The Tenerife training ground felt like it was still waking up. The sun had just started its ascent, but the summer heat was already wrapping around the island like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The pitch shimmered in the distance, deserted except for a few scattered orange cones and two goalposts standing like weary sentinels.
Laurence lingered near the touchline, hands tucked into his pockets, his shirt already sticking to his back. He gazed into the stillness, a distant look in his eyes, as if he were waiting for the players to materialize out of nowhere. Instead, the only sound was the soft buzz of cicadas in the background.
The crunch of gravel underfoot snapped him back to reality. Mauro Pérez was approaching, phone in hand, his expression flat but his eyes revealing a deeper weight. He skipped the pleasantries.
"He's made up his mind," Mauro stated.
Laurence didn't need to ask who he meant. He rubbed his jaw and let out a slow breath through his nose. "Leon?"
Mauro confirmed with a nod. "Ricardo has an offer from Braga. They're in the Champions League qualifiers. He wants to take a shot at it."
For a moment, the news hung between them like an unwelcome visitor. Laurence had sensed it coming—Ricardo León had always been the loyal, professional type, the steady presence every coach appreciates.
But as last season wound down, Laurence had picked up on the subtle signs: the lingering glances Ricardo cast toward the stands after matches, the occasional probing questions about his future, the way he stayed a bit longer during team talks without fully engaging.
Laurence had hoped that the allure of European football would be enough to keep him. But the bright lights of the Champions League were a whole different temptation.
He nodded slowly. "Okay. Did you try to talk him into it?"
Mauro's lips curled slightly, caught between irritation and acceptance. "I did. I told him that Europa League nights in Tenerife are way better than freezing cold matches in Bulgaria or Greece." He paused for a moment. "But it didn't work. He says it's time."
Laurence pressed his lips together, his jaw working. Losing Ricardo wasn't just about the minutes he'd miss on the field. It was about losing that sense of maturity, that connection between the seasoned players and the newcomers.
But he wouldn't plead. That was never his style.
"Then make sure we get every euro from Braga," he finally said, his voice calm. "No discounts. He's still under contract."
Mauro nodded sharply. "I'll kick off the negotiations." He tapped on his phone and headed toward the offices, leaving Laurence standing by the pitch once more.
Laurence hung back for a moment, then turned and made his way to his office. The air conditioning hummed softly inside, but the room still held onto the warmth of the morning. On his desk sat a pile of notes from last season. He flipped through them, his eyes landing once again on the persistent issue that had been bothering him all summer: fullbacks.
Or, more accurately, the lack of them.
Last year, his wide defenders had definitely put in the effort. But effort alone wasn't going to cut it anymore. They were too predictable, too cautious. His system demanded width that not only held its ground but also shaped the game—players who could patrol the flanks for a full ninety minutes, support the midfield, stretch the opposition, and still be ready to defend when the counterattack hit.
He popped the cap off a marker and started sketching again. Within an hour, he had crossed out two names from last season's roster with bold black lines. He had seen enough.
Then, on a clean sheet, he jotted down two new names. He lingered over them for a while before underlining them.
João Cancelo.
Alejandro Grimaldo.
Both were young, still in their development—Cancelo was still hidden away in Benfica's youth setup, while Grimaldo was leading Barcelona B at just the age of 16. Neither was a household name yet, nor were they regulars in their senior squads.
But Laurence recalled glimpses—games he'd caught on late-night streams, murmurs from scouts, and a memory from another time, reminding him that these kids would be important. It was a gamble, a gamble he was willing to take.
He scribbled notes in the margin: Technical. High energy. Smart positioning. Ask Mauro. Keep an eye on the price.
The sun was dipping below the horizon when Mauro finally strolled back into the doorway, and this time, he had something special—an actual grin on his face.
"It's done," Mauro declared.
Laurence looked up from his notebook, curiosity piqued. "Done what?"
Mauro leaned casually against the doorframe, savoring the moment. "Stefan De Vrij. He's officially ours."
Laurence shot up in his chair. "Seriously?"
"Absolutely." Mauro dramatically pulled a paper from his folder, like a magician revealing a rabbit. "We've agreed on personal terms. €2.4 million to Feyenoord. It's a four-year deal, with wages set at €18k a week, plus bonuses for European appearances and clean sheets."
Laurence exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. For once, a wave of relief washed over his face. This was a smart move—affordable, well-structured, and full of potential. De Vrij might not step in as a superstar, but that wasn't the point. He needed a chance to learn and grow. With Luna by his side, he'd have a solid foundation.
"This is great," Laurence said. "He might not be flashy, but he has a good sense of the game. Plus, he can handle pressure when passing. We'll make it work."
"I'll start drafting the press release," Mauro said, already tapping away on his phone. Then he paused, looking up. "But we need to discuss wingbacks now."
Laurence closed his notebook and slid it across the desk. "I'm already on it." He opened it to reveal two names boldly written in marker. "They're young and will need some time, but if we can land them…"
Mauro squinted. "Cancelo and uh....Grimaldo?"
"Yes."
Mauro raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. "You really like making my job harder, do you?"
Laurence smirked just a bit. "That's your specialty."
"Laurence," Mauro said, half-serious and half-amused, "one of them's at Benfica, the other at Barça. You know how those clubs operate. They won't let go of their young talent unless you stroll in with gold bars."
Laurence shot back. "Come in with a deal they can't refuse. Loan-to-buy. Sell-on clauses. Promise them playing time they can't offer. Whatever it takes."
Mauro gave him a long look, caught between exasperation and admiration. "You always do this. You sit here with your marker, throw out two impossible names, and expect me to work miracles."
"You are a miracle worker," Laurence replied without missing a beat.
Mauro rolled his eyes, but a chuckle escaped him. "Don't flatter me. It doesn't suit you."
Laurence leaned in, his tone serious again. "If we can't get both, at least we need one. Just… don't let them slip away. These are the players we need for the system to work."
Mauro tapped his notebook with his finger. "You've already made your decision."
Laurence's silence was all the answer needed. His gaze was already on the whiteboard, picturing Cancelo racing down the right to connect with Joel, or Grimaldo charging forward to overlap with Neymar.
Mauro shook his head. "You know, one day you're going to ask me for Messi."
Laurence smirked. "Will Barcelona let him leave for free?"
That got a proper laugh out of Mauro. It echoed around the otherwise quiet office, and for a moment the tension lifted.
But it didn't last. They both knew there was still a mountain of work to climb. Ricardo was leaving, and finding his replacement wouldn't be easy. The wingback search was a gamble. Koulibaly's situation was still unresolved. And they had less than two months before the season began.
Laurence stood and walked to the window, looking out at the fading light over the training ground. "There's still a long way to go before this team becomes what I see on the board," he murmured.
Mauro followed his gaze. "There always is. That's why we do it."