The locker room door creaked open then slammed shut behind them.
All was silent.
Not restful or peaceful silence. No, all of the silence in the world pressed over them. It hammered in their ears, getting tighter and tighter with every second. The players didn't budge. Some focused their gaze on the floor. Others leaned back, squinting, their jaws clenched firm.
But Laurence González was not there.
Victor stood in the doorway, arms folded protectively close, his sturdy shoulders casting a long shadow across the floor. The sweat dotting his brow was not from the physical exertion of the match, but from the sheer weight of the unknown and how much hung heavily in the air yet unspoken.
He looked at them—at all of them.
Neymar was in a fist-like ball, asked to crouch down on the floor with his elbows resting on his knees, shin pads in hand and fingers knotted tight. His normally alive eyes muted, flickering drenchingly somewhere far-far away.
Griezmann indicated beside him, eyes downcast, neck rolling gently from side to side as if trying to prevent thought from sinking too deep. Casemiro leaned back against the locker wall, fists clenched and knuckles bone-white.
Victor stepped to the middle of the room. The only sound was the heaviness of his boot steps as he came to a stop.
"Uh, you think he gave up?" he said, low voice steady.
No one responded.
He allowed the question to hang there as if it was a challenge.
"He has been living in that office," Victor continued, "have you not noticed? Probably four hours of sleep if he is lucky! Most nights he is watching tape until dawn—La Liga, Segunda, Austrian U-19's as if it would make a difference."
He turned slowly, making sure to look each player in the eye.
"You know what I found one time? A napkin. It had a 3-4-3 drawn on it. It was full of scrawls. The marker ink was bleeding through the fibers. As if it mattered. As if it mattered!"
Still no one said anything. But something had happened.
Victor was now crouching down in front of Neymar, eye level, quieter. "Do you remember the night he promised you Europe, boy?"
Neymar lifted his head, just a bit.
"That wasn't tactics. That wasn't calculation. That was belief. Belief in something that had not been born yet. He believed in you. All of you. When no one else did."
Neymar raised his head, just a little bit.
"That of course was not tactics. That was not calculation. That was belief. Pure belief in something that had not been born, yet. He believed in you. In all of you. When nobody else did."
He stood straight and began walking about. "You think it was easy for him? Asking you to chase dreams that big? Maybe he's somewhere out there wondering if that was too much. If he asked for more than you had to give."
Another pause. A long breath.
"But if you don't think he asked too much, if you do think that belief was worth something, then stand up. Walk back out there and show it."
There was still no shaking. No rallying. Quiet resolution.
And that would suffice.
First Neymar stood. Then Casemiro. Then Griezmann. Like dominos falling down, not to collapse—but to rise.
Victor didn't say another thing.
-----
Madrid still looked confident. Cool. Modric was soothingly signaling. Ramos had yelled at Carvajal once, but it was historic. Business as usual.
But Tenerife had changed.
They walked out different. Less reckless and more composed. The fear was still there—how could it not have been? But it was now living next to something else: resolve.
Laurence wasn't on the sidelines. He had not come back.
But his players had...
Neymar was started wide left, dragging Marcelo with him. The Brazilian full-back had kept him quiet in the first half, pushing him back and shoving him wide. Now Neymar was not fighting it. He was leaning in, using the touchline to bait Marcelo out further, stretching the channel.
In the 50th minute, the spark appeared.
Casemiro—quiet in the first half, pinned too deep—snapped into a challenge just inside of his own half. Khedira paused with the ball, a half-second eternity, and that was all that Casemiro required. A clean steal.
No second-guessing. No step-over. Just a look—then a switch to Griezmann down the right on a long diagonal.
Griezmann caught it on the run, and his first touch invited the ball right into his stride. Arbeloa was closing in, but Griezmann didn't check. He was aware.
He dropped it from the sky.
An arching cross, deep and bending, sailed over the final third.
Neymar was already on the move.
Marcelo did not step fast enough. Neymar did not wait—he brought it down with a soft chest trap and cut inside.
Alonso was was charging in—too fast, too direct.
Neymar sensed the contact even before he heard the whistle—a loud clash of shin to boot.
The Bernabéu gasped.
The referee's arm went up. No booking.
Free kick. Just outside the box.
Neymar walked towards the spot, head bent, ball under arm. Casillas was shouting, organizing the wall. Ramos was loud, standing upright, barking names as he pointed.
But Neymar wasn't looking at them.
He set the ball down. Straightened the grass with his hand. Then backed up.
Three steps.
Deep breath.
Casillas watched him watch the ball. Tried to read his eyes.
Neymar just stared. He didn't blink.
He hit it clean.
Just a whip and a dip.
The ball curled up and over the wall.
Ricardo León, who was on the end, ducked just a touch too low. Just barely.
Casillas went early—left foot planted, body going right—
But the damn ball dipped like it was backspin by Osasuna's midfielder.
It brushed the bottom of the bar, kissed the net behind him.
GOAL!
For a moment, nothing.
And then the Tenerife bench went crazy.
Victor screamed, pumping the air. Kitoko and Natalio bellowed. The subs came pouring out. Griezmann dashed to the corner flag and took Neymar by the shoulders, and crushed him in a tight embrace.
And down the tunnel, in the quiet hallway beneath the Bernabéu, Laurence González slowly rose from the concrete step where he had been sitting.
The roar reached him through the walls. He closed his eyes. Exhaled.
1–1 on the night.
2–1 to Madrid on aggregate.
Not over yet.