The night before the world gathered in Brazil, Lorenzo sat alone at the kitchen table in the Les Corts villa with his phone face-down and a coffee going cold beside it.
He had made the call to Benitez two hours earlier. Benitez had said: I'll have the paperwork to the federation by morning. Then he had asked, once: Are you certain? And Lorenzo had said yes, and Benitez had not asked again, because that was the kind of agent he was.
The decision was made. Spain.
He turned the phone over and looked at the screen. Three messages from Messi. One from Mascherano. A long one from Aimar that he had read three times without responding to. Aimar had written as himself, not as a federation official - no formal language, no promises about what the AFA would do differently. Just a paragraph about what it would mean, what the Albiceleste had meant to players who came before, what Brazil in the summer was supposed to look like. He had ended it with: Whatever you decide, I'm proud of what you've done this season. That doesn't change.
Lorenzo read it a fourth time. Then he put the phone down again.
He had not chosen Spain out of anger. That was the part he needed to be clear about in his own mind, because the public narrative was already building - AFA blacklists him, he picks Spain, clean story of rejection and revenge. It wasn't that. The AFA had been wrong in June and the apology had been genuine and Aimar had handled every part of it with integrity. None of that was the reason.
The reason was the machine.
Spain in this moment, Xavi at the end of his international career, Iniesta still at his peak, Busquets reading the game better than anyone alive - was a system designed to feed a striker. Chances arriving in the right spaces at the right moments, the midfield doing the work that allowed the forward to simply execute. Lorenzo had spent three years at La Masia absorbing the language of how this team moved. He already thought in their passing rhythm. Playing for Argentina would mean learning a different language at the same time as trying to perform at the highest level.
And Argentina - even with Messi, even with Agüero and Di María, was a team in the middle of something complicated. The squad was extraordinary.
He had chosen the better machine for what he wanted to do. Not because Argentina wasn't home. It was. It would always be. But this was the decision that gave him the best chance of winning a World Cup at seventeen, and that was what he had come back for.
He picked up the phone and replied to Aimar's message. Four words: Thank you. Truly. Always.
Then he went to bed.
The next morning, Zarzuela Palace in Madrid was the centre of a different kind of storm. Inside the historic halls of the Spanish Royal Family's residence, a press conference was in full swing.
Lopetegui and Del Bosque sat side by side behind the crest of the Royal Spanish Football Federation. Cameras from every major broadcaster in the world were aimed at the platform.
Lopetegui leaned into the microphone. "Lorenzo is the most significant forward talent on the planet, and we spared no effort to earn his trust. Argentina fought hard, Messi played a personal role, and that is not nothing. In the end, the decision was his alone. And he chose the Red Shirt."
A staff member approached the table. Amidst a wave of gasps and shutter clicks, a classic Spanish home jersey was unfurled.
The name across the back: LORENZO. The number beneath it: 9.
"He's replacing Torres?" a reporter from Marca whispered. "At seventeen?"
Del Bosque took the microphone. "This is a new era for La Furia Roja. The defending champion's curse, eliminated in the group stage, every cycle. We intend to be the first team in half a century to win back-to-back. With the Sovereign at our spearhead, that conversation begins now."
Lopetegui added a final note. "I should also mention that Queen Sofía's letter to the federation played a role in ensuring Lorenzo understood the depth of Spain's commitment. This was a joint effort - the Palace, the federation, and the players who had been making the case from inside the dressing room for weeks."
The room applauded. Some of the older reporters were visibly moved.
October 2nd - The 2014 World Cup Draw
The ceremony in Costa do Sauípe attracted a global audience that dwarfed the Champions League draw. In the broadcast booth, Santiago and Inés Valdes watched as the pots were emptied.
"The groups are finalised!" Santiago called. "And the drama is immediate."
Group F: Argentina, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Iran, Nigeria. Group G: Spain, Netherlands, Mexico, Japan.
"Group G," Inés said, her voice sharp. "Spain versus the Netherlands - the 2010 final rematch, in the opening round. Mexico and Japan complete the group. For Lorenzo, his first World Cup will not be a gentle introduction. The Netherlands have Robben, van Persie, Sneijder. The 2010 final was decided by Iniesta's extra-time goal. Now, three years later, those two nations will meet again in a group stage opener."
The Argentine digital feed was a mixture of fury and resignation.
[Group F is navigable for Messi. Group G is a war zone. Lorenzo chose the harder path.]
[Robben versus Lorenzo. The rematch of the final - except this time Barça's Beast is in the Red Shirt.]
[AFA handed Nigeria to us again while our best striker prepares to face the Netherlands for Spain.]
October 3rd - The Flight to Manchester
The World Cup draw was still the only conversation anyone wanted to have, but the Champions League group stage had its own calendar. The Barcelona squad boarded a flight to the British Isles.
Matchday 2: Manchester City at the Etihad.
Messi found the seat next to Lorenzo and sat down with the exaggerated heaviness of a man demonstrating his feelings through his posture.
"We are all very disappointed," he said.
Lorenzo looked at him. "I know, Leo."
"I made a personal case."
"I know you did. And it meant something." He paused. "It nearly changed the answer."
Messi looked at him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. "Agüero is the one you should worry about today. He hasn't slept properly since he heard you might join the squad. He genuinely saw you as a threat to his starting position."
"He shouldn't have worried," Lorenzo said. "He's a better player than people give him credit for."
"I'll tell him you said that. It won't help, he'll take it as a compliment from a rival." Messi leaned back. "Just score today, and we'll call the national team conversation finished for now."
At the front of the plane, Martino stood briefly and addressed the cabin in the calm, flat tone he used for everything important.
"Manchester City are a serious team. Kompany, Touré, Silva, Agüero. If we give them transitions, they will hurt us. We play our game from the first whistle. No passengers."
He sat back down. That was the full speech.
Lorenzo looked out at the cloud cover below the plane and thought about the Etihad - the rain, the noise, the particular pressure of a Premier League ground on a European night. He had heard about it. He was about to feel it.
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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