The fourth morning of camp started with an attacking drill, and it ended up solving the front line.
Del Bosque had split the squad for the final third work, focusing on timing, movement, and the exact patterns they would need to break down compact blocks in South America. For the first time all week, he paired Lorenzo and Diego Costa as an outright front two. For about twenty minutes, the whole thing looked clumsy and cluttered.
They kept running into the identical pocket of grass. Whenever David Silva shaped to slide a pass into the area, both forwards attacked the exact same run. When Iniesta slipped a low ball through the lines, both checked back toward the ball, tangling up. Twice they nearly bumped chests. On one low cross, both swung a boot at the rebound, scuffing it harmlessly between them toward the corner flag. Costa muttered a string of irritated Portuguese under his breath, shaking his head. Lorenzo said nothing back, though his jaw set hard as he walked back toward the edge of the box.
Del Bosque blew his whistle and stepped onto the pitch.
He strolled over slowly, hands behind his back, looking between the two forwards with a neutral expression.
"You are both trying to finish the exact same move," the manager said, his voice quiet enough that only the front group could hear him. "That is why it looks crowded. On any single phase of play, one of you attacks the net, and the other makes that finish possible. When the next attack develops, you trade duties. It is not an ego contest, boys, it is simple geometry. When one checks short, the other must push the line. And when one pulls a defender toward the touchline, the other takes the space left behind."
He gestured with a flat palm, looking directly at Costa.
"Diego, you have the physical presence. You pin the center backs, you take the hit, you give us a wall. Lorenzo, you have the acceleration. You make the run off his shoulder, right into the channel he creates with his body. Stop competing for the identical yard of grass. Try it like that."
They reset and ran the drill again.
The shift was immediate. On the next phase, Costa dropped three steps to meet a firm pass, planting his body right against Javi Martínez to shield the ball, drawing another defender toward him. Lorenzo saw the seam open instantly, sprinted right past Costa's blind side, and latched onto a blind flick with his laces, driving a low strike past Casillas into the bottom corner.
On the next repetition, they swapped roles seamlessly. Lorenzo dragged Albiol toward the edge of the box on a quick give-and-go, which opened up the central lane for Costa to muscle through and thump a header into the roof of the net off Silva's cross.
The rhythm clicked. One provided the physical anchor while the other exploited the gap, two completely distinct forwards learning on the spot that their styles actually balanced each other out instead of getting in the way.
By the time the coaching staff called an end to the session, both of them were dripping sweat and grinning.
"You run more than any forward I've had to play alongside," Costa said, panting as he bent down with his hands on his knees. "I blink and you're already twenty yards down the pitch."
"You hold off two defenders better than anyone I've ever played off," Lorenzo replied, taking a gulp from a water bottle.
"To be completely honest with you," Costa continued, his tone turning a bit more candid as they walked toward the sideline, "after that match at the Calderón, when you scored that late winner, I hated your guts for two weeks straight. You snatched the league trophy right out of our hands in the eighty-third minute."
"I figured as much," Lorenzo said, looking over. "You didn't look particularly thrilled at the final whistle."
"Who would be?" Costa shrugged, his broad shoulders rising. "Losing a title on your home pitch is bitter. But once the sting wore off, I watched the replay of your goal against Bayern. That turn past Boateng in extra time, when your legs should have been dead. I sat there on my couch and thought, if we had to lose the championship to someone, at least it was to that kid.
Costa shrugged, extending a calloused hand. "Now we're wearing the same shirt."
"Good to be on the same side," Lorenzo said, taking the grip firmly.
It was a real handshake this time, the kind shared between teammates who respected each other's scrap.
Over by the dugout, Del Bosque stood alongside his longtime assistant, Toni Grande, watching the two forwards stroll toward the dressing rooms.
"They figured it out quicker than expected," Grande observed quietly, jotting a note on his clipboard.
"Four days," Del Bosque replied, his thick mustache twitching with a rare hint of satisfaction. "Costa is as stubborn as they come, and Lorenzo has plenty of pride of his own. I assumed we would spend half of next week untangling their runs. But both of them understand space, and intelligent players work things out when they realize they can score twice as many goals by working together."
"So you start them both together in Curitiba?" Grande asked.
"Of course we start them both," Del Bosque said, turning to walk toward the tunnel. "Costa battles the center backs, Lorenzo attacks the space, and we have Xavi, Andrés, and Silva picking out passes for both of them. Everyone spent the last six years telling me this squad couldn't function with an outright number nine. Now we have two different weapons up top who just proved they make each other twice as dangerous. Let the other teams spend their evenings worrying about how to mark them."
At dinner that evening in the main dining hall, the social dynamic shifted naturally. Lorenzo did not stay glued only to the Barcelona table. Instead, he pulled out a chair across from Costa, joining a mixed group of veterans and Madrid players. Sergio Ramos watched the two strikers bantering over plates of pasta, sharing a quiet, approving look with Xabi Alonso across the table.
The friction had dissolved, the tactical plan had its focal point, and an aging squad that had dominated world football with patient possession now had a lethal, aggressive edge right at the front of the attack.
By the end of the week, the entire delegation boarded the charter flight across the Atlantic.
The World Cup in Brazil was finally right in front of them.
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