SWISH!!
The net shredded. The sound, crisp and violent — cut through the Etihad like a whip-crack, and in the half-second that followed the stadium was absolutely silent. Fifty-five thousand people absorbing what had just happened.
Lorenzo's strike had gone exactly where he had aimed it. Past Hart's full extension, into the top-right corner, the ball still moving at pace when it hit the back of the net and lifted it toward the rafters.
Hart fell heavily to the turf. He lay there for a moment, one hand on the grass, staring at the crossbar. England's number one, the youngest goalkeeper in national team history, a man who had made more saves in the Premier League that season than any other keeper. And yet the list existed regardless — the shots that required you to be in two places at once, that punished the correct choice by taking the incorrect route. Rooney's overhead kick. Ibrahimović's thirty-yard bicycle. Crouch's impossible volley. The Lorenzo cannon had just joined that company.
A hand reached down. Kompany. Hart took it and stood.
1-1.
"GOAL!! LORENZO!! A GOLAZO IN THE RAIN!!" Santiago roared. "The Etihad has been breached! Thirty yards, left foot, top corner, the Sovereign has responded to Agüero with a cannon of his own and the match is level!"
Inés checked the data. "Thirty yards out, left foot, top corner. That is his fourth Champions League goal of the season. He is leading the scoring charts in both Spain and Europe and every scouting report in the continent had him filed as primarily right-footed. He has just opened the gates of the Premier League's richest club with what those reports called his secondary foot."
On the touchline, Pellegrini's expression tightened. "Don't blame Hart," he said to his assistant. "Blame the shape. Four men and nobody closed the space. Yaya, Fernandinho, stay on him. No more room."
Across the technical area, Martino pumped a single fist toward the travelling Barça supporters in the far corner. One sentence to Pautasso. Then his eyes went back to the pitch.
On the field, Messi, whose whipping cross from the right had created the chance jumped onto Lorenzo's back. Neymar and Busquets arrived a second later.
"Did you see Hart's face?" Busquets said, still grinning as they separated. "You've added yourself to a very specific and painful collection."
Iniesta placed a hand briefly on Lorenzo's shoulder as they passed. "Keep pulling the trigger."
High above the main stand, in the glass-fronted executive box, Txiki Begiristain had been on his feet since the ball left Lorenzo's boot. He stood close to the glass now, watching the Number 9 jog back to the halfway line, already focused on the restart rather than the goal he'd just scored. That detail, the absence of theatre, the immediate return to work told Begiristain more than any data report could.
Begiristain had built his career on identifying players before the rest of the market agreed on their value. He had brought Yaya Touré to Barcelona and watched Pep make the wrong call on him. He had signed David Silva for City when half of England's clubs were still sleeping. He understood the difference between a very good player and a structural asset, the kind of player whose presence fundamentally changed how an entire team functioned, whose gravity reorganised defences before he even touched the ball.
That was what he was watching now.
"I've seen the reports," he said to his assistant, his voice low. "Is that him? The La Masia product?"
"Lorenzo. Seventeen years old. Top scorer in La Liga and the Champions League simultaneously. The Spanish federation moved quickly — Queen Sofía was involved personally in the approach. He is considered non-transferable at Barcelona."
Begiristain's eyes stayed on the pitch. Lorenzo had just won his first ball back from Touré - a shoulder lean, simple, efficient and recycled it to Busquets without breaking stride. Touré, one of the three physically dominant midfielders on the planet, had been brushed aside like a rotation piece.
"List him as the primary summer target. And start approaching his legal team before the winter window. Quietly - no leaks."
His assistant hesitated. "Barça won't sell. Not at any price the board would sanction."
"Everyone has a ceiling," Begiristain said, "and Barcelona's is lower than it looks. The board is in the middle of a governance crisis. Their wage structure is unsustainable. They are defending a dynasty rather than building one." He paused, watching Lorenzo drop deep to draw Fernandinho out of position. "We offer him certainty. A project. A contract that doesn't depend on the Camp Nou's politics. We offer him a kingdom built on something that isn't going away."
He turned from the glass.
"Send the scouts. Full psychological profile. I want to understand what he wants, not what Barcelona pays him. What he actually wants."
The assistant wrote it down and said nothing further.
Below on the pitch, the Etihad had found its voice again, the home crowd recovering, the small away pocket still buzzing. The match had fifteen minutes left in the first half and the score was level. Both managers were recalculating.
[Ding! Premier League Stadium Codex — Etihad Stadium - LIT. Cycle 1: 1/3.]
[Status: Level (1-1). 30th Minute. Champions League MD2 — Etihad.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_