Ancelotti's press conference turned out to be the longest he had given all season.
He sat at the podium in Valdebebas with his arms folded, chewing his gum rhythmically. For the first time since August, he looked like a manager ready to lay his cards on the table.
"We have played Barcelona three times this season," he said. "The Super Cup, the league Clásico, and the Copa del Rey final. We lost all three. Each time, Cristiano was not at his absolute best." He paused, letting his words hang in the room. "Saturday is different. We have studied every single match they have played. We know their patterns. We know how their front three operates. And we have prepared something specific."
A reporter immediately asked what that specific plan was.
Ancelotti offered a subtle, knowing smile. "You will see on Saturday."
Beside him, Zidane sat in quiet reflection. He had spent weeks telling his manager that the underlying issue was not tactical at all. The issue was simply a seventeen-year-old named Lorenzo.
In the adjacent facility, Ronaldo had just finished his individual recovery session and was heading toward the car park when a swarm of reporters caught up to him.
"Cristiano, you have only scored once against Barcelona this season. Saturday is the final Clásico of the campaign. What are you expecting?"
Ronaldo stopped in his tracks and turned around. His expression was sharp, razor-focused, and completely calm.
"I don't expect anything," he said. "I prepare. And on Saturday, Camp Nou will see the real Cristiano Ronaldo."
He walked to his car without adding another word.
On the other side of Catalonia, Martino's press conference lasted barely five minutes.
"Real Madrid away from home are dangerous," Martino stated flatly. "They possess perhaps the most lethal counter-attacking structure in Europe. We respect that. But Barcelona will play the way we have always played." He stood up from his chair. "Questions?"
A journalist called out, "Are you worried about protecting the unbeaten record?"
Martino looked at the reporter for a beat. "We do not play to stay unbeaten. We play every match to win. If winning maintains the record, good. If it doesn't, our objective was still to win."
He exited the room, with Pautasso following close behind into the corridor.
That morning, Lorenzo ate breakfast alone in the villa while Lucia was back at her university dorm. Cecilia had sent a text at seven in the morning: See you tonight. I'll be in the front row. Don't lose, okay?
He had replied: No promises yet, Cecilia.
Her response came back instantly: That isn't funny. Lorenzo Valentini, if you lose tonight I will personally come down to the pitch and drag you off it by your shirt collar.
He smiled, set his phone down, and took a sip of his coffee. The match was only a few hours away.
Camp Nou on a Saturday evening in March was a sight to behold. Ninety-five thousand seats were packed to capacity long before the turnstiles closed. Yet the air held something unusual, an undertone it had lacked all season long: anxiety.
Barcelona were twenty-nine matches unbeaten. They had already lifted the Copa del Rey and the Supercopa, and a Champions League final awaited them in Lisbon. They had scored over a hundred goals. Yet tonight, the home crowd was undeniably tense.
Real Madrid had a way of doing that. They were the one club capable of walking into Camp Nou and making ninety-five thousand people feel like home advantage meant nothing. They had done it in 2007, and again in 2012. History provided more than enough reason for the nerves.
Down in the front row, Cecilia sat beside Lucia. Neither of them spoke. The stadium speakers blared pre-match music, but the noise was just an excuse for the heavy silence between them.
In the tunnel, the two squads lined up in parallel rows. The familiar faces, the familiar rivalries, and the same electricity humming through the concrete walls. Casillas and Xavi stood at the head of their respective lines in quiet concentration. Ramos adjusted his captain's armband, Modrić stretched his calves, and Bale stared straight ahead.
Ronaldo stood at the back of the Madrid line. His posture felt distinctly different tonight. His shoulders were set, his jaw clenched, and he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet like a prize-fighter waiting for the opening bell.
In front of him, Pepe cracked his knuckles one by one. Ramos glanced over at the Barcelona line, locking eyes with Lorenzo for three full seconds before looking away. Marcelo whispered a quick joke to Modrić, though neither man laughed.
On the Barcelona side, Lorenzo stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Messi.
"He looks focused," Messi noted quietly, indicating Ronaldo with a nod.
"Good," Lorenzo replied. "That makes the match even more worth playing."
Messi gave him a sideways look. "You say that now."
The stadium announcer read out the starting lineups:
Real Madrid (4-3-3): Casillas; Carvajal, Pepe, Ramos, Marcelo; Di María, Xabi Alonso, Modrić; Bale, Benzema, Cristiano Ronaldo.
FC Barcelona (4-3-3): Valdés; Alves, Piqué, Mascherano, Alba; Xavi, Busquets, Iniesta; Neymar, Lorenzo, Messi.
Up in the commentary booth, Santiago welcomed the global audience. "Hello everyone, and welcome to the second league Clásico of the season. Barcelona enter tonight on an unbelievable twenty-nine-match unbeaten run, while Real Madrid haven't beaten them since last April. Cristiano Ronaldo has been held to a single goal against Barcelona all year. Something has to give tonight."
Inés added, "That's right, Santiago. Will Barcelona extend their dominance, or will Real Madrid stake their claim? Ancelotti has set up in his familiar 4-3-3, but the tactical tweaks he hinted at during the week could prove decisive against Barcelona's front three."
Fweet—!
The referee's whistle cut through the roaring crowd.
As the home side, Barcelona kicked off the match. Lorenzo tapped the ball back to Xavi, who immediately looked to establish Barcelona's signature possession rhythm. He clipped a quick pass out toward Iniesta, but before Barça could even string three passes together, Luka Modrić read the pattern perfectly.
Modrić darted forward, stepped in front of Iniesta, and cleanly intercepted the ball.
In a flash, Real Madrid launched their trap. Modrić instantly poked the ball forward into the path of Cristiano Ronaldo on the left wing. Ronaldo took it in his stride, exploded past Alves with frightening pace, cut inside toward the box, and unleashed a ferocious twenty-five-yard strike. Valdés had to react instantly, diving at full stretch to punch the ball away from the top corner.
The intent was unmistakable. This was not the Ronaldo who had drifted through the Copa final. He had arrived at Camp Nou with something to prove, and he had taken total control before Barcelona could even catch their breath.
El Clásico was underway, and for the first time all season, Barcelona were not the ones dictating the game.
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