Swish!
The crisp, violent snap of the ball hitting the twine echoed across the Mini Estadi. There was no curve, no finesse, just a raw, powerful strike that rocketed into the top corner of the net. An absolute dead corner.
The stadium fell into a momentary, stunned silence. Then, the crowd outside the wire fence erupted. To the local Barcelona residents and the scouts watching from the shadows, the goal was explosive. It was an unreasonable choice to shoot from that angle, but the result was undeniable.
"What a strike! Who is that kid?"
"The Argentinian from the Juvenil A! Lorenzo!"
"I heard he was in trouble back home, but with feet like those, who cares? That was world-class!"
On the pitch, the Red Team's goalkeeper was frozen. He had anticipated a near-post shot; his center-backs had seemingly closed every other lane. But the ball had traveled a trajectory that defied logic, bending around the defensive wall to find the only pocket of space left in the goal.
Lee Seung-woo, the South Korean prospect who had been marking Lorenzo, stood dazed. He had been physically outmatched and then tactically outclassed in the span of ten seconds. He looked at Lorenzo's back, a strange sense of frustration and awe warring in his chest.
"I told you to stay tight on him!" one of the Red Team defenders barked at Lee. The rivalry between the academy players was fierce; a goal conceded was a mark against everyone's evaluation.
"He's too fast for his size," Lee muttered in Korean, his jaw tight. "And he shields the ball like a veteran. I couldn't get a foot in."
Near the center circle, Munir El Haddadi watched the celebration with a calculating gaze. As a fellow attacker, he knew exactly how difficult that shot was. He had provided the assist, but the goal was entirely Lorenzo's creation. He jogged over, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
"Lorenzo! That was a bomb, man!" Munir shouted, leaping for a high-five. "I thought you were going to pass to Ilyas on the wing. I didn't think you'd actually pull the trigger from there."
"The opening was there," Lorenzo replied, his voice calm despite the adrenaline. "I just took it."
Internal to his mind, Lorenzo was still processing the sensation. The "King of the Penalty Area" skill hadn't just boosted his power; it had felt like an invisible hand correcting his ankle at the moment of contact. He had intended to go near-post, but the skill had "guided" the ball toward the far corner, sensing the goalkeeper's weight shift. It was a terrifyingly efficient ability.
Ilyas, the winger who had been screaming for a pass just seconds ago, came charging in. His previous anger had vanished, replaced by the opportunistic joy of a teammate.
"I take it back! Don't pass!" Ilyas laughed, jumping onto Lorenzo's back for a celebratory hug. "If you can put those away, just keep shooting! The keeper looks like he's seen a ghost!"
On the sidelines, Lucia was nearly jumping with joy, her phone shaking as she captured the celebration. The live stream was melting down.
[DID YOU SEE THAT? Top bin!]
[The AFA said he was a 'thug' with no discipline. That goal looked pretty disciplined to me.]
[Look at Sacristán's face. He just found his new striker.]
The comments were shifting. The "blacklisted" label was being overshadowed by "prodigy." In the world of football, goals were the ultimate eraser of scandal.
By the dugout, Patrick Kluivert was stroking his chin, his eyes fixed on Lorenzo. He turned to Sacristán, his expression unusually serious.
"That goal... did you see the footwork?" Kluivert asked.
Sacristán nodded. "He didn't hesitate. Most kids at this age overthink the angle. They try to find the 'perfect' pass because they're afraid of missing in front of the scouts. This Lorenzo... he plays with a certain arrogance. A striker's arrogance."
"It reminded me of someone," Kluivert said, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips. "Ruud van Nistelrooy. The 'King of the Box.' Ruud didn't care if the angle was tight. He didn't care if three defenders were hanging off his shirt. If he was in the eighteen-yard box, the ball was going in the net. He had that same causality in his finishing."
Sacristán raised an eyebrow. To be compared to Van Nistelrooy by a man like Kluivert was the highest praise a young striker could receive. "He's Argentinian, but he has that clinical European edge. My assistant said he was the U-17 Bronze Boot winner last season. I thought it might have been a fluke, but that strike wasn't luck."
"He's strong, he's fast, and he has the instinct," Kluivert added. "The Argentinian youth board must be blind if they let a talent like this walk away over a training ground scuffle."
"They have their 'social etiquette' to maintain," Sacristán remarked cynically. "I have a match against Castilla to win. If he can do that against Real Madrid's reserves, I don't care if he fights the entire board of the AFA."
Sacristán looked back at the pitch, where the referee was signaling for the restart. The score was 1-0, but the momentum had shifted entirely.
"Let's see the rest of the match," Sacristán said. "One goal makes a player a prospect. A second goal makes him a starter."
Lorenzo moved back to the center circle, his eyes meeting Munir's. The hunger hadn't been satisfied, it had only been whetted. He knew the Gold Chest was still on the line, and he had no intention of letting the "Established Starters" recover.
The whistle blew, and the hunt began again.