The flight back from Lisbon was silent.
No music. No laughter. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional cough from someone trying not to say what everyone felt.
A loss in the Champions League hurt. But a loss where you let in four?
Unacceptable.
Flick didn't say a word the whole flight. Just sat in the front row of the plane, arms crossed, watching the game replay on his tablet over and over.
When they landed at El Prat Airport at 2:37 AM, he stood at the exit of the plane and looked each player in the eye as they walked out.
"Training," he said. "9:00 sharp."
No one argued.
They knew.
Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper – The Next Morning
By 8:30 AM, every player was already out on the pitch.
Cold air hit their faces like a warning shot. Some were jogging laps. Others were juggling in silence. Szczęsny sat with the goalkeeping coach, stretching while muttering to himself in Polish. Gavi looked like he hadn't slept.
Luca arrived with Lamine. The two didn't say a word. Just nodded and got to work.
At 9:00 on the dot, Flick stepped out of the tunnel.
No clipboard. No smiles.
Just business.
He clapped once—loud.
"Enough."
Every head turned.
"We're done with the excuses. Done with playing beautiful for 20 minutes and disappearing for 70. Done with watching our badge get stepped on by clubs that want it more."
He paced in front of them.
"Benfica wanted it more. That's the truth. And I don't care if you're 18 or 35, if you're Lewandowski or Casado or Luca—if you don't fight for the shirt, you won't wear it again."
A long silence.
Then Flick barked, "Split into two teams. Full pitch. No bibs. No mercy."
The Scrimmage
And just like that—it began.
Luca moved with fire in his chest. Every time he got the ball, he drove at defenders, hungry. On one play, he nutmegged Gavi, then whipped in a perfect cross to Lamine, who volleyed it off the post.
"Better!" Flick shouted. "Now again!"
Pedri threaded passes through the narrowest of lanes. Balde overlapped like a man possessed. Szczęsny barked like a general, commanding his line, diving full stretch to deny Félix.
The tackles were harder. The pace faster. Every player pushed past their limit.
And Luca?
He was glowing.
He cut inside with a sharp turn, dropped his shoulder, beat two players, and smashed a rocket into the top left corner.
Bang.
The pitch went silent for half a second. Then Flick's voice sliced the air.
"That's what I want. More. We keep going."
Drills, Pressure, Repetition
The scrimmage was just the beginning.
They moved into pressing drills. Full-intensity rondos. Passing drills with three-touch max. Then transitions—4 vs 4, 3 vs 2, defensive scenarios, corner routines.
Lamine slipped once in a tight press. Flick didn't hesitate.
"Again."
Pedri gave away a lazy ball.
"Again."
Casado mistimed a pass.
"Again."
They trained for three hours straight.
By the time Flick called it, most of the players were bent over, hands on knees, drenched in sweat. Luca collapsed on the grass and looked up at the sky, chest heaving.
Flick finally walked over, arms crossed, and said, "Now that's how Barcelona trains. And from today on…"
He looked around.
"We cook."
Later – Locker Room
Back inside, the atmosphere was different. Players high-fived. Joked. Even smiled. A storm had passed, and it felt like clarity came with it.
Luca peeled off his shirt and slumped into his seat next to Lamine.
"You alright?" Lamine asked.
Luca grinned. "Never better."
Flick stepped in one last time.
"Take the rest of the day off. You've earned it. But remember—we've got Valencia next. At home. We start making noise now."
He looked at Luca, then at the rest of the team.
"No more second chances."
The shift had begun.
No more passive defending.
No more slow starts.
Barcelona was about to unleash a version of itself the world hadn't seen in years.
Hungry. United. Ruthless.
And at the heart of it, a kid named Luca who was no longer just part of the project.
He was the project.