By the morning after the Italy clash, the tournament field had shrunk down to the final four contenders.
On Spain's side of the bracket loomed Germany, the relentless machine that had just dropped seven goals on the host nation in Belo Horizonte. In many ways, the clash had the distinct flavor of a Champions League rematch.
Six weeks earlier in Lisbon, Lorenzo's Barcelona had conquered Pep Guardiola's Bayern Munich, and many of the key figures across that pitch were the exact same men. Manuel Neuer, Toni Kroos, Jérôme Boateng, and Thomas Müller. The core spine that had broken Brazilian hearts was a core Lorenzo had already unlocked once, wearing different colors under the floodlights of Portugal.
Across the opposite half of the draw, Portugal squared off against France. Cristiano Ronaldo, playing with absolute ferocity, was set to take on Didier Deschamps' youthful squad fresh off their tense penalty shootout against Belgium. It was Ronaldo against Paul Pogba and Antoine Griezmann.
Naturally, the international press had already begun hyping the matchup everyone desperately wanted to see. Spain gets past Germany, Portugal handles France, and the final turns into Lorenzo versus Cristiano Ronaldo. A fiery Clásico rivalry transplanted straight onto the grandest stage in world football, pitting the teenager who took over La Liga against the Ballon d'Or holder answering with a career-defining summer.
Vicente del Bosque, however, made sure nobody allowed their minds to wander.
"I don't want to hear a single word about a final from anyone in this room," the manager warned during the morning recovery meeting, keeping his voice low and firm. "France and Portugal have ninety hard minutes ahead of them, and we have Germany. The quickest way to get dumped out of a semi-final is to start packing your bags for the showpiece. Our entire world ends with Germany on Wednesday. Understood?"
The squad nodded silently.
Even so, the Golden Boot narrative was completely dominating the morning headlines.
James Rodríguez had exited the tournament with six goals when Colombia fell in the earlier rounds. His tally had stood at the summit for days, an impressive mark left frozen for the survivors to chase down.
Cristiano Ronaldo was sitting right behind him with five goals, having pulled within striking distance through his header against Argentina, with at least one match guaranteed and potentially two. Everyone around the game knew how hungry the Portuguese captain was for individual milestones; a World Cup Golden Boot was one of the few trophies left missing from his shelf.
Then there was Lorenzo, sitting alone at the very top with eight.
The eighty-eighth-minute scoop over Buffon had pushed him clear of the entire tournament. Eight goals in five matches at seventeen years of age sounded like an absurd statistical glitch. Three past the Dutch, two against Chile, two against Australia, and now the decisive chip to eliminate Italy, with only Mexico keeping him off the scoresheet by forcing him to play the role of playmaker.
"He's currently leading the World Cup scoring charts," Santiago noted during the post-match studio wrap-up. "A teenager sitting above Ronaldo and Müller on the biggest stage on earth. If Spain go the distance, we are looking at numbers that haven't been touched in decades."
Reporters naturally tried to bait Lorenzo in the mixed zone, but he kept his feet firmly on the ground. "The scoring tally is nice to look at, sure, but lifting the trophy is the only goal that matters. Ask me about individual awards if we make it to Sunday."
It was the professional answer, and mostly true, though at seventeen years old, seeing your name above the greatest forwards on the planet still carried a quiet thrill.
Later that afternoon, a video call chimed through from Barcelona. Sofía's face popped up on his laptop screen, framed by the bright glow of monitors from the Ciutat Esportiva medical lab. She looked as sharply clinical as ever, wasting zero time on greetings.
"Your physical markers are beginning to dip," Sofía stated plainly, pointing her pen toward a downward trendline on her screen. "Five matches in roughly three weeks, intense tropical humidity, and you've played nearly every single minute of the knockout phase. Your central nervous system fatigue and muscle recovery curves are slipping."
Lorenzo leaned back against his pillows. "I feel fine, Sofía. It's a World Cup semi-final, not a training drill. I'll give whatever the match requires."
"That brand of bravado is precisely how players tear muscle fibers," she replied, completely unimpressed. "I've sent a formal report to the national team staff and Antonio Pintus with clear minute-capping recommendations if the score opens up. Four days after Germany is the final. Pulling a groin in stoppage time during a decided match would be an idiotic way to throw away the biggest game of your life."
Lorenzo couldn't help a dry laugh. "Do you ever let me actually enjoy a win?"
"You can celebrate once you've lifted the trophy on two intact legs," she answered, glancing back down at her charts. "Drink more electrolytes. Your hydration readings post-Italy were subpar again."
She cut the line without waiting for an argument.
Late that evening, after the hallways went quiet, Lorenzo lay stretched out on his bed, the cool hum of the air conditioner filling the space.
A pale flicker crossed his peripheral vision.
[She isn't wrong.]
Lorenzo gave a faint, wry smile toward the ceiling. "I know she isn't. Still annoying to hear."
[Managing fatigue is why careers survive,] the system noted, the lines brief and balanced. [Germany will be far more demanding physically than Italy. They press with intensity, cover enormous ground, and will want to settle the score from Lisbon. Rest your legs.]
"Lisbon wasn't an accident," Lorenzo said softly.
[No. But a wounded squad with seven goals in their last outing is dangerous. Take your recovery seriously tonight. Wednesday will require everything you have.]
The text dissolved into the dark room.
Lorenzo turned on his side and closed his eyes. The German machine was waiting just days away, and he had no intention of slowing down now.
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