, suffocating silence of a crowd that had just watched a disaster unfold in real time. A few lingered near the stairwells, casting quiet glances back down at the pitch as if waiting for the scoreboard to magically correct itself. But the glowing numbers remained stubbornly unchanged: 4-1. Barcelona hadn't just won; they had systematically dismantled Europe's most formidable defensive machine inside its own fortress.
As Lorenzo trudged down the tunnel toward the away dressing room, his mind kept floating back to the few words Buffon had shared with him after the final whistle. Standing face-to-face on the pitch, the legendary keeper had suddenly looked a bit older up close, worn down not just by the physical toll of ninety grueling minutes, but by the overwhelming weight of what he had been forced to endure tonight.
"Tonight was easily one of the hardest ninety minutes of goalkeeping I've ever experienced," Buffon had admitted on the pitch, his voice steady yet weighed down by tired wisdom. "I've gone toe-to-toe with the absolute best. Batistuta, Ronaldo, Inzaghi, van Nistelrooy, you name them. Twenty years at the top level. But that first-half volley, I actually got a full hand to it, and it still tore through my grip. The overhead kick, exact same story. That sort of thing doesn't happen to me twice in a single night."
Lorenzo had countered softly, telling him that most goalkeepers on the planet wouldn't have gotten anywhere near either strike.
Buffon had offered a faint, weary smile. "There's a subtle difference between great shots and truly unstoppable ones. Tonight, yours fell into the second category. I don't give out compliments like that lightly, kid. Well played."
"Thank you, sir," Lorenzo had replied. And the respect in his voice was genuine.
The memory lingered as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of the away dressing room. Inside, the mood was joyous but remarkably grounded. A few champagne corks popped and shout-outs echoed off the tiled walls, with Busquets even climbing up onto a folding bench until a stern, sharp look from Martino brought him back to earth. A 4-1 triumph away from home in a Champions League semi-final certainly earned a moment of pride, but everyone knew the job wasn't finished yet.
On the team bus, a sense of quiet professionalism hung in the air. The second leg at the Camp Nou still loomed on the horizon, and no one wanted to tempt fate by acting like the tie was already sealed.
Busquets, true to form, was the first to break the heavy silence. "So, let me get this straight. We just blew out a team at their own fortress, a team we haven't beaten since the turn of the century, putting three goals past them. And not a single person is smiling?"
"We're smiling on the inside, Sergio," Iniesta offered dryly.
"That's literally not how smiling works, Andrés."
Messi, sitting right beside Lorenzo, tapped the screen of the tactical tablet resting on his lap. "The second leg might look like a formality from the outside, but Martino isn't going to treat it like one."
"And he shouldn't," Lorenzo agreed. "Conte's teams never know when they're beaten. They were down 4-1 tonight and Chiellini was still flinging himself into bone-crunching tackles in the 89th minute."
Up at the front, Martino was huddled with Pautasso, already poring over the upcoming La Liga fixtures. Just three league matches stood between them and a potential Champions League final, assuming they finished the job at home. The long season was finally entering its ultimate phase.
Later, in the hotel room, Lorenzo sat on the bed and let the system settle.
[Ding! Side Mission 'Conquer the Bianconeri' — L1 complete: W 4-1.]
[Opening Juventus Star Chest...]
[Congratulations! You have received: 'Alessandro Del Piero - Precision Placement' Template!]
[Effect: Integrates Del Piero's signature finishing technique, the angled placement into the far corner from tight positions. Enhances accuracy on curled finishes, low-driven shots across goal, and composure in one-on-one situations. The "Del Piero Zone", the area between the penalty spot and the corner of the six-yard box becomes a high-percentage scoring zone.]
Lorenzo absorbed the template. Alessandro Del Piero, the iconic talisman who had graced the Juventus turf for two decades. The system had taken the greatest legend of the home side and mapped his finishing prowess directly onto the player who had just torn them apart. The irony was thick, but Lorenzo decided against overthinking it.
His phone buzzed in his hand, a notification popping up from Cecilia:
You actually won 4-1 in Turin! Against a wall like Buffon, no less! I don't even know what to say anymore.
He quickly tapped out a reply: Say whatever you want, as long as it's something totally normal. I really need a normal conversation right now.
A moment later, her text came through: Alright. I had pasta for dinner. It was totally average lol.
Lorenzo chuckled out loud at the sheer randomness of it, typing back: Thank you. Exactly what I needed.
You're welcome! Oh, by the way, Lucia said something while watching your overhead kick that I literally cannot repeat over text.
So, what did she say?
Not a chance. But she's definitely coming to the second leg at the Camp Nou. She said, and I quote, "I wouldn't miss it even if he begged me not to show up."
You know I'd never ask her not to come.
Yeah, I know, and she knows it too. But she still can't just say things straight, and honestly, that's the whole problem, isn't it?
He read that last message twice. Cecilia had a rare gift for stripping away all the clutter and laying complicated situations bare. The real issue wasn't that Lucia was traveling to the match. The issue was that Lucia had completely given up the act of pretending she was coming just for the football.
Lorenzo set his phone face down on the nightstand. Outside his hotel window, the Turin night was still and silent. The Champions League final was practically within touching distance, and the media was already whipping up a storm over his impending 100-goal milestone across all competitions. Yet back in Barcelona, two women were following his meteoric rise from two very different places, their eyes fixed on the exact same horizon.
You know the drill: Hand over those Power Stones to keep the momentum rolling!
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