The celebration banners still hung across Santa Cruz, slightly faded from the summer sun, fluttering above empty parade routes and tranquil beaches.
For days, Tenerife had been basking in victory, showcasing the Copa del Rey trophy all over the island, turning the streets into a sea of blue and white. But now, the streets had fallen silent once more. The summer lull had settled in, yet beneath the surface, everyone sensed that the next storm was already brewing. With a spot in Europe secured, expectations were bound to shift.
Inside the boardroom at the Heliodoro Rodríguez López, a different kind of noise filled the air—papers rustling, quiet conversations, and the steady ticking of a wall clock.
President Miguel Concepción sat at the head of the long, polished table, flanked by board members dressed in dark suits. Some wore faint smiles, while others maintained a more serious demeanor. Sporting director Mauro Pérez sat next to Laurence, scrolling through his tablet, his expression unreadable.
Laurence had opted to leave his blazer at home. With his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a clean but simple shirt, he looked more like someone ready for the touchline than a formal boardroom.
One of the directors, a silver-mustached bureaucrat, was the first to break the silence. "Gentlemen, we need to acknowledge what we've accomplished. A Copa del Rey title. Europa League football. Truly remarkable."
There was a brief pause before his tone shifted. "But we can't let ourselves get carried away by excitement. Our finances are still delicate. Mister González, your contract is up next summer. We need to think about the long-term. That means we have to be careful."
Laurence leaned back a bit, curiosity etched on his face. "What does that mean, exactly?"
The director didn't skip a beat. "It means we're selling Neymar. And Casemiro. And Kikoto. Their market value is at its peak. If we act now, we can secure our stability for the next three seasons."
A few men around the table nodded in agreement.
Laurence blinked slowly, then let out a soft scoff. "You're talking about selling the heart of the team. The players who brought us here. Just days after we made history."
"Laurence," Mauro interjected gently, "they're just considering—"
"No," Laurence replied, his tone sharper now. "Let me finish."
He pushed his chair back and stood up, not out of anger but with a sense of purpose. His voice remained steady, though it had a firmer edge than usual.
"When I arrived here, this club was adrift. We were content to talk about mere survival as if that was our goal. I told you we could achieve more. You didn't believe me. Now we're in Europe. Not because we barely made it, but because we dared to dream bigger."
He scanned the table, making eye contact with each person.
"And now, when we've finally broken through, you want to dismantle it? To sell off the very players who made it happen? No. I won't allow it."
A younger director began to voice his disagreement, but Laurence smoothly interrupted.
"Survival isn't ambition. Survival doesn't fill this stadium on Thursday nights for Europa League matches. It doesn't inspire kids in Tenerife to wear their club's jersey to school with pride. You want to make history? This is where it begins. By believing in something bigger than just playing it safe."
A heavy silence settled in, thick and unyielding.
President Concepción, who had been listening intently, finally leaned in. His hands were clasped together, and his gaze was unwavering. "What if the board doesn't agree?"
Laurence held his stare, unflinching. "Then you'll lose the man who first gave you hope."
The words lingered in the air, and for a moment, no one moved. The president nodded slowly, as if he were storing the thought away for later. "We'll take your words into account. Expect a decision in a few days."
The meeting wrapped up quietly, filled with the rustle of papers and fleeting, unreadable glances. Laurence walked out without saying another word, with Mauro by his side.
------
Two mornings later, Laurence found himself back at the Heliodoro, observing the academy drills. The field sparkled under the June sun, and the distant chatter of teenagers floated through the stands. He settled onto a bench, notebook in hand, jotting down notes in the margins. Mauro approached, his walk relaxed, but his face was hard to read.
"They've come to a decision," he said after a moment. "The president managed to sway them. Neymar, Casemiro, Kikoto—they're not for sale."
Laurence let out a long breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.
"That's not all," Mauro went on. "They're bumping up the transfer budget. Not by a huge amount, but enough to give us some wiggle room. Wages too. But there's one catch."
Laurence raised an eyebrow. "I figured there'd be a catch."
"New contract," Mauro said matter-of-factly. "They want you locked in until 2013. No extensions, no guarantees."
Laurence didn't respond right away. He closed the notebook, tapped it against his leg, and gazed out at the kids running their drills.
That afternoon, Victor found him still there, sitting on the edge of the stands, the sun beating down on his shoulders. Laurence was hunched over the notebook again, with lines and arrows crisscrossing the page.
"You're going to burn yourself out," Victor muttered as he dropped onto the bench beside him. "The season ended a week ago. We won a cup. We qualified for Europe. Maybe, just maybe, you could take a breather?"
Laurence's expression didn't budge. "There's no break in football."
"There is when the season's over," Victor shot back. He gestured toward the pitch. "You've been barking orders at twelve-year-olds. Twelve-year-olds. They don't need pressing triggers; they need orange slices."
Laurence shot him a sideways glance, a mix of exhaustion and determination. "I can't just switch it off."
"Then at least unplug for a few days," Victor suggested. "Go somewhere. Mauro can handle the transfer chatter. Just take a moment to breathe."
For once, Laurence didn't argue.