The 88th minute.
The Heliodoro Rodríguez López had fallen silent, no longer a cacophony of thunder and drums. It felt as if the entire island was holding its breath, as if everyone had taken a deep breath together and forgotten how to exhale.
Tenerife had once been gliding, riding high on a 3–1 lead. They played with a swagger that bordered on arrogance. Neymar had danced, Griezmann had soared, and Natalio had nodded one in, making the crowd believe that miracles were just a part of their destiny.
But football, in all its cruel unpredictability, had shifted.
3-3 was the current score line.
Laurence González stood on the sidelines like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff, watching the waves of pressure rise higher and higher. His hands rested on his knees, body leaning forward, his suit jacket flapping open, shirt soaked with sweat.
His eyes—dark, fixed, unblinking—tracked every twitch of the ball, every misstep from his weary players. Victor, standing next to him, muttered frantic tactical reminders and desperate encouragements, but Laurence was lost in his own storm of emotions: fury, disbelief, and a chilling sense of dread swirling together.
On the pitch, Tenerife's midfield had turned into a barren wasteland. Kikoto had run himself ragged, legs trembling with every step. Casemiro, brave yet battered, was limping—his thigh tight, his ankle swollen, but refusing to raise a hand for help. And Luna, their fullback was caught too far up the pitch.
And that was all Sevilla needed.
One long, punishing clearance.
The ball zipped past the halfway line, curling sharply as it bounced. Kikoto's shoulders slumped. Casemiro lunged forward but lost his balance. Meanwhile, Luna, realizing he'd messed up, turned with panic written all over his face.
But Jesús Navas was already off like a shot.
Carlos Martínez's voice trembled over the commentary:
"Oh no… look at all that space! Navas is off — he's got Kanouté and Negredo waiting in the box!"
The stadium collectively gasped, a sickening sound echoing through the air. Navas sprinted down the right side like a bullet, the ball glued to his feet. The grass blurred beneath him as he raced. Tenerife's defenders, heavy and slow, could only chase after him, grasping at shadows.
Navas took a quick glance. Kanouté was at the near post, Negredo at the back. He sent the cross in early — sharp and fierce, practically begging to be finished.
"Here comes the cross—"
Negredo launched himself like a predator ready to strike.
"NEGREDO! GOOOOOOOOOL DE SEVILLAAAAA! IT'S FOUR!"
The dagger struck deep.
The Heliodoro erupted in a collective groan, like the cry of a wounded beast. Some fans buried their faces in their hands, unable to bear it. Others shook their fists at the sky, cursing the gods, the referee, and fate itself. Yet a few, fiercely loyal, clapped and shouted, their voices cracking with emotion.
But the loudest roar came not from the stands of Santa Cruz, but from the far corner where the traveling Sevilla supporters had gathered. White shirts and scarves waved wildly as they celebrated their triumph into the Atlantic night. Their team — battered and trailing 3–1 just moments ago — had turned Tenerife's miracle into dust.
Tenerife's players were shattered.
Casemiro sank to his knees, his hands clawing at the grass. Natalio, the seasoned player who had dared to dream big, plopped down where he stood, tilting his head back to the dimming sky.
Neymar, drenched in sweat with his hair stuck to his forehead, stood frozen, gazing at the net as if time had paused the moment the ball hit it. Griezmann, usually bursting with energy, stood with his hands on his hips, chest heaving, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked almost painful.
And then came the sound everyone dreaded.
The referee's whistle.
Full time.
Tenerife 3 — Sevilla 4.
It was done.
Laurence didn't budge. For a few moments, he just stared at the grass, at the boots of his players, and at the Sevilla bench, which erupted in celebration. His face was a mask of unreadable emotions, but his body shook with a barely contained rage — not directed at the opponents, but at himself, at his own players, at the mistakes he had identified at halftime and watched unfold anyway.
Then, slowly, he turned.
He didn't shake hands. He didn't linger for interviews. He didn't glance up at the VIP box, where Mauro Pérez and the chairman sat in stunned silence.
He walked straight into the tunnel.
________
Inside the locker room, an eerie silence hung in the air.
The laughter that had filled the space before the match, the jokes, the bravado — it was all gone now. Players trickled in like soldiers returning from a fierce battle. Some wiped away sweat and tears with the same worn towel, while others simply slumped onto the benches, their jerseys clinging to their skin, eyes vacant and unfocused.
The atmosphere felt thick, heavy, almost suffocating. Outside, the muffled cheers of Sevilla fans celebrating their victory seeped faintly through the walls.
In the center stood Laurence. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with intensity.
"You really think this was just about luck?"
No one dared to look up.
"You think Sevilla came here and snatched this from you?" He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in. "You gave up. At 3–1. You bought into the press, the fans, the narrative. You stopped fighting."
A few players shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Kikoto stared at the floor, while Natalio rubbed his temples in frustration.
"I warned you." Laurence's voice grew sharper, louder, each word striking the quiet room like a hammer. "At halftime, I told you what complacency leads to. And you brushed me off."
His gaze locked onto Neymar. The boy who had dazzled on the field, who had been electric, who had been idolized by Tenerife fans. Neymar flinched under the intensity of Laurence's stare.
"And you," Laurence said, pointing, his voice suddenly cold as ice. "You want to be the best in the world?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. Neymar opened his mouth, but no words came out. He simply dropped his gaze, his chest rising and falling, unable to meet his manager's intense stare.
"Then act like it. Because talent alone won't save you when the pressure mounts. Do you hear me? Talent without discipline is worthless."
The echo of his voice lingered in the room like a wisp of smoke. Still, no one dared to respond.
Laurence let out a slow breath, his chest trembling. He turned to walk toward the door, but paused before leaving.
"You just threw away everything we fought for. Europe. Pride. The story. The belief that this island could dream."
He rested a hand on the doorframe. His next words were softer, yet still cut deep.
"Think about this. Because tomorrow, we start fresh. And if any of you still have the courage… we fight again."