The final whistle at the Cornellà-El Prat did not produce the usual cacophony of a derby result. It produced silence, the specific, compressed silence of a stadium that had expected a fight and received a verdict instead. Forty thousand people filed out into the September evening with the particular quiet of a crowd that has nothing left to argue about.
The scoreline on every phone screen, every television in every bar in the city, said the same thing.
Espanyol 0 - 4 FC Barcelona.
Lorenzo: hat-trick.
In the Gràcia neighbourhood of Barcelona, a bar that had been showing the match on three screens simultaneously did not erupt when the final whistle went. The regulars, a mix of Culés and neutrals, a few Espanyol supporters who had watched in martyred silence in the corner, simply sat for a moment. Then someone said something in Catalan, and the laughter came slowly, then all at once.
"He's seventeen," a man in a Barça scarf said to no one in particular, staring at the screen. "My son is seventeen. My son can barely park a bicycle."
The Espanyol supporters left first, not angrily but with the dignified resignation of men who have seen a better team on the night. One of them stopped at the door and turned back. "Tell him to go easy on us next year," he said, and walked out.
On the Rambla, the Blaugrana flags were already appearing. The tourist bars had their volume up. A group of Argentinian students studying at the University of Barcelona had set up a small, impromptu gathering near the Boqueria, their flags mixing with the Senyera, singing a song that had no fixed words yet because it was too new, just his name, repeated, set to a rhythm that felt right.
The radio coverage in Buenos Aires had started before the match ended and showed no sign of stopping.
"Six goals in three La Liga matches," the presenter on Radio Rivadavia said, his voice carrying the flat, careful tone of a man trying not to sound too emotional. "To put that in context: Batistuta's best La Liga rate in his first season at Fiorentina was a goal every two games. Messi's debut La Liga season produced one goal in seven appearances. Lorenzo has scored six in three. He has played forty-four minutes fewer than a full three matches because he was substituted off tonight."
His co-host let that sit for a moment. "The AFA blacklisted this player in June. June. Four months ago."
"Correct."
Another silence.
"I have nothing else to add," the co-host said.
The statistics that emerged from the match were being assembled by every major sports data service in Europe within an hour of the final whistle.
Lorenzo - La Liga Matchday 3 vs Espanyol:
Goals: 3 (31'; 38' (penalty); 41')
Shots: 4 - 4 on target
Aerial duels won: 6/7
Possession won in final third: 4
Distance covered: 10.8km
Peak speed recorded: 34.1 km/h (with the ball, 31st minute)
La Liga Pichichi standings after Matchday 3:
1. Lorenzo (FC Barcelona) - 6
2. Cristiano Ronaldo (Real Madrid) - 2
3. Diego Costa (Atlético Madrid) - 2
4. Lionel Messi (FC Barcelona) - 1
The gap between first and second was four goals. In three matchdays.
Marca ran a single-line front page the following morning: "¿Quién puede pararlo?" - Who can stop him?
Sport in Barcelona answered it on the same day: "Nadie." - Nobody.
Olé in Buenos Aires ran a photograph of the Ezeiza training centre from June, the same gates Lorenzo had walked out of, beneath the headline: "La mayor equivocación de nuestra historia." - The greatest mistake in our history.
The Transfermarkt valuation update came at midnight.
Lorenzo's page had been sitting at €80 million since the El Clásico brace. By the morning after the Derby, the figure had been revised upward.
€120,000,000.
The revision note read: Three hat-tricks in four competitive appearances. La Liga Pichichi leader by 4 goals after Matchday 3. UCL record holder (youngest scorer, youngest hat-trick). Physical profile: exceptional. Age: 17 years, 3 months.
In Paris, Leonardo Nascimento read the update on his phone over his morning coffee and put it down without changing expression. He had already known. He had made three calls since the final whistle, to the Qatar channels, to his legal team, and to the one agent in Barcelona who might be willing to have a quiet, unofficial conversation.
In Munich, Pep Guardiola had watched the second half on his television and then turned it off before the final whistle. He had seen enough.
In Madrid, Florentino Pérez read the valuation update and called Ancelotti.
"Did you watch?"
"I watched," Ancelotti said.
"€120 million," Pérez said.
"I know."
"Is he worth it?"
Ancelotti paused for exactly two seconds. "At seventeen, with that profile? In five years he'll be worth whatever number you want to put on him. The question isn't whether he's worth it. The question is whether Barcelona would sell."
Pérez already knew the answer to that. He hung up.
In a quiet street in the Les Corts district, a villa was dark by eleven. The match ball - Lorenzo's third of the season, sat on the shelf beside the other two, in the spot Lucia had cleared two weeks ago.
She had said nothing when he came in. She had heated the food she had made earlier, left it on the table, and gone to her room. The house had the particular quality of a place where someone is pointedly not making a scene.
Lorenzo ate in silence, looking at the three match balls on the shelf. Then he looked at the system notification that had been waiting since the final whistle, patient and still, at the edge of his awareness.
He hadn't opened it yet.
[Status: Post-Match. Espanyol 0 - 4 FC Barcelona.]
[Next fixture: La Liga Matchday 4.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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