Low clouds loomed over Santa Cruz de Tenerife, thick and still. Inside the Heliodoro Rodríguez López, the noise reverberated off the concrete walls.
Laurence Gonzales stood at the edge of the dugout, his jacket sharp and his expression calm. Memories from last season flickered in his mind—early goals given away, late-game meltdowns, and that brutal night at the Bernabéu that felt like a harsh lesson in the ruthless world of elite football.
But this Tenerife team was different. Their plays were sharper, their teamwork more cohesive. The players weren't just stepping onto the pitch hoping to hold for a draw anymore.
Or that's what Laurence hoped.
As the lineups were announced, the crowd reacted as expected. The names from Madrid drew a mix of boos and the kind of reluctant admiration. Cristiano Ronaldo, Mesut Özil, Karim Benzema, Ángel di María. Then the camera shifted to José Mourinho, arms crossed and expression stoic, embodying that blend of strategy and irritation he always seemed to carry.
But when Ricardo Quaresma's name rang out through the stadium, the atmosphere changed. Tenerife fans applauded him warmly; he had quickly earned their respect. Across the touchline, Mourinho remained still. Yet Laurence noticed it—a brief, sly smirk.
It was the look of a man who had made his decision long ago.
Laurence stayed composed. Quaresma didn't glance at the Madrid bench either. But for a split second, Laurence could see his jaw tighten.
The kickoff echoed with a sharp whistle, and Madrid wasted no time charging forward. Xabi Alonso aimed to control the pace from deep, while Ronaldo and Benzema kept testing Tenerife's defense with their clever diagonal runs.
But the offside flag kept getting in the way.
Just five minutes in, Ronaldo zipped between De Vrij and Luna to connect with a signature Özil pass. He finished cleanly, sending the ball past Aragoneses—but the assistant referee had other ideas and raised the flag.
Ronaldo let out a frustrated bark. Mourinho spread his arms wide in a dramatic gesture, then shot a glance at Laurence, as if to say, "Enjoy it while it lasts."
Laurence didn't say a word. He simply adjusted his stance and signaled for the defensive line to stay sharper next time.
Another chance came in the fifteenth minute—Özil once again threading a clever ball through the defenders. This time, Benzema seized it, took a touch, and fired low.
Flag up. Offside again.
The crowd erupted into laughter rather than cheers, almost amused by how often the giants were being caught out by something so simple. Koulibaly jogged back into position, looking calm and almost nonchalant. De Vrij gave him a light tap on the shoulder, and they exchanged a silent nod: the line was doing its job.
Victor leaned toward Laurence on the bench. "They're trying to bait Luna," he murmured. "Running at him on every diagonal."
Laurence nodded in agreement. "Let them. He's reading it well."
Joel Luna, positioned on the left of the back three, had stepped in for Bellvis, who was being saved for the midweek Europa match. For a 31-year-old veteran of the game, he showed remarkable composure. Just solid positioning and smart decisions.
Madrid was now feeling the heat. Mourinho was pacing the technical area, muttering commands under his breath, occasionally shooting a glance at Laurence that seemed to mix irritation with a hint of provocation. At one point, during a lull in the action, he smirked and said something just loud enough for the fourth official to catch.
But Laurence didn't take the bait. He crossed his arms and kept his focus on the pitch. Sometimes, silence speaks louder than words.
Meanwhile, Quaresma's performance was intriguing. He moved fluidly between the lines, linking up with short passes and making smart choices. Whenever the ball found him, the Madrid players ramped up their pressure. It wasn't personal; they just knew how to get under his skin. He had faced this kind of pressure before in Italy.
Every time he glanced toward the right side of the pitch, where Mourinho was stationed, there was a brief moment of hesitation. A flicker of that old tension. But he shook it off and continued to play.
In the twenty-third minute, he delivered his first moment of brilliance. Pulling inside to receive a pass from Kikoto, he drew three Madrid players in with a subtle feint, then flicked the ball out wide to Joel. The young right winger from La Masia stepped up confidently and curled a shot toward the far corner. Casillas was a beat late but managed to get a fingertip on it.
Tenerife's fans erupted. It was so close.
Madrid responded with increased intensity. Di María kept trying to isolate Cancelo, forcing the young wingback to track back deep. Casemiro and Kikoto had to stay tight, cutting off lanes to Özil. The back three maintained their high line with discipline, refusing to be pushed back.
The tension on the pitch thickened. Players took longer to recover from challenges. The crowd reacted to every tackle with escalating energy. Madrid's players began appealing for every little foul, while Mourinho was barking for yellow cards that never materialized.
As the clock ticked past the half-hour mark, Ronaldo made a bold attempt at a long-range shot after skillfully cutting inside leaving De Vrij behind. Aragoneses managed to parry it away with a steady push. The goalkeeper signaled for his defense to stay composed.
Laurence watched everything unfold in silence. Whenever Madrid quickly switched up their play, he stepped forward, urging his team to move as one. "Shift! Shift! Don't separate!" His voice sliced through the noise of the stadium.
Quaresma was walking a fine line between being cautious and taking initiative. At one point, after losing the ball, he hesitated for just a moment—old instincts kicking in, the fear of his manager's wrath from years past. But when Laurence clapped and shouted, "Next one, Ricky, next one!" he nodded decisively and pushed forward again.
That was the key difference. The atmosphere felt less hostile now. He wasn't being punished for every little mistake.
Madrid's best chance of the half came in the thirty-seventh minute when Alonso found Di María in the space between the lines. The Argentine slipped a pass to Benzema, who finally broke the offside trap and forced Aragoneses into a solid save with his right foot.
The rebound fell to Ronaldo, who struck immediately, but Koulibaly was there to block it with a perfectly timed step. Luna slapped Koulibaly on the back as they prepared for corner.
The Tenerife fans applauded the entire sequence for the resilience they displayed.
As halftime approached, tensions began to rise. Ronaldo had a clash with De Vrij after a shoulder-to-shoulder challenge. Neymar exchanged heated words with Ramos after being clipped from behind. Mourinho gestured sarcastically toward the referee, earning himself a warning. Meanwhile, Laurence remained unfazed, pointing at his players and repeating the only instruction that truly mattered:
"Keep the line. Don't drop."
As the whistle drew near, Tenerife managed one last transition. Quaresma received the ball between Madrid's midfield lines, took a quick glance up, and launched a diagonal pass toward Neymar. It wasn't perfect—slightly overhit—but it showed intent, confidence, and an eagerness to make things happen.
And as Quaresma jogged back into shape, he allowed himself a brief, steady exhale. He didn't look toward Mourinho. He didn't need to.
The referee's whistle finally cut through the stadium.
Halftime.
No goals. No breakthroughs. Just forty-five minutes of disciplined football that had forced Real Madrid to rethink every assumption they had made about this small island club.
Back in the tunnel, Laurence's expression didn't change. They had played well—but half-time wasn't a place for comfort.
Madrid would adjust. Tenerife would need to answer.