Lopetegui's knuckles were white on the edge of the technical area. His gaze was fixed on the red Number 9, mid-swing at the edge of the box.
Not far away, Hrubesch clutched his head. The Jerusalem stadium, a cauldron of sound only monts before, fell into heavy expectant silence. Every Spanish fan watching and every scout from the top five leagues who had made the trip understood what this mont ant. Long-range strikes were not just part of Lorenzo's repertoire. They were his closing argunt.
Even against Casillas at the Bernabéu, the boy had produced an unsolvable cannon. Now, under the Jerusalem floodlights, he was pulling the trigger again.
Lorenzo's left foot swung upward with a violent, rhythmic grace. His instep t the leather with a sound like a hamr striking an anvil.
The ball didn't fly - it rocketed. Imnse kinetic load, whistling past Ginter, still mid-slide in his attempt to block the lane and screaming toward the top-right corner.
Mustafi tracked the blur from inside the box, his body too slow to react to the velocity.
"LORENZO!! SHOT FROM THIRTY-FIVE YARDS!" Santiago roared.
Ter Stegen's spine registered the threat before his eyes had fully processed it. Relying on the reflexes that had made him the most coveted young goalkeeper in Germany, he launched from his line, full fra, maximum extension, gloves reaching for the trajectory.
He was Neuer's backup in the senior squad. Four years ago, Neuer had used this very tournant to announce himself to the world. Tonight, Ter Stegen had hoped for his own version of that mont.
The ball grazed his fingertips — contact that would have deflected a normal shot. But the power behind it was unyielding. The trajectory didn't falter. It slamd into the top corner and rippled the net with a violent, final snap.
SWISH!
3-1.
The Jerusalem stadium went quiet.
"GOAL!! LORENZO!! A HAT-TRICK IN THE EUROPEAN FINAL!!" Santiago was screaming until his voice cracked. "Three goals against Germany in a U-21 final! A clinical finish from inside the box, a dominant header, and now a cannon from distance, three different qualities, three different thods!"
Inés Valdes reviewed the goals on her monitor. "Three goals, three different forms, Santiago. Lorenzo isn't just demonstrating how a centre-forward should play. He is demonstrating the gap between talented prospects and a player who has already arrived. Germany has a generation of excellent reserves. Lorenzo is a first-team reality. That is not the sa competition."
The Argentine digital feed was a vortex of mixed feeling.
[A hat-trick in the Euro Final. He's seventeen. The AFA put this player on a blacklist.]
[Jesé and Isco are not ssi and Iniesta, and the Beast still scores three. He would eat in any team in the world.]
On the pitch, the German players were silhouettes of despair. Can sat on the turf, chest heaving, staring at the grass. Ginter stood with his hands on his hips. Hofmann lay flat, the match having passed him entirely.
Ter Stegen retrieved the ball from the net slowly. He looked at Lorenzo, who was being mobbed by Jesé and Koke at the corner flag. There was no anger in Ter Stegen's expression. What was there instead was sothing quieter, a determination that had crystallised in the heat of the evening.
I have to be at the Camp Nou, Ter Stegen thought, his jaw tightening. To win the Champions League, you don't play against a player like that. You beco his teammate.
On the touchline, Lopetegui embraced his assistant, his mind already running forward to the senior team, to the World Cup draw in Brazil, to the phone call Del Bosque had probably already made.
Across the divide, Hrubesch shook his head slowly.
"He's only seventeen," he said to his assistant. "He shouldn't be at this level yet. He should be playing against his peers."
"If Neuer were here," the assistant started.
"If Neuer were here," Hrubesch replied, "we'd be the senior team. And I'd still be worried."
Fweet-!
The match restarted. Germany's press continued, the discipline was still there, but the conviction behind it had drained away. Spain circulated the ball patiently, the tempo slowing as the lead beca comfortable. Emre Can and Arnold tracked Lorenzo wherever he moved, but they were tracking a shadow. He drew them, opened the space, and let his teammates use it.
In the 82nd minute, Hrubesch pulled off Arnold. The stadium acknowledged the substitution and went quiet again.
"Ten minutes of regular ti left," Santiago said. "Spain in total control. The Spanish fans in the corner are already counting down."
The chant started low and built - Lorenzo's na, repeated, the rhythm of it rolling through the steel rafters and out into the Jerusalem night.
[Status: Leading (3-1). 85th Minute. U-21 Euro Final - Jerusalem.]
[System Note: Hat-trick confird.]
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