The gentle wind along the Atlantic coast of Tenerife whispered through the streets that evening, bringing with it a mix of salt and warmth that made the place feel alive in a way it rarely did. Flags fluttered from balconies like makeshift banners of hope, car horns echoed long after the sun dipped below the horizon.
CD Tenerife had stormed Camp Nou and taken down Barcelona 5–1, and the island wore that victory like a badge of honor.
In the early hours, well before the city began to wake, Victor found himself alone in the club offices, a half-finished coffee growing cold beside him. His desk was a chaotic mix of newspapers, tablets, printed screenshots from foreign sites, and hastily scribbled notes from agents who suddenly remembered Tenerife was a thing.
Marca described it as a collapse.
El País labeled it a historical humiliation.
An English paper took it a step further, framing it as a tactical dismantling rather than just a bad night, pointing the finger at Laurence Gonzales as the mastermind behind it all.
Victor read the same paragraph twice, then leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. They had crossed a line now. The club had spent years trying to get noticed, but this was different. This was the kind of attention that could change everything, for good or for worse.
As for Laurence, he chose to tune out the chaos. That evening, he found solace at a small café by the sea, the kind of spot where locals would slip away to be alone.
Lucía sat across from him, their table illuminated by a flickering candle and the soft glow of passing streetlights. The atmosphere was easygoing, a welcome change after weeks of tension. Nearby, a guitarist strummed softly for a handful of late diners, and laughter floated through the open windows.
A group of fans stumbled by, a bit tipsy, belting out off-key tunes with a sense of pride. One of them sported a makeshift shirt with Laurence's name scribbled on the back. Lucía caught sight of it before he did and couldn't help but smile.
It brought him more amusement than discomfort, even though he felt that familiar tightening in his chest. Attention could be a double-edged sword; it was useful, sure, but also risky. Teams often lost their way in the pursuit of it. Careers could buckle under its pressure.
Lucía observed him closely as he swirled the wine in his glass, his mind clearly wandering. She had picked up on the signs by now—the far-off look in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened when he was already three steps ahead of the moment.
The chatter around them wasn't so much about Barcelona as it was about what lay ahead. Laurence was quieter than usual, listening more, trying to anchor himself in the rhythm of a typical evening. He had stepped into this life years ago without any certainty, no map to guide him, just instinct and discipline.
The rapid rise of Tenerife still threw him off balance. He believed in the process, but he knew that once emotions got involved, processes could become fragile.
A few days later, Switzerland welcomed them with cold air.
UEFA headquarters felt intentionally neutral, designed to strip away the romance of football and leave only the bare structure. Laurence stood next to Miguel Concepción and Mauro as officials led them through the formalities.
The Tenerife crest lit up the screens alongside clubs with names that echoed through European nights. It felt surreal in a way that still hadn't faded.
The group stage had been tough, but Tenerife managed to navigate it without a hitch. Four wins, two draws, and not a single loss.
Laurence could recall each match vividly, especially that away draw that tested their patience more than their skills. Those nights were more significant than any highlight reel; they revealed who could be relied upon when things got tough.
When Tenerife's name popped up in the draw, Mauro instinctively leaned forward, his fingers tightly clasped. The team they were up against wasn't exactly glamorous, but they weren't pushovers either.
AEK Athens.
Laurence acknowledged the challenge with a slight nod. He was already running through the rotation, recovery times, and the fatigue from travel in his mind.
Miguel chimed in about the distance and the atmosphere they'd encounter. Laurence responded without missing a beat. Depth would definitely be put to the test. It always was at this stage.
Back on the island, the reaction was almost one of disbelief. The Europa League draw turned into an event all on its own. Radios blasted tribute songs, and kids raced through the streets in shirts that hadn't even existed one year ago. Yet, training sessions were surprisingly quiet. Purposefully so.
Neymar showed up early, stayed late, asked questions, and repeated drills without a hint of complaint. Griezmann's ankle was handled with care, every session closely monitored.
Natalio worked in near silence, refusing to let the surrounding noise distract him from his goals. The squad had come to understand something that hadn't been clear at the beginning of the season: they weren't just along for the ride. They were active participants in something extraordinary.
Victor brought medical updates to Laurence with the same meticulousness he applied to everything else. Recovery timelines were sketched out and then adjusted as needed. No risks were taken. The fixture list loomed ahead like an imposing wall.
Athens arrived with a roar.
Even before the stadium came into sight, the sound enveloped them, vibrating through the bus windows like a living thing. Smoke from flares hung thick in the air, casting a red hue over the night. Drums thumped with an unyielding beat, and chants crashed against the concrete like waves against a rocky shore.
Laurence felt it right away. The shift in energy. The way his players stood taller without needing a word. In places like this, fear and focus were two sides of the same coin.
Inside the dressing room, the noise softened but never faded. It seeped through the walls, a constant reminder of their surroundings. Laurence moved with purpose, checking details, adjusting collars, and sharing quick words where necessary. Everyone here already understood the game plan.
Bellvís, Luna, Koulibaly across the back three.
Robertson and Cancelo wide but tasked with deep cover.
Kanté and Casemiro—the double anchor.
Quaresma as the free spirit behind two strikers: Neymar and Natalio.
Tenerife would maintain possession, keep their formation, and stay composed. The opposition thrived on chaos. Chaos favored the loudest voices. Structure favored those who were prepared.
As the players made their way toward the tunnel, the sound surged back, crashing down from the stands above. Flags waved endlessly, black and yellow swallowing the night. Laurence followed behind his team, eyes fixed ahead, breathing steady.