The second half resumed with the number 100 still glowing on the screens above Camp Nou. There were twenty-eight minutes left, and Valencia still had to play them.
Valverde clapped his hands on the touchline and shouted down the line. "We don't stop! We're still in this!"
For fifteen minutes his team tried. Parejo drove a free kick from twenty-five yards that Valdés tipped over. Postiga won a header from a Bernat cross and put it wide. Otamendi pushed into midfield twice, hunting transitions that Barcelona's shape kept absorbing without effort.
The atmosphere had changed, though. Every Barcelona touch drew noise. Every pass drew anticipation. Nobody in the stadium was thinking about three points any more.
In the 72nd minute, Neymar added the third.
Busquets started it, winning the ball in midfield with a shoulder into Romeu that sent the former Masia boy stumbling sideways. He laid it off to Iniesta, who drove forward and slid a through-ball down the left. Neymar took one touch to set himself and went past Barragán with the quick hip movement that made defenders look like they were standing in sand.
Guaita dived at full stretch and got the direction right. The curl took the ball away from his gloves at the last moment. It kissed the inside of the far post and settled.
Fweet—!
3-0.
Camp Nou responded with a warm, triumphant roar. Neymar darted toward the corner flag, flashing his trademark hang-loose sign at the away section with a beaming grin. Lorenzo and Messi caught up to him a moment later, enveloping him in congratulations. All three forward partners had put in an unforgettable shift: Lorenzo with his historic brace, Neymar with a brilliant solo finish, and Messi pulling every single string from the right flank.
The last eighteen minutes were a victory lap. Martino sent Sergi Roberto on for Xavi, Pedro for Neymar. Camp Nou sang through all of it, ninety-five thousand people in the loose, full-throated register of a crowd with nothing left to worry about.
Pinto replaced Valdés in the 82nd minute. The veteran goalkeeper walked off the pitch to a thunderous standing ovation, a gesture filled with unspoken reverence that everyone inside the stadium deeply understood.
Then, in the 89th minute, a remarkable thing happened: the Valencia players began to applaud.
It started subtly. Parejo paused during a stoppage in play just half a step away from Lorenzo, looking at him and clapping three distinct times. Otamendi followed suit a second later. Way back on his line, Guaita raised both gloved hands in silent acknowledgment.
Lorenzo simply gave a respectful nod in return.
On the visiting touchline, Valverde watched his players pay tribute to their opponent and let the moment happen without interference.
Fweet! Fweet! Fweeeeet!!
Full time. Barcelona 3-0 Valencia.
Camp Nou erupted one last time. Lorenzo claimed the official match ball from the referee, holding it as Busquets miraculously produced a black permanent marker from deep inside his sock.
"I came prepared," Busquets said smoothly.
Lorenzo stared at him in disbelief. "You literally carry a pen inside your sock?"
"I told you, I came prepared."
Lorenzo chuckled and held the signed ball high above his head toward the stands.
Down in the front row, Cecilia was still on her feet, having remained standing since the sixty-first minute. Her hands were pressed tightly over her mouth. The second Lorenzo turned toward her corner of the ground, she waved both arms in the air with total, unabashed excitement.
Beside her, Lucia clapped softly, a gentle smile on her face. She had gone completely quiet around eleven minutes ago, watching everything in silence.
"He definitely saw you," Cecilia insisted, nudging her.
"He saw the whole stand, Ceci."
"No, he saw you." Cecilia grabbed her wrist, pulling her half a step closer to the railing. "Wave back!"
Lucia offered a small wave before slipping her hands right back into her coat pockets.
Neither girl brought up the number again. The stadium screens were still broadcasting the massive digit, and there was simply nothing words could add to it anyway.
The crowd filtered out of the Camp Nou at a slow, lazy pace. High up on the stadium's massive electronic screens, a stunning full-display graphic flashed across the displays, bold enough to be read clearly from the center circle:
LORENZO VALENTINI - 100 GOALS.THE KING OF CAMP NOU
The giant displays cycled through the unbelievable breakdown one final time:
100 Goals. Single Season. Age 17.
Near the technical area, Martino met Valverde for a handshake. "Your team never stopped fighting out there. That takes real pride."
"We were competing against one of the best players of this generation," Valverde admitted, offering a weary, respectful smile. "Though I'm not even sure 'competing' is the right word for what just happened."
Down in the tunnel, Lorenzo walked slowly with the signed match ball tucked under his arm. Messi fell into step beside him.
"What are you planning to do with that?" Messi asked, glancing over at the ball.
"Keep it," Lorenzo said softly. "Put it somewhere I'll see it every morning."
"Good choice. I didn't save my hundredth goal ball years ago, and honestly, it still bothers me to this day."
They walked a few more paces together in quiet companionship.
"How many match balls have you accumulated by now anyway?" Lorenzo asked with a faint grin.
"I gave up keeping track after forty."
"Ah, so the regret isn't that bad then."
"Trust me, the regret is permanent," Messi deadpanned, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "Hold onto that ball."
By the time they reached the dressing room, someone had already commandeered the prize. Dani Alves held the match ball high above his head with both hands, loudly declaring to the room that it was now collective team property, arguing that the assist for goal ninety-nine had originated from the right-back position and that history needed to record his contribution. Piqué enthusiastically backed him up at full volume. Busquets, who had supplied the pen, said nothing at all, looking thoroughly pleased with himself in the corner.
Lorenzo eventually retrieved it. He sat down on the bench with the ball resting on his knees while the chaotic celebration continued around him. He stared at the handwritten signature for a quiet second, tucked it carefully into his gym bag, and began unlacing his boots. One hundred was a incredible number, but there were still twelve league matches ahead and a European final waiting in Lisbon.
Outside the family area in the corridor, Cecilia and Lucia were waiting for him. Cecilia was already talking the second he stepped through the doorway.
"Sixty-first minute! I called it!" Cecilia announced proudly, stepping through the corridor. "I literally told her out loud that the second goal was coming!"
"You actually said the seventieth minute," Lucia corrected gently, not even looking up.
"I revised my prediction!"
"You revised it after the ball was already in the back of the net."
Lorenzo just smiled and let them go at it. Cecilia naturally linked her arm through his without asking, steering him toward the exit at her usual energetic pace.
"Are you exhausted?" she asked, glancing up at him.
"A little bit, yeah."
"Good. Means you actually worked for it," she grinned. "If you made a hundred goals look easy, I'd have to hate you a little bit."
Lucia walked quietly on his other side, hands buried deep in her coat pockets. She had been unusually reserved toward the end of the match, and Lorenzo picked up on it the way he picked up on most things, choosing to let it lie for now.
"You're being awfully quiet over there," Lorenzo said, glancing her way.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"About whether a hundred goals is supposed to be a lot," she said, looking across at him with a subtle, teasing glint in her eye. "It kind of stopped feeling like a real number somewhere around seventy."
Cecilia immediately jumped in, launching into a fast, passionate speech about how it wasn't just a lot, it was practically illegal, and how the rest of Europe was about to find that out the hard way. Lucia just let her take over, a quiet smile playing on her lips.
Lorenzo reached out and affectionately ruffled Lucia's hair, then did the exact same to Cecilia before she could dodge his hand. Both girls voiced instant, exaggerated complaints, but neither of them pulled away.
Outside, the massive floodlights over the Camp Nou shut down bank by bank, casting long shadows across the pavement as the last of the crowd drifted away into the cool March night.
You know the drill: Hand over those Power Stones to keep the momentum rolling!
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