The away dressing room at the Vicente Calderón was pure, unadulterated madness.
Loud music was blasting from a smartphone wedged inside an upturned boot. Water bottles were flying through the steam, splashing across the floor tiles. Sergio Busquets had somehow gotten his hands on a chilled bottle of cava, spraying the foam over anyone who walked within five yards of him. Up on one of the wooden benches, Gerard Piqué was leading a booming chant, while Neymar danced through the middle of the room with his phone out, chattering away in rapid Portuguese to a livestream audience of millions.
Lorenzo sat quietly in the far corner, with Diego Costa's striped shirt draped over his shoulder. He leaned his head back against the locker, taking it all in with a faint smile. The sheer physical exhaustion had suddenly hit him the second the final whistle blew, the way it always did after high-stakes matches, and he simply wanted to sit with the feeling for a quiet minute.
Carles Puyol walked over and sat down beside him. The veteran captain had already showered and changed into his gray travel tracksuit.
"You really know what you pulled off tonight, right?" Puyol asked, leaning in close so Lorenzo could hear him over the noise of the room.
Lorenzo looked up, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "We won the league, Captain."
"No, you won the league," Puyol said firmly, looking directly at him. "Eighty-three brutal minutes of three physical defenders kicking your ankles and dragging you down, and you never threw your hands up, never dropped your head, and never stopped making the unselfish runs. Then, the single second they left you an inch of space, you buried it in the roof of the net." Puyol paused, his expression softening with genuine warmth. "I spent my career sharing pitches with Ronaldinho, with Samuel Eto'o, with Leo. I know what greatness looks like when it shows up. I'm telling you this now because after this month, I won't be in this dressing room to remind you."
Lorenzo felt a slight tightness in his chest. Finding words for a club legend was never easy, so he just spoke straight from the heart. "Honestly, it was an absolute honor to win it with you out there on the pitch with us."
Puyol gave his shoulder a strong, lingering squeeze, stood up with a grin, and walked right back into the center of the cava spray.
A second later, Neymar plopped down on Lorenzo's other side, nearly out of breath. He pointed his front camera right at their faces, flashing a grin.
"Say something to the fans, irmão!" Neymar shouted over the music. "We are champions! Give the people a proper speech!"
Lorenzo squinted at the bright screen and offered a tired wave. "We're champions of Spain. Visca el Barça."
Neymar laughed loudly, shaking his head. "Wait, that is it? That is your entire victory speech after scoring that banger?"
"Hey, if you want poetic speeches, you talk," Lorenzo replied with a chuckle. "You're the one who scored the sweetest goal of the night anyway."
Neymar spun the camera back around to his own face, beaming. "You all heard him say it! It is recorded on video forever! My curling shot from the wing is officially better than his!" He tapped the screen to end the broadcast, tossed the phone onto the bench, and wrapped an arm around Lorenzo's neck. "We did something truly special this year, kid. The three of us up front. Make sure you remember tonight forever."
"Trust me, I definitely won't forget it."
Messi walked over quietly, holding a couple of cold water bottles. He handed one to Neymar and one to Lorenzo without making a big deal out of it. He gave Lorenzo's bottle a soft clink, took a long drink, and sat down right on the edge of the bench. The three forwards sat shoulder to shoulder in silence for a while, watching the rest of the squad dance and shout in the middle of Madrid.
The charter flight touched down in Catalonia just around midnight. A lively crowd of dedicated supporters had gathered outside the private terminal to welcome the champions home, and the players signed jerseys and took a few quick photos before boarding the buses heading back into the city.
By the time Lorenzo unlocked the front door of his villa, the clock was reading twenty past one.
His phone had been vibrating nonstop in his pocket the entire drive. He collapsed onto the living room sofa, still in his club tracksuit, far too wound up with adrenaline to actually sleep.
He opened his notifications.
Cecilia: CHAMPIONS! I literally yelled so loudly my neighbor banged on the wall to complain. Totally worth it though. I'm so proud of you.
A second text had arrived an hour later: That goal. Seriously, THAT GOAL. You left two defenders sliding on the grass and just hammered the ball. I've rewatched the replay eleven times already.
Lorenzo smiled and quickly typed back: Only eleven times? Those are rookie numbers.
Her reply popped up in seconds: Twelve now. Now go get some actual sleep, champion. You looked completely wiped out during the post-match interviews.
Right below her thread was an unread message from a newly saved contact: Sofía.
Sofía: You were on the pitch for eighty-eight minutes tonight. Your cap was seventy-five. We are definitely talking about this on Monday. But anyway... congratulations on the title, Lorenzo. You really earned it.
Lorenzo let out a soft laugh and typed back: Come on, it was totally worth the extra thirteen minutes.
Her reply popped up less than a minute later: That is what every player says right before they end up in my clinic with a torn hamstring. But fine, just for tonight, I'll let you enjoy it. Go get some sleep.
Lorenzo set the phone face down on the coffee table.
He scrolled down a little further, checking for Lucia's name. She had made it pretty clear back at Camp Nou that she wouldn't reach out until the final home match, and she wasn't the type to go back on her word. Still, he caught himself staring at the screen for a couple of extra seconds before locking the phone.
He sank deeper into the couch cushion, closing his eyes as the heavy exhaustion finally caught up with his legs. In the quiet dark of the living room, the system's presence surfaced gently in the back of his mind.
It had stayed completely quiet during the chaos on the pitch, but now its voice sounded calm, almost companionable.
[Your legs took a serious beating tonight. Hamstring fatigue is sitting at roughly eighty-five percent, and your calves are going to feel completely locked up by morning.]
"Yeah, tell me about it," Lorenzo thought back with a tired sigh. "Godín made sure I felt every single challenge."
[You handled ninety minutes of constant contact, but don't get too comfortable. Bayern in Lisbon is going to be just as brutal. They press with twice as much intensity, and their backline won't give you an inch either. They are arguably the most dangerous team in Europe right now.]
"I know. Pep has them flying."
[Exactly. Which means you are going to need every ounce of stamina and muscle recovery you can get before we fly to Portugal. So stop staring at the ceiling and let your body actually recharge. Enjoy the title, but get some sleep, Lorenzo.]
Lorenzo let out a faint chuckle under his breath. "You know, you sound almost like a real coach when you talk like that."
[I just prefer my host fully functional for a European final. Now get some sleep.]
Lorenzo smiled faintly and let the heavy fatigue pull him under, drifting off right there on the sofa with Diego Costa's shirt folded on the table beside him, while the warm lights of Barcelona glowed softly through the terrace glass.
Don't let your free votes expire! Drop those PowerStones this way before the daily reset hits!
Read Advance Chapters Here:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_