The second half of the match started with a hum in the air, not loud and not triumphant to be sure, but steadfast. It was sound not borne of expectation, but born of hope, and that mattered far more to Laurence González than any game plan.
The crowd inside the Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López had not gone quiet. They were surely bruised by the first half, but they were not broken.
Tenerife had been here before, pushed into a corner and bleeding, but still standing and breathing. And that hum, that low vibration of belief, was ringing through their bodies and making it clear they weren't alone.
Laurence worked his way up to the edge of his technical area, his coat unbuttoned, hands wrapped firmly together in front of him against the cold gale, while his players returned to the pitch.
"We hold the line for fifteen. Don't dive in. Casemiro shields. Kitoko, you cut off Özil's second balls. Bellvís, Sicilia—no solo runs. Let the ball do the work. Play direct when we win it. Joel, Griezmann—you'll have space. Use it."
Victor added, "They're watching for wide play. They're betting we'll buckle. That's where we hurt them."
This half time team talk had not been fire and fury - the days of that behavior were long gone. There was no shouting, no slamming of boards, only composed, direct and focused direction. Stay tight Shut. Stay disciplined. Madrid think they've done enough. Let them get comfortable. Then we strike.
Victor had added just one line. "Play the clock. Make it ugly."
And for a while, it worked.
Casemiro, who had been shaky in the first period as Madrid rotated players constantly, seemed more confident now. He and Kitoko formed a double pivot that stifled all Madrid transitions. Özil, who had been so free to travel between lines moments before was inconspicuously boxed in front of the double pivot with Kitoko biting at his heels and Casemiro closing off passing lanes.
Aragoneses was barking from the back, arms flailing with urgency, keeping the line organized. They weren't pressing without reason—they forced Madrid sideways, asked questions, and invited mistakes.
And then, there was a mistake.
In the 57th minute.
It was Xabi Alonso of all people who missed a pass read. Kitoko was reading it like a hawk. One interception, one clean touch, and before you knew it Natalio was off to the races. Kitoko's intimate through ball was immediate—one of those perfect straight-channel passes that didn't ask for permission; it only asked for belief.
Natalio collected it with a stride, the ball barely leaving his boot. He struck off Pepe and shifted his weight into the contact and barreled towards goal.
The entire stadium, along with the players, leaned with him.
Natalio took one touch too many! The hesitation, a moment of contemplation, a flicker of doubt: that was enough! Casillas closed the gap and smothered the shot with his left leg.
Gasps filled the stadium like smoke.
Laurence held his head; his knees crumbled for a second. He hadn't moved as they broke. He wanted to believe it would go in, but when Casillas blocked it, he didn't shout; he whispered, "that was it."
Victor didn't say anything. He had nothing to say. They both knew: Real Madrid gives you one chance to get it right in this game. One! If you blow that, they will haunt you for having the audacity to believe in a miracle.
Tenerife's players tried to reset once again, but the unfulfilled opportunity weighed on them like a black cloud. The midfield lapsed out of shape for the briefest of moments. Casemiro began to step too high. Bellvís, who had been taking an inside channel area before, drifted wider to engage Di María, and just like they do, Madrid made them pay for the lapse.
65th minute.
Marcelo started the attack on the left by giving the ball to Özil who played a swift diagonal ball to Di María on the other side of the pitch; the Argentine was already in motion before the Argentinian received the pass. Bellvís made a late decision to turn in the opposite direction. Di María did not wait. He cut inside, onto that magic left foot, and bent a shot around Aragoneses from the edge of the box.
A goal fit for any stage.
2–0, and the collective Tenerife bench visibly sagged. The match was not over, but the peak suddenly looked much higher.
Laurence sighed and took one last look across the pitch. The dreadfully predictable Mourinho was continuing to celebrate by simple hand clapping and quiet word with his assistant. No foaming theatrics. Just another step towards yet another win. For his team it was clinical. For Tenerife it was cruel.
Victor turned to him. "What now?"
Laurence hesitated to answer. His eyes remained on Bellvís, who was bent over in not terribly graceful manner with hands on knees, pulling at his hamstring. Sicilia was huddled down in the other corner with a pace that would give a tortoise low esteem.
"Start looking," Laurence said finally, in a low and cold voice.
Victor frowned. "Looking for what?"
"Full-backs. Wingers. Just someone with legs. I don't care if it's B team, U19's, or barefoot kid playing five-a-side in the Santa Cruz backstreet. We just want bodies. I can't keep running Bellvís and Luna into the ground every week."
Victor nodded once. "I'll pull the reports after the game."
Laurence didn't reply. The match was back on now and he was watching his side for hints of collapse. There were none. There was endeavour; lots of it. Natalio was still stepping up pressing.
Joel was still bolting into cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac, hoping that just one of those loose balls flipped their way. Griezmann had dropped back into midfield to mollycoddle and circulate. The hunger was there. What wasn't there was rotation. A second chance.
The third goal arrived in the 82nd minute. It was clockwork; Tenerife had committed higher in order to claw something back.
Madrid lay in wait, as poised predators. Alonso picked up the ball in a pocket and zeroed a looping diagonal through four blue shirts. Ronaldo brought it down with a chest, gasps in the stands, then looked up. Aragoneses rushed out and, in whichever way he could, set himself to prevent the shot.
But Ronaldo, ever the headline-maker, laid it off with a flick to Benzema, who tapped it sideways for Di María—again.
One touch.
Top corner.
3–0.
Game done.
The final minutes were quiet. Tenerife still ran, still tackled, still tracked back, but the outcome was beyond reach. When the whistle blew, Laurence walked over to Mourinho, his hand out. The Portuguese manager met it with a calm nod.
"You did well," Mourinho said. "But this"—he gestured toward the pitch—"is where squads make the difference."
Laurence offered a tight-lipped smile. "We'll see you again in the Copa."
Mourinho chuckled. "Maybe. Maybe not."
Laurence watched him walk down the tunnel, hands in pockets, the weight of a billionaire squad on his shoulders—and wondered what it felt like to choose between three internationals for every position.
Back in the dressing room, the Tenerife players filed in quietly. No one kicked lockers or shouted. They knew they'd given all they had. Kitoko sat on the bench, shirt clinging to his back, his face a mask of exhaustion. Aragoneses was still muttering to himself, replaying the second goal. Bellvís was already having his thigh iced.
Laurence stood before them for a long moment. He didn't give a speech. He didn't scold. He just said, "You fought. Don't let the score lie to you. This wasn't the Bernabéu. We made them work for it."
Then he walked out.