The headlines came down like a ton of bricks immediately after the final whistle blew in San Sebastián.
"Tenerife's Bubble Breaks?"
"From Dream to Nightmare: Laurence's Men Collapse."
"Reality Check for the Islanders."
Across the sports papers and TV scrolls, the verdict was unanimous: CD Tenerife had flown too close to the sun, and the wax was melting.
Laurence González spoke to no one that night. He did not storm out of the stadium. He did not respond to questions in the post-match interview. He walked to the team bus, quietly took his seat at the back, and looked into the Basque night.
When they arrived back at the training ground, and one by one the lights around the facility began to click off, he went into his small, disorganized office, and once again pulled the door securely closed. Under the gentle hum of a desk lamp, he retrieved a pair of blunt scissors, snipped each headline headlines, and laid them out like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Laurence didn't regard these as criticisms. They were ammunition. Every condescending sentence thrown at his players, every factitious comment that implied they didn't belong among the best in Spain; these were weapons. Tools to be forged and sharpened.
When the players arrived for recovery training the following morning, they entered a dressing room that wasn't the same dressing room they had left on Sunday.
Every mirror was covered in newspaper cuttings. The whiteboards were covered with headlines. Sheets of folded paper had been placed on benches and boots, making sure that players were confronted with the act of touching or reading, whatever they wanted to call it.
Some players stood in the doorway. Others walked in slowly and quietly, scanning the noxious lines that were littered across the room.
"They should be just happy they aren't getting relegated."
"A team like Tenerife doesn't belong in Europe."
"Semifinalists on a fluke."
When everyone finally showed up, Laurence left the table. The thud of his boots echoed on the tile as he walked to the door and pointed out one clipping he had taped up, at about eye level.
"The Honeymoon is Over."
He turned and faced them. His voice quiet.
"Is it?"
Silence.
He didn't know who to look at first—Neymar? Griezmann? Joel? Ricardo León? Players who had survived the cold on some dark nights in the Segunda. Players who had fought their way to the-semifinals of the Copa del Rey with sheer grit and determination, and everything they had.
"Here's what they think," Laurence continued. "They think you're a joke. A fairytale. They think it was all a fluke and you got here on accident, and all those last few months were just fluke."
"They see Madrid," Laurence said. "They see Bernabéu. They see Mourinho, Ronaldo, Özil. And when they see us, they don't see warriors. They see scenery. Extras in someone else's movie."
Laurence took a few slow steps past the lockers, giving the words time to resonate.
"But tomorrow night," he said, "when we walk in that stadium—if you believe, even a little—go fight. Press until your legs tell you to stop. Run until your lungs want to explode. Don't play like underdogs. Play like you belong."
He pointed at the wall of insults and doubt.
"They aren't giving you anything. So take it."
He turned and exited.
That night, the hotel in Madrid was subdued; the players turned in early, dinner was a quiet affair but focused. Up in his room, Laurence sat down at his desk and rewatched the footage of the first leg. Madrid was measured, cautious—almost overly respectful. That would not happen again. Not on home turf.
He wrote notes in fits—ink messy with urgency.
"Start narrow - bait their width - explode through midfield."
He stared at it for a long moment, before ripping off the paper, and placing it on top of his tactical folder.
______
The Bernabéu loomed like a castle in the electric glow of the floodlights. The massive bowl was filled to the capacity of eighty thousand, blue and white and gold shimmering like tides. The player's departed the team bus and entered the tunnel; walls of shining steel led to narrow, shadowy concrete corridors.
The players radiated tension, shoulders tight, but none dropped their gaze. Joel tapped his chest three times, mumbled a low prayer. Neymar winkled his fingers, and tugged his collar once. Griezmann bounced on the spot. They were ready to play.
Mourinho stood just outside the Madrid bench at the mouth of the tunnel, conferring with Rui Faria and Karanka in low tones. When he noticed Laurence, the Portuguese manager extricated himself from the two coaches and approached, a faint, unfathomable smile on his face.
"Good luck, Mr. González," was all he said.
Laurence nodded his head in return. "You too."
He wasn't sure if Mourinho meant it. He didn't care.
The whistle blew.
From the first touch, Tenerife pressed.
Neymar cut in from the left and zigzagged through Arbeloa and Khedira. Joel exploded down the right, bursting with raw energy, cutting off every possible lane for Ramos. Casemiro was playing like a madman, clinging to Özil's shoulder, intercepting, hounding, clawing at every inch of space.
Madrid was reeling. For the first fifteen minutes, the Bernabéu stared in something akin to disbelief. This is not supposed to happen. The promoted side was supposed to concede the ball, absorb pressure, and pray.
Instead, Tenerife suffocated.
In the 12th minute, Neymar peeled off to the left. A dizzying array of stepovers pulled Arbeloa into the box. A quick give-and-go with Griezmann, and somehow Neymar was at the edge of the box. He saw Joel sprinting, arriving at the far post and threaded a reverse ball into the void between the defense and the goal. Joel didn't hesitate, whipping in a low, curling cross.
Off his boot, with too much pace, too much angle-flipped the ball over the bar. Laurence's arms flew into the air and landed at his side. He slapped his thigh, hard.
"Again!" he shouted. "Press again!"
Minutes later, Khedira dropped a ball down the left flank, and Ronaldo flew. Ricardo León mis-timed the challenge—too much speed, too much momentum. Ronaldo needed no more invitation; he hit the deck.
The referee whistled. Typical Madrid.
Laurence's heart dropped. "No! He dived!" he yelled in disbelief as he stormed down the touchline towards the fourth official. "That's soft!"
Victor's tug at his sleeve pulled him back into reality. "Let it go, boss. Let it go."
Ronaldo made no mistake. Calm. Clinical. Bottom right. 1–0 Madrid. 2–0 Aggregate.
The Bernabéu erupted, and a slew of white shirts surrounded the goal-scorer. But Laurence continued to scream. He cupped his hands around his mouth and sent his voice traversing the pitch.
"Reset! Reset! We're still in this!"
And they were.
Tenerife did not fold. They did not retreat.
Özil, with his silk-touch control, had Benzema on the edge of the box ten minutes later. The Frenchman curled it past Aragoneses—but the flag was up. Offside. The Tenerife dugout released a collective sigh.
Alonso was spraying balls around with surgical precision. Marcelo was running at them on the overlap. Madrid was waking up. But Tenerife held on with tooth-and-nail.
In the 41st minute, Joel picked off a lazy pass from Marcelo and sent a counter away with Neymar through the channel. Neymar was free—three steps clear of Arbeloa—but Casillas read it perfectly and actively charged off his line. Neymar slid a low shot into him.
Laurence briefly closed his eyes. He could feel it. This was not over yet.
As halftime came and went and Tenerife jogged down the tunnel beneath a weird mix of cheers—some from their small pocket of fans in the top corner of the stadium, others from neutrals who expected a slaughter but instead found a scrap.