The Copa del Rey had started the season as little more than a footnote for Laurence González, a place to give rotation players a run out, keep fitness in check, maybe entertain the fans a little before the real work resumed in the league.
Not anymore.
Not after what had happened at the Camp Nou.
After facing Barcelona toe to toe, something had changed in the Tenerife locker room — and in Laurence himself. That game had not just been a result. It had been a moment of arrival. And the cup was no longer a distraction. It was a route.
The draw had been sufficient, or at least manageable. Getafe. Mid table, gritty, experienced. Dangerous but manageable.
A window.
Laurence didn't have a lot to say the morning after the draw. The players walked in looking for tactical breakdowns, video, shapes or patterns. They had nothing but silence.
Laurence stood at the front of the empty classroom, cold coffee at his side, the marker in hand. He was writing the lineup for the first leg on the board in uppercase letters. Neymar - rested. Kitoko - rested. Natalio - bench. A message: we believe in the squad.
Griezmann upfront. Casemiro holding. A mix of starters and reserves who want to play.
Joel, the newest lad from La Masia, was on the bench. Still new, still settling in. Mauro had sealed a loan just two days before and the boy had not even unpacked yet. His Catalan was not great and he barely spoke, he was still shy and young and nervous.; but on the practice pitch... he was liquid.
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CD Tenerife vs Getafe CF.
The crowd was larger than expected. The weather is invariably humid, with temperatures hovering around 14 degrees Celsius, but dry and cooler on this early January game day perhaps their was just a little buzz because maybe something was changing in Tenerife, it was not just the survival of CD Tenerife, it was beginning the process of closer integration of CD Tenerife into the local area of the Canaries and probably Spain as a whole.
People whispering through the listening air in bars and markets and on radios - something was coming, this was not just survival. CD Tenerife were changing.
The game started like many of the cup ties do — nervy, cautious. Getafe played like they read the paper — this was a team fresh off an impressive result at the Camp Nou. They pressed with structure, not with panic. No space. No lanes to find. Case of the misplacing the first pass, who had approached the first half of the season like a boy lost in a storm, was now standing still, as pressure built, calmly passing while holding steady.
And then, in the 27th minute, something gave.
A lazy pass from Getafe's left back, too casual, drifted into the middle third. Casemiro reacted as if he'd been waiting all game. A sharp first touch, a forward burst, and then… pause. He saw the run before it was made.
One pass — not spectacular, just perfect.
Griezmann received it in stride, ghosted past his marker with a body feint, and beautifully curled a low shot into the far corner.
1–0
The crowd collectively roared — not in wild abandon, but with the satisfaction of a goal that felt inevitable. Like they'd earned the chance.
Laurence didn't move. He just turned to Victor and said quietly, "That's why I wanted him."
Getafe hit back almost immediately. Pedro Ríos had the quiet full-back's number and got behind him, whipped in a low ball just before the defense could reset. Their striker met it cleanly at the near post.
1–1.
Laurence tightened his jaw, but kept his hands down. The moment had shifted, but was not broken. Not like before. Not like in the first half of the season.
By the 70 minute mark, as the midfield players tired and the match drifted, Laurence turned to the bench.
"Joel," he called. The boy blinked. "Go warm up."
He stripped off his jacket and jogged silently along the touchline. Going on a few minutes later for Dubarbier and there was no reaction from the stadium. Just another youth player.
But Joel played differently.
He didn't hustle. He drifted. He didn't scream. He appeared. Two passes, three. A switch of play. His first diagonal ball was so clean and so on point it looked like it had been drawn with a ruler.
Griezmann took it perfectly and instead of scoring, slid it across the box.
Juanlu came on to it late and tapped it in.
2–1.
No eruption this time — just disbelief. A teenager no one knew had just unlocked Getafe in his first senior touch sequence.
Laurence turned to Victor, lips tight. "Not yet," he murmured.
Victor nodded. "But close."
Full-time. 2–1.
As the players walked off, Laurence made a point to shake Joel's hand — and for once, he smiled.
"You'll be special," he said softly. "But we do it slow. Understand?"
Joel nodded, barely audible: "Sí, míster."
Laurence leaned back against the side of his small terrace, a thin blanket across his shoulders and his arm wrapped around a cup of dark English tea. The city below was calm, except for the occasional squawking seagull and muffled whirring of engines from the harbor.
The cup had been half-empty for over an hour.
He wasn't thinking about Getafe. Not really.
He was thinking about April. Semifinals. Maybe more.
The Copa had become more than just a cup. It had become a mirror — no, a window — into who they were becoming, and who they could be.
The door to the small apartment behind him clicked open. Victor stepped out, his hair still wet from the haphazard shower he'd rushed through, with two cups of black coffee raked from the kitchen at his side.
"You haven't slept?"
Laurence took the coffee offer. "Didn't want to."
"You're thinking about the second leg already, aren't you?"
Laurence didn't look at him. Instead, he kept his eyes on the stadium lights glowing in the distance.