Valdés, as sharp as ever, launched himself full stretch, just grazing the ball with the tips of his fingers as it flew wide.
Maldini's voice cracked with excitement. "That could have been the goal of the year!"
Laurence buried his head in his hands, half-laughing, half-stunned, and turned to Victor. "He's insane."
Tenerife packed the box for the corner. Neymar jogged over, wiping sweat from his brow, giving quick nods to Joel and Natalio who were hanging back. Casemiro was jostling with Piqué in the center, while Ricardo León drifted toward the near post.
The referee blew the whistle.
Neymar sent it in — a fierce in-swinger, curling rapidly toward the front of the goal. Ricardo made a clever decoy run, pulling his marker away.
And just behind him, Kikoto soared.
The midfielder launched himself into the air, twisting his body, his forehead connecting with a crack that echoed through the stands.
The ball shot past Valdés before he even had a chance to react.
The net bulged.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOAL!" Carlos Martínez shouted over the broadcast. "Kikoto leaps! Header! Tenerife takes the lead in the Copa del Rey final!"
The Mestalla erupted. Tenerife's section transformed into a volcano, blue flags waving wildly, voices breaking with joy. On the pitch, Kikoto sprinted toward the corner flag, thumping the crest on his chest, with Neymar jumping onto his back in pure delight.
Laurence lost himself on the touchline. He roared into the sky, fists clenched, before Victor jumped on him in celebration. The bench spilled forward, substitutes and staff hugging, shouting, some even in tears.
Barcelona players looked at each other in shock. Piqué gestured angrily. Valdés slapped the ground. Xavi waved his arms, urging calm, but the damage was done. Tenerife had struck first.
The referee blew for halftime minutes later, and the players jogged toward the tunnel.
Laurence clapped his team off, voice hoarse but unrelenting. "Heads up! Keep believing!"
But deep down, behind the adrenaline, Laurence knew the truth. Pep Guardiola was already walking into the dressing room, already plotting. Barcelona never stayed down. Barcelona always adjusted.
And as Laurence followed his team into the tunnel, he could feel it — the second half would be war.
______
The referee's whistle echoed softly in the tunnel as the players made their way off for half-time, but Laurence González could already sense a shift in the atmosphere. The Mestalla, which had just erupted with excitement over Tenerife's goal, felt quieter now — not completely silent, but charged with anticipation. Everyone knew what was on the horizon. Pep's Barcelona never stayed down for long.
Inside the Tenerife dressing room, there was no celebration to be found. Neymar sat with his shirt half over his face, sweat trickling into his lap. Casemiro leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, still trying to catch his breath. Even Kikoto, the unexpected goalscorer, looked more bewildered than thrilled.
Laurence stood in front of them, sleeves rolled up, a marker in one hand and a water bottle in the other. His brow was damp, but his voice remained calm.
"Listen up," he started. "We're ahead. But this is Barcelona. They will come back at us. That's not just a guess — it's a certainty."
No one disagreed.
He turned to the whiteboard and drew a thick, solid line of five defenders. "We park the bus," he declared. "No shame in that. Everyone needs to get behind the ball. Neymar, you stay central. Griezmann, drop back. We hold on for twenty minutes. If they can't break us by then… we'll adjust."
A few glances were exchanged. Victor, standing off to the side, hesitated for a moment before giving a nod. "It's simple. It's ugly. But it just might work."
Laurence's voice took on a sharper edge. "We didn't come here for aesthetics. We came for a trophy."
The players made their way back out, faces serious, no smiles or jokes to be found. They understood. The second half wasn't about style; it was about survival.
In the first ten minutes after the break, Tenerife executed their game plan perfectly. Barcelona came at them with their usual flair — triangles, pivots, quick passes that flowed together like a well-rehearsed dance. Iniesta dropped deeper, Messi floated into the center, and Xavi kept sending passes back and forth, making it feel like it was only a matter of time before something broke through.
But Tenerife held strong. Joel and Luna pressed the full-backs just enough to keep them on their toes. Casemiro patrolled the midfield, tackling with the precision of someone far more experienced. Kikoto was a fortress, shielding every pass aimed at the box.
The atmosphere in the commentary box grew tense.
Carlos Martínez: "Tenerife are defending like their lives depend on it. This doesn't feel like a Copa final — it looks too ugly."
Julio Maldonado: "They've become a wall, Carlos. But every wall has its cracks. The real question is: how long until Barcelona finds one?"
The answer came in the 56th minute.
It all started with a pass that was just a beat too slow. Tenerife's midfield shifted slightly out of position, and Busquets pounced on the opportunity. He laid the ball off at the edge of the box, and Xavi — ever so composed — side-footed a shot through the tiniest of openings.
Aragonéses stretched, fingertips grazing the air. The net rippled.
The Mestalla was alive, a mix of joy and resignation filling the air. Even some fans from Tenerife couldn't help but applaud, their hands showing respect for the sheer brilliance on display.
Laurence stood there, still as a statue, his eyes shut tight. One breath. Two. His players were frozen, their gazes locked on the scoreboard.
Victor leaned in closer. "Same strategy? Just sit back and wait?"
Laurence took a moment before responding. He observed Messi sharing a high-five with Iniesta, saw Piqué rallying the crowd to cheer louder, and noticed how Barcelona's energy surged back to life. They were awake now, their rhythm back in sync.
If Tenerife just sat back… they'd be steamrolled.
He shook his head firmly. "No."
Victor's eyes widened. "No?"
Laurence stepped up to the touchline, cupping his hands around his mouth to project his voice above the din of the Mestalla.
"Griezmann, push higher! Natalio — pressure Piqué when he gets the ball! Neymar — stretch the field, keep moving!"
Victor grabbed his arm in disbelief. "You're crazy. You really want to press Barcelona?"
Laurence's jaw tightened with determination. "If we sit back, they'll take us apart. So we won't sit back. We'll fight."