The sun was just beginning to rise over Valencia, casting a warm golden hue on the café rooftops, as if the city was still waking up from the wild night before. The streets were eerily quiet, still resonating with the remnants of chants and car horns that had echoed into the early hours.
Laurence González was seated at a small iron table on a terrace near Plaça del Patriarca. His shirt was a bit wrinkled, his hair tousled, but there was a serene calm on his face that only comes after weathering a storm. Across from him, Pep Guardiola poured two glasses of wine, as if it were just another morning, as if the previous night's ninety minutes hadn't changed the landscape of Spanish football.
"You did great, Laurence," Pep said, swirling his glass. "Honestly. That wasn't just luck."
Laurence smirked, leaning back in his chair. "It wasn't your cleanest game either."
Pep chuckled softly, the sound low and weary. "True. But I saw something in your approach. The chaos you orchestrated — intentionally. It reminded me of… concepts I've been toying with."
Laurence raised an eyebrow. "Half-space overloads?"
Pep tilted his head, intrigued. "So you caught that?"
"I caught it," Laurence replied, tapping his temple. "You narrow the game, draw people in with possession, then stretch them out again. It's elegant. And maddening."
For a moment, they sipped their wine in silence, two coaches — one at the height of his success, the other forging something new. Then Pep's expression softened. "And Neymar. He was incredible yesterday."
Laurence hesitated before responding. Neymar had been unstoppable: dribbling with flair, creating opportunities, scoring with confidence. It was as much the boy's night as it was Tenerife's.
Pep continued, his tone measured. "I won't sugarcoat it. The club is interested. Laporta, Zubi, even Johan — they're keeping an eye on him."
Laurence leaned back, his jaw tightening. "He's not going anywhere."
"I know," Pep said gently. "That's what I told them. But I was also told to ask."
Laurence's fingers tapped the rim of his glass. He looked Pep in the eye, steady, defiant. "Then tell them again. Neymar stays. I'm building something, Pep. However far it goes, he's part of it."
Pep studied him for a moment, then smiled and nodded. "I'll relay your words."
It was as much closure as either needed. They spoke of other things then — football, philosophy, even family — and when they parted, it was with a handshake that carried respect neither had expected when they'd first crossed paths.
______
As evening fell, the team's plane glided down over the Atlantic, revealing Tenerife's rugged cliffs peeking through the clouds like a long-awaited promise. The players, caught between a hangover and a rush of adrenaline, pressed their faces against the windows.
But nothing could have prepared them for what lay ahead.
Santa Cruz was a vibrant sea of blue and white. Every street, every square, every balcony was adorned with flags. Families had staked their claim since dawn, eager for a glimpse of the action. The sound of drums resonated from blocks away, while homemade banners declaring Campeones fluttered from rooftops.
The bus rolled out of the airport at a leisurely pace, the Copa del Rey trophy shining brightly on a small podium at its center.
Kikoto, ever the stoic figure, carried it first, his strong hands gripping it tightly as if it might disappear. Neymar was at the edge, skipping and dancing, laughing with Joel and Natalio, pointing at fans who were shouting his name. Griezmann clapped along with the chants, drenched in sweat but radiating joy. Aragoneses was out at back smoking, and even puffed once at Luna.
Laurence stood near the front with Victor and Mauro Pérez, arms crossed, his eyes darting over the crowd. But his expression gave him away: a mix of awe, disbelief, and pride.
The streets grew narrower, and the noise intensified. People clanged pots, waved shirts, and tossed flowers from their windows. Kids sat on their dads' shoulders, proudly holding up handmade signs that read: Gracias por creer.
Old men, who had been loyal to Tenerife since the Segunda B days, stood with tears streaming down their faces. Mothers cradled babies wrapped in club scarves, lifting them like precious offerings.
As the bus slowly rolled into Plaza de España, the city square morphed into something almost sacred. Tens of thousands of fans packed in tight, flags fluttering, chants reverberating off the lagoon's waters. When the players finally appeared with the trophy, the roar that erupted was nothing short of primal.
One by one, the team lifted the trophy high: Natalio, weary yet glowing; Joel, still just a kid, shaking as he pressed a kiss to the silver; Neymar, spinning it above his head like a royal crown. Each time, the crowd responded with a thunderous cheer that rattled windows for miles.
Laurence stepped up last, almost hesitantly. The chant erupted before he even touched the handles: ¡González! ¡González! It rolled through the square like a storm. For a man who had once been labeled too inexperienced, too reckless, too naïve, this was his moment of redemption. He raised the Copa and allowed himself a smile — wide and unrestrained, like he was a fan who finally got to the touch his favorite team's trophy.
Behind him, Victor leaned in with a laugh. "Enjoy it. This doesn't happen twice."
But Laurence shook his head. "It's only the beginning."
The celebrations stretched late into the night, with car horns honking until dawn broke. Bars were packed, and strangers embraced in the streets. Old footage of Tenerife's fleeting golden era — the 90s, when they had twice taken down Real Madrid — played on repeat, as if to remind everyone that this victory had been waiting for its moment to shine again.
In one corner of Plaza de España, a group of teenagers lit flares and sang until their voices were hoarse. Meanwhile, on another street, a grandfather shared stories with his grandson about the time he saw Fernando Redondo play here, explaining how tonight felt like that moment and so much more.
For the players, the night melted into a blend of music and laughter. Neymar, Joel, and Natalio led chants from the balconies, while Bellvis was seen hoisting a fan's child onto his shoulders. Casemiro and Griezmann signed shirts until their hands ached.
And then there was Laurence. He slipped away from the team bus for a moment, wandering through the crowd to soak it all in. At first, no one noticed him, just another face in the sea of people. But then someone called out his name, and suddenly, the crowd was buzzing — people were patting him on the back, shaking his hand, and thanking him with tears in their eyes.
For once, he didn't shy away. He simply nodded, a faint smile on his face, as if he were cherishing every moment.
By the time the team finally made their way back, the island was still alive with song. The Copa was safely tucked away in the club offices, but in reality, it belonged to everyone — to fishermen, teachers, taxi drivers, and children who had never witnessed their team lift a trophy before.