The conference room felt like a sauna. The overhead lights blazed down, hot enough to make you wince, while the air buzzed with the whir of cameras and the low murmur of eager anticipation. Microphones cluttered the table in front of Laurence González, so close they seemed less like tools for communication and more like a row of pointed bayonets.
He sat there alone, shoulders squared, the sole representative of CD Tenerife at the post-match press conference. Victor had offered to join him, even insisted at one point, but Laurence had simply shaken his head, stepping through the door on his own. This was his burden to bear. No one else's.
As soon as he took his seat, hands shot up all around the room. Dozens of reporters leaned in, pens clicking and cameras flashing. The scent of blood was palpable.
A voice from the front row was the first to strike. "Laurence," a reporter from Marca began, sharp and unyielding, "you were 3–1 up. What went wrong?"
Laurence didn't flinch. When he spoke, his voice was low yet resolute, slicing through the noise like a knife.
"We forgot who we were."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the room. The journalists had come ready for excuses—talk of fatigue, injuries, questionable officiating, and bad luck. What they didn't expect was something more genuine. Something honest.
Laurence leaned in slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his gaze unwavering.
"We started the season as underdogs. We embraced that role. We fought like it. Trained like it. Dreamed like it. But somewhere along the way, we began to think we'd already made it."
Another voice quickly chimed in, eager to seize the moment. "Does that mean you're blaming the players?"
Laurence shook his head.
"I'm blaming all of us. Myself included. I let it happen. I saw the warning signs, and I didn't drive them home. I should have."
The atmosphere grew tense. A younger reporter from the back, voice more hesitant, asked the question that lingered in the air.
"And Neymar? He didn't step up when the team needed him today."
Laurence's eyes flickered down for a moment, a hint of anger sparking in them. His fingers drummed the table once before coming to a halt.
"Neymar is a genius," he finally said. "Just look at his stats this season—his first in European football—17 goals and 14 assists. Can you name anyone else who's done that at such a young age? He's still developing, and there's so much more to come from him. One off day doesn't erase months of hard work."
Silence filled the room. A tense moment passed, pens hovering, waiting for more.
Then Laurence's tone sharpened, his eyes flashing with defiance as he looked up.
"But here's the thing. We're not finished yet. We have one more chance to show what we're made of. One more game. And we're going to give it everything we've got."
Questions erupted, a flurry of voices clamoring for another quote, but Laurence was already standing up. The press officer stepped in, hand raised firmly, declaring the session over. The room buzzed with frustrated chatter, but Laurence had already slipped through the door, disappearing back into the shadows of the corridor.
______
Two Days Later – CD Tenerife Training Ground
The atmosphere was different. It wasn't the fragile silence of mourning or the brittle tension of a team splintering under blame. Instead, there was a solemn calm. A bruised team looking at itself in the mirror, choosing not to flinch.
Victor watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, as Laurence walked across the field with slow, deliberate steps. The players formed a circle, boots scuffing the grass, heads turned toward him.
Laurence didn't sugarcoat it. He never did.
"Barcelona won La Liga," he started bluntly. "They've steamrolled nearly everyone in their way. And they'll try to do the same to us."
A ripple of glances passed through the squad. Neymar cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. Casemiro crossed his arms, jaw clenched. Griezmann tilted his head, his expression unreadable.
Laurence's gaze swept over them all.
"But this final… it's not about revenge. It's not about saving what's remaining. It's about proving we belong."
He pointed toward the center circle, boots grinding into the turf.
"Look around. Nobody thought we'd be here. Nobody. Newly promoted, smallest budget, a squad made up of kids, cast-offs, and people they said weren't good enough."
A few chuckles rose from the group—half amusement, half pride. Casemiro cracked a grin.
"But here we are," Laurence said, voice hardening. "And if we go out, we don't go out like passengers. We go out making Barcelona bleed for every blade of grass. We go out as a team that made the best club in Spain sweat."
Laurence clapped his hands, the sound echoing like a gunshot across the training ground.
"Let's train. The final's coming. And we have a war to prepare for."
The squad dispersed into drills, their movements sharper, hungrier. The ball snapped between boots with renewed urgency. Every touch was purposeful. Every tackle had a little more weight. The sting of their collapse still lingered—but it was being reshaped, reforged into something harder.
Victor stayed on the sidelines, watching Neymar sprint through cones, Griezmann drilling finishes, Casemiro barking orders in midfield exercises. Slowly, he allowed himself a smile. The wound hadn't broken them. It had lit a fire.
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The Copa del Rey Final at Estadio Mestalla in Valencia was a sight to behold. The sky above was a canvas of fading orange hues as the sun dipped behind the stadium's stands. Inside, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation, like a battlefield ready for the first clash.
One side of the stadium was a vibrant sea of blaugrana—Barcelona jerseys, scarves, flags, and voices rising in a powerful chant, all echoing the certainty of victory. They were there for a celebration, eager to add another trophy to their collection.
On the other side, though smaller in number, the Tenerife fans were just as passionate. Their blue colors flickered like sparks against the dark backdrop, their raw, defiant songs reverberating through the night.
Laurence stood at the edge of the dugout, arms crossed behind his back, his expression unreadable. His suit was sharp, but his tie was already loosened—he wasn't there to impress; he was there for battle.
His gaze swept over his team. Neymar was bouncing on his toes, headphones still half on, lost in his own world. Griezmann, looking pale but focused, had his jaw clenched, silently repeating to himself—calma, calma, calma. Casemiro was thumping his chest, eyes ablaze with intensity. Aragoneses was shaking his gloves, mouthing words only he could hear.
And then there were the rising Barcelona legends: Xavi, Iniesta, Messi. Their warm-up was a masterpiece—smooth, practiced, and destined for greatness. Every pass was sharp, every movement fluid.
Victor sidled up to Laurence, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're looking at us like we're invisible."
Laurence kept his eyes fixed on the pitch. "Good. That's when we're at our most dangerous."
A distinct voice came over the pre-game noise.
"Laurence."
He turned round - Pep Guardiola was super cool. He was wearing his noir tracksuit with the slightest hint of a smile.
"I've been watching your games."
Laurence blinked. "That's either a compliment or a scouting report."
Pep smiled with a grin. "Both."
They shook hands. Pep leaned in just a degree.
"Let me just say," he whispered. "If you beat me tonight, I will buy the drinks; I want to know how the hell you managed to do it."
"Right," Laurence laughed, surprised and not taking a swing.
"And if we lose?"
Pep smiled ruefully. "You still owe me a drink, you've earned that."
Laurence with a slight nod felt a bit of his trepidation recede slightly - Pep's words, much like his teams, had the capacity to control the tempo.