Barcelona welcomed its champions home the afternoon following the final.
An open-top bus crept through packed avenues under the warm coastal sun, the European Cup raised high above the cab as several hundred thousand supporters flooded every street from the airport down to the port. The players had pulled on commemorative treble shirts, tossing scarves, flags, and wristbands down to the crowd below. Gerard Piqué took charge of a megaphone to start chants, Neymar kept his phone out to document every second for his social feed, and Xavi stood right at the front of the bus.
Lorenzo stayed near the center of the deck, leaning against the rail, taking in the spectacle with his usual quiet detachment. The noise echoing off the apartment blocks was deafening. Fathers held toddlers up on their shoulders, waving homemade cardboard signs with his name scribbled in bright marker. Over by the Placa de Catalunya, an enormous banner hung across a balcony reading LORENZO VALENTINI in bold, towering letters.
He waved down at the supporters, tossed a couple of hats into the sea of hands, and let Neymar pull him into a quick arm-around-the-shoulder pose whenever camera flashes went off. Yet behind the bright smiles and the celebration, a heavy exhaustion was steadily creeping through his body, settling into his bones the second his nervous system finally realized the campaign was over.
By the time the convoy reached the sea and the parade began to wind down, Lorenzo wanted only one thing.
Total silence.
He arrived back at the villa a little past nine in the evening.
The house was dark and quiet when he stepped inside. He flicked on a single low lamp in the hallway, kicked his sneakers off by the door, and carried a fresh mug of black coffee into the living room. Dropping onto the cushions, he leaned his head back and let the silence wash over him.
Nine months.
That was the span of this relentless debut season. Nine grueling months of three-game weeks and crushing media attention. He had struck a hundred goals, lifted the Copa del Rey and the Supercopa, survived an undefeated league campaign, and capped it off by winning the UCL final.
He had spent weeks imagining that completing the treble would feel like pure euphoria. Instead, sitting on his couch with tired shoulders, he felt hollowed out and completely numb.
And just like that, the season was finished. Every single match was in the books.
He had spent weeks imagining that completing the treble would feel like pure euphoria. Instead, sitting on his couch with tired shoulders, he felt hollowed out and completely numb, like someone left standing in a silent room after a violent thunderstorm had suddenly cleared out.
A familiar presence surfaced in the back of his mind, its tone unusually calm.
[Athletes call this the crash, Lorenzo. It catches almost everyone off guard after a massive achievement. Your body spent nine straight months flooding your bloodstream with adrenaline to survive immense expectations, and now that the immediate target has vanished, your nervous system simply feels stranded.]
"How long does this blank feeling usually stick around?" Lorenzo asked quietly into the empty room.
[Normally a few days,] the system replied with steady patience. [Then the logistics of the World Cup will provide your mind with a fresh objective, and that numbness will naturally dissolve. For right now, though, do not try to fight the slump. You pushed your physical limits to earn this exhaustion. Just let your body be tired for once.]
Lorenzo let out a faint sigh, resting his head back against the sofa, letting the stillness take over.
On the low table in front of him, his phone buzzed twice in short succession.
The first notification was a text from Cecilia:
I watched you waving on the bus parade today! You looked genuinely happy, but I could tell you were too tired. So go get some proper sleep tonight. I'll swing by the villa in a couple of days with some homemade food.
He offered a tired half-smile and tapped out a quick message thanking her.
The second text was from Lucia:
I made it back to the dorms a little while ago. Watched the entire trophy parade on television. I'm so proud of what you pulled off in Lisbon, Lorenzo. Now rest a lot.
Lorenzo looked at the message on the screen.
After Lisbon.
The words he had promised her came straight back to him. The final was over, and the conversation he had asked to put on hold could not be avoided anymore.
He stared at the keyboard for a few seconds before typing a reply:
Thanks, Lucia. Give me a couple of days to recover, and then let's talk. We need to have that conversation.
Her reply arrived barely a minute later:
Sure. Whenever you feel rested enough, we should finally sit down and have that conversation we agreed to put on hold until after the final. Take care of yourself first.
Lorenzo locked the phone and set it down on the glass table, turning his gaze toward the dark floor-to-ceiling windows and the distant city lights below.
He finished his lukewarm coffee, walked upstairs to his bedroom, and pulled the covers over his shoulders.
For the first time in nine frantic months, Lorenzo fell asleep without any tactical briefing to study, and with nothing left to chase, entirely enveloped by the deep, peaceful quiet of a completed season.
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