The league title was secured, but the season was far from finished.
Two La Liga fixtures remained on the calendar, though neither carried any real weight for the standings now. Barcelona were officially champions of Spain. The only real target left on the domestic front was preserving their historic streak: thirty-five league matches without a single defeat, two games to go, and an opportunity to close out the entire league campaign completely unbeaten.
Beyond that, waiting three weeks down the road, was the big one in Lisbon.
The Champions League final against Pep Guardiola's Bayern Munich.
Tata Martino kept training light throughout the week. The core starters who had carried the heaviest load through the spring saw their pitch time dialed back significantly. Sofía and Antonio Pintus took charge of large chunks of the schedule, replacing intense scrimmages with mobility routines, muscle load management, and careful monitoring for everyone expected to start at the Estádio da Luz.
Lorenzo, naturally, found himself under closer medical scrutiny than anyone else in the squad.
"Eighty-eight minutes," Sofía said on Monday morning inside the medical room, holding her tablet firmly at chest height. "Your strict clearance ceiling was seventy-five."
Lorenzo sat on the edge of the treatment table, shrugging with a slight grin. "Come on, we literally won the championship on their pitch."
"You keep repeating that, but it really doesn't change the numbers on my screen," she replied, setting the tablet down on the stainless steel counter. "That said, I went over your recovery telemetry from the last forty-eight hours. As usual, your numbers are pretty unusual. Your muscle tissue repairs itself significantly faster than our baseline projections. So instead of giving you a hard time about those extra thirteen minutes, I am going to factor them into our preparation."
Lorenzo looked at her with genuine curiosity. "Factor them in for what, exactly?"
"For Lisbon," Sofía said, leaning against the counter. "If your legs can absorb eighty-eight intense minutes at the Calderón and bounce back to full mobility within two days, then I can design your physical taper for the final with a bit more flexibility. Physiologically speaking, you don't recover like an average athlete." She picked her tablet back up, tapping the screen with a dry expression. "Just so we're clear, that is actually a compliment."
Lorenzo chuckled softly. "Honestly, with you, it's pretty hard to tell sometimes."
"Well, consider it confirmed. Now go get through your mobility drills."
The tactical prep for Bayern picked up steam as the days went on, though Martino made sure to keep the sessions focused and manageable.
He stuck strictly to his twenty-minute video rule before every morning session. The coaching staff analyzed Bayern's setup piece by piece: Arjen Robben's trademark habits when cutting inside onto his left foot, Franck Ribéry's explosive directness down the opposite flank, Philipp Lahm's spatial awareness in the middle, and Manuel Neuer's sweeping radius outside his eighteen-yard box. They looked at Guardiola's counter-press and how the German side's fullbacks tucked into central midfield lanes during possession.
During one afternoon analysis session, Martino paused a video clip showing Bayern building from their own penalty area, turning around to address the room.
"They are going to try to bait us into chasing the ball high," Martino explained, pointing at the frozen frame. "That is the primary trap. If we commit to an aggressive high press and they play through the initial line, Robben and Ribéry will have fifty yards of green grass to run straight at our backline. We are not going to chase blindly out there. We press exclusively on specific tactical triggers, we keep our defensive block compact, and the second we turn possession over, we transition immediately. Their high defensive line is the clearest vulnerability in everything Pep has built."
He clicked the remote, switching the television screen off.
"We have plenty of time to worry about Lisbon next week. For now, our focus stays on Villarreal this weekend. We protect our unbeaten league run, we give Carles the proper farewell he deserves at Camp Nou, and then we put all our energy into the final."
Up in Germany, Guardiola's Bayern officially clinched the Bundesliga title that same week with several rounds to spare, matching everyone's expectations. With domestic duties settled, the German champions could also channel their entire focus toward Portugal.
Two domestic champions. One final European trophy. Three weeks of anticipation.
On Thursday evening, Lorenzo was sitting alone in his living room when his phone began buzzing on the coffee table. The caller ID showed Lucia's name.
He picked it up. "Hey."
"Hey," she replied. Her tone sounded relaxed and warm, carrying the easy familiarity they used to share before the season got so chaotic. "I'm not catching you in the middle of something, am I?"
"No, not at all," Lorenzo said, leaning his head back against the sofa cushions with a faint smile. "I've just been sitting here staring at scouting clips of Bayern for the past two hours. You're actually saving me from myself."
She let out a soft laugh over the line. "So, how many times have you watched those clips of their defensive structure today?"
"Honestly, I've completely lost count at this point. It's becoming a bit of an obsession."
"Well, it's a Champions League final, so I guess you're allowed to be a little obsessed," Lucia said gently. She paused for a moment, the silence between them feeling natural and calm. "Anyway, I really just wanted to call before the weekend match. Just to say good luck with Villarreal and the season's final home match."
"Thanks, Lucia. I really appreciate that."
"And make sure you actually get some rest," she added, her voice taking on a slightly firmer, caring edge. "I know how you get. You're probably planning to stay up until three in the morning rewinding the same three defensive clips. Your doctor can track your stats all she wants, but you actually have to let your body shut down too."
Lorenzo smiled to himself. "You're starting to sound an awful lot like her, you know."
"I just sound like someone who has watched you push your body to the absolute limit for the past eight months and wants to make sure you're fine," she replied softly. She paused again, letting out a quiet breath. "That was really the whole reason I called. Good luck this weekend, get some proper sleep, and I'll see you at Camp Nou on Sunday."
"So you're coming to the match, right?"
"Of course I am," she said with a quiet smile you could hear through the phone. "I told you I'd be there. Cecilia and I already have our seats sorted out." A brief, comfortable pause followed. "I'll see you from the stands on Sunday, Lorenzo. Go have a great game."
"I will. Thanks, Lucia."
The call clicked off softly.
Lorenzo held the phone in his palm for a quiet minute, looking across at the glowing tablet screen where Manuel Neuer was frozen mid-stride outside his penalty box.
He reached forward, picked up the device, and swiped it completely off. He got up from the sofa, walked into the bedroom, and actually called it an early night.
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