The wind blew across the Santa Cruz training ground, warm and carrying just enough sea salt. The sort of breeze that tourists take a break in, and the locals forget the time. But Laurence González didn't notice. He sat with arms folded tight across his chest, eyes locked on the rondo drill developing in the direction of the sideline. Not looking at the ball. Not looking at the group. Transfixed on one player.
Joel.
The kid had only been on the island a few weeks, but already something was transforming about him. The nervousness had disappeared from previous weeks. The furtive glances. The unsure touches. It all had vanished. What was left was a player who played like he belonged to some silence. Not ostentatious. Not boisterous. Just clean. Crisp. Controlled.
But that wasn't what was holding Laurence's interest.
It was Joel's movement.
Every time he released the ball, he drifted right. Not aggressively. Not like he was hunting for the next pass - but with a gentle purpose. A soft pulling toward the wing, like a magnet no one else could see.
Laurence's brows knit together.
He waited, looked again. Joel received the ball centrally. Turned. Passed. Then ghosted outward toward the touchline. Again and again.
The drifting wasn't indecision.
It was instinct.
Laurence took a step back, then looked to his side at Victor, clipboard in hand, water bottle dangling from two fingers.
"See that?" Laurence asked.
Victor looked up and followed the direction of his gaze. "See what? He's just getting a little wide. Some kids do that."
"He's not drifting," Laurence said quietly. "He's searching."
Victor raised his eyebrows. "Searching for what?"
But Lawrence was already walking.
He walked across the pitch weaving through drills, to the outer ring of Joel's rondo group. He waited for an opening and then waved Joel over.
Joel jogged over to him, sweat on his brow, expression neutral. Always neutral.
Laurence pointed with one finger at the open right flank. "Go there. Outside. Play wide."
Joel blinked. "You want me to play... winger?"
"Sí. Think like you're Pedro. Stay wide. Take on the fullback. Cross when you can."
Joel looked uncertain, puzzled. "But I have always—"
"I know," Laurence said gently. "Today, you are not a midfielder. Today, you are what the game will ask you to be."
After a short look Joel nodded and jogged off into the sideline.
Before long, it was all working.
Joel did not look lost. He looked unshackled. The moment he received the ball, out wide, out wide, he played a different game — his touch became quicker, sharper — he blasted into the empty space, sprinting towards the defenders, and curled a strike across the box that skipped across the six-yard box like a knife.
The players working near the drill began to whistle. A few clapped.
Laurence stood still, arms crossed again, satisfaction at the edges of his mouth.
He turned to Victor, who had followed him. "He's not a midfielder. Not today, not here."
Victor shook his head. "You're moving a La Masia-trained playmaker to the wing. Isn't this like asking a violinist to drum?"
"Not at all," Laurence laughed, "it's like putting a violinist on a bigger stage."
This weekend, CD Tenerife would battle Levante at the Heliodoro.
Neymar would be on the left, Natalio would be the center forward, while Griezmann would float in between spaces in his usual manner. Joel, however, would be content on the bench - quietly, observantly, absorbing everything around him. The same number, yet everything about Joel had changed. The switch was all in his mind. He was off and running, now on the wing.
It was a gritty match. Levante was a physical team with a pragmatic approach and seized every opportunity to disrupt CD Tenerife's midfield and slow their rhythm. Casemiro had already been targeted and had been used, displaced off the ball. But he held his own. His mind had matured in terms of danger. He never backed down - he anchored.
Off of a messy corner in the 42nd minute, Tenerife took the lead. Natalio got up and above two defenders to nod the ball just inside the post and past the glove of the keeper. 1–0.
But it did not feel comfortable. Not yet.
In the 65th minute, Laurence made his move.
Joel replaced Juanlu. He didn't go into midfield. He went to the right wing.
The crowd murmured. Many still didn't know the boy. Some (like me) were probably expecting another loanee to fit in as the option at right wing or may a more experienced option. But Joel jogged in relaxed, shoulders back, and eyes on the space that was opening in front of him.
His first few touches were modest - nothing memorable. He played simple, feed Natalio with a few soft one-twos. But then came the moment.
Casemiro was under pressure in midfield and hit a high, skipping switch across the field. It arced over the Levante line, curving toward the far sideline.
Joel brought it down with his first touch.
The fullback closed in quickly, expecting hesitation. But Joel didn't hesitate. He flicked the ball forward with a little flick, turned and accelerated past the defender, breaking into the final third.
And then, while in full stride, he curled a low cross for Griezmann. The ball curled around the last defender's ankle and skimmed the turf like a stone over water.
And there was Griezmann.
2–0.
The Heliodoro was roaring.
Laurence was not.
He simply stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and whispered to himself, "There it is."
The rest of the match passed without incident. Tenerife had the ball, broke play up, stifled Levante's late attempts at success. Another clean sheet. Another three points. Five unbeaten in all competitions.
But after the final whistle, when the coaching staff stood in the knit tunnel, it was not Neymar's flicks, or Casemiro's tackles, they were talking about.
It was about Joel.
"He doesn't even know what he is yet," Victor said afterwards, walking side-by-side with Laurence down the narrow corridor.
Laurence nodded slowly and said, "He doesn't need to."
Victor raised an eyebrow and said, "Then what do you tell him?"
Laurence was staring out on the pitch, staring at the grass, glimmering under the stadium floodlights.
"Nothing. Just keep giving him space. And one day he will figure out that he has always been a winger."