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The intensity of the scrimmage at Las Rozas reached a fever pitch following Lorenzo's clinical nutmeg goal against De Gea. For the remainder of the session, the pitch became a laboratory for Julen Lopetegui's tactical experiments.
Realizing that Lorenzo was the primary threat, the Red Team's defense tightened. Marc Bartra, already a rotation player for Barcelona's first team and Dani Carvajal, the tireless full-back, began to double-team the young striker. Koke sat deeper in the midfield, cutting off the passing lanes from Jesé Rodríguez.
It was a grueling test. Every time Lorenzo moved, he felt the physical pressure of two elite defenders. But in the forty-second minute, Lorenzo showcased a new dimension to his game.
Receiving a high-velocity pass from Camacho nearly thirty yards out, Lorenzo didn't look for a link-up. Instead, he triggered the Batistuta "Batigol" template. He locked his ankle and unleashed a thunderous, low-flying long shot. The ball hissed across the grass with a terrifying, violent aesthetic.
De Gea, proving why he was the Premier League's top prospect, threw himself across the goal frame, his fingertips pushing the ball wide for a corner. The impact of the ball hitting the advertising boards behind the goal sounded like a gunshot.
On the sidelines, Lopetegui felt a sharp, exciting pang in his chest. "The power he generates with such a short back-lift... it's suffocating," he whispered to his assistant. "He's only seventeen, but he forces the defense to stay deep. He's the final piece of the puzzle."
"The central axis is set," the assistant coach noted, scribbling on the tactical board. "De Gea at the back, Nacho as the general, Jesé as the engine, and Lorenzo as the spearhead. This spine can win the Euros."
Lopetegui blew the final whistle, calling an end to the session. He didn't care about the scoreline; he had seen the chemical reaction he was looking for.
[Ding! Congratulations to the Host for completing the side mission: The Starting Point of the Euros!]
[Mission Reward: "Ambidextrous Mastery" Attribute Activated!]
Lorenzo felt a sudden, cooling current envelop his left foot. It was as if a set of rusty gears had suddenly been oiled and calibrated. He could now strike with ninety percent of his primary power from his "weak" side. In the professional world, this was a massive upgrade, it meant he no longer had a predictable shooting angle.
As the players walked toward the sidelines to rehydrate, Marc Bartra caught up with Lorenzo.
"I saw the news about your first-team contract," Bartra said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Martino is known for being hard to please. If he's brought you up this early, he must see something special."
Lorenzo nodded, respecting the older defender. "I'm looking forward to the first session tomorrow, Marc. I heard the speed of the first-team rondos is a different level."
Bartra gave a dry, knowing laugh. "Fast? It's a blur. But after seeing your movement today... you'll fit right in. Just don't expect Puyol or Mascherano to go easy on you because you're the new kid."
"I wouldn't want them to," Lorenzo replied, a glint of predatory focus in his eyes. "See you at the Gamper, Marc."
That evening, Lorenzo returned to Barcelona. Lucia was waiting for him at the airport, her expression a mix of excitement and mystery.
"How was the fury camp?" she asked as they walked toward the car.
"Exhausting but necessary," Lorenzo admitted. "I've got the starting spot for the Euros. Morata isn't happy about it, but the hierarchy is clear."
"Good," Lucia said, leaning in. "Because your father called. He said the person he's been recruiting for your special training has finally arrived. He's waiting at the villa."
Lorenzo's curiosity was piqued. His father was a man of his word, and if he had gone to the trouble of flying someone in from abroad, it had to be a significant figure. When they pushed open the front door of the villa, Lorenzo was met with a man sitting at the dining table, surrounded by physiological charts and heart rate monitors.
The man stood up, his posture as straight as a soldier's. He extended a firm, calloused hand.
"Hello, Lorenzo. My name is Antonio Pintus."
Lorenzo froze. He looked at the man's sharp, disciplined eyes and then at the hand extended toward him. He reached out and completed the handshake, feeling the iron grip of the man his father had hired.
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