August on the island brought a blazing sun and a sense of urgency in the air. The beaches were packed with tourists sprawled out on towels, slathered in sunscreen, but up in the gated training ground of CD Tenerife, there was no laughter or relaxation to be found.
The break was over. Preseason was ticking away, with only a few weeks left before the Europa League qualifiers and the new LaLiga season kicked off. For Laurence Gonzales, every moment had to matter.
He paced along the touchline, arms crossed, flanked by his coaching staff. They were an eclectic bunch, gathered from various corners of Europe, yet united by his vision.
Victor Ramos, his right-hand man, had a knack for translating Laurence's straightforward demands into something the players could digest without feeling overwhelmed.
Pedro Torres, young and almost monk-like, sifted through mountains of data, turning it into tidy insights that others often overlooked.
Laurence took a deep breath and gestured toward the pitch. "Let's do this again."
The first drill kicked off, the sharp sound of whistles cutting through the air. The squad jogged into their positions, sweat already glistening on their skin.
Victor clapped his hands together. "Positions! No drifting, no guessing. Just wait for the trigger."
Laurence's new formation was starting to take shape. On paper, it looked like a 3-4-3, but it could shift to a 3-4-1-2 depending on who dropped back. But honestly, it wasn't just about the formation—it was all about the rhythm.
Tenerife would soak up the pressure, lure the opposition to push up, and then strike into the open spaces. If nothing materialized, they'd recycle the ball, stretch the field, and bait the opponent's press until their impatience led to an opening.
"¡Otra vez!" Laurence shouted, his accent rough yet unmistakable. "Again. Use the width as your weapon."
Casemiro hovered over the ball, taking a moment longer than felt right, then sent a diagonal pass to Neymar, who was already off and running before the ball even left his foot. Pedro, standing on the sidelines with his stopwatch, called out the seconds and jotted down notes.
"Good. But Neymar—don't break too soon."
Neymar frowned, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "I can take him on."
"You're not here to take him on," Laurence replied, walking over. "You're here to help the team take them on. Wait for the trigger."
The young Brazilian muttered something under his breath but nodded in agreement.
The rhythm was a familiar one: hold, delay, then burst.
Joel and Quaresma took turns on the opposite wing, sometimes sprinting as decoys, other times cutting inside to make their mark. Kikoto, now stronger than he was last year, would drift wide when necessary, pulling the midfield lines out of shape.
By late morning, everyone was drenched in sweat. Neymar had stopped his arguments, now concentrating on timing his runs. Joel limped slightly after a collision but waved off the physio, insisting he was fine.
Quaresma, though older, still had that flamboyant flair, letting out a string of curses in Portuguese when his trivela went off course.
Laurence didn't reprimand them. He let the drill unfold, then gathered the team in the shade.
"We are not machines," he said, his voice steady. "If I wanted that, I'd just buy robots. But you need discipline before you can have freedom. Wait. Read the game. Then go. If you go too early, it falls apart. If you go too late, it falls apart. Time it right, and it'll destroy them."
The players nodded, tired but attentive.
Later that week, Sergio Varela, the new set piece coach poached from Betis, took charge of the session. The squad lined up for corners, practicing variations until the movements became second nature.
"Again," Sergio shouted, sending another ball into Griezmann's path. "Near-post flick, Natalio back post."
The first try was a bit chaotic—Natalio collided with Koulibaly, and the header went sailing wide. Laurence frowned but chose not to step in. Sergio took charge, calm yet firm.
"José Ángel, your block is too soft. Make the defender chase you, then pull away. Natalio—hold on, don't jump too soon. Let's go again."
The next attempt was spot on, with Natalio powering the header down. Santos at the far end let out a whistle of approval.
Victor proclaimed, "This is how we will steal games we are not supposed to win."
Laurence chuckled a bit at Victor's statement, remembering a certain club from future.
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The back three had been the toughest to mold. Koulibaly was raw and strong but often made hasty decisions. Luna was steady and vocal, though sometimes too quick to gamble on interceptions. De Vrij, calm and collected, was already showing he could read the game two steps ahead, but he still needed to sync up with the other two.
One evening, they stayed late, defenders lined up against academy strikers for offside trap drills. Pedro played clips from last year's mistakes on a screen by the bench, pausing whenever the line broke.
"Look here," he pointed at Luna, who had stepped up too late. "And here—Casemiro drops deeper, and you don't follow."
Laurence turned to them. "You're not three individuals. You're one line. If one of you breaks, the whole team falls apart. Let's do it again."
The frontline was both a blessing and a bit of a headache. Neymar, Griezmann, Joel, Quaresma, Natalio—each brought their own flair to the game. The real challenge was finding the right balance.
During a practice match, Neymar got the ball and charged straight at three defenders. He lost possession, shrugged it off, and jogged back.
Laurence blew the whistle. "Hold up."
The players froze in their tracks.
Laurence stepped onto the field, retrieved the ball, and placed it right where Neymar had lost it. "What made you go for it?"
"Because I can take them on," Neymar shot back.
"And what if you can't?"
Silence hung in the air.
Laurence tossed the ball back. "Play the pass first. Save the dribbling for when it really counts. Use it to change the game, not just when it's easy."
Neymar frowned but didn't push back.
In another drill, Quaresma delivered a stunning trivela cross that landed perfectly on Natalio's head. The goal was smooth and effortless. For a brief moment, even the coaching staff applauded. Quaresma grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Laurence simply said, "Do it again tomorrow."
By mid-August, the team was starting to gel. The defense moved in sync. The midfielders figured out when to push forward and when to hold back. The wingers spread wide, then cut in at just the right moment.
One evening, as the sun dipped into the Atlantic, Victor handed Laurence a bottle of water. "They're starting to look like a team again."
Laurence took a moment before responding. He watched as Neymar slipped a no-look pass to Griezmann, who flicked it first-time to Joel, who almost scored.
"They're not a machine," Laurence finally said. "Machines just repeat. I want them to adapt."
Victor smiled slightly. "Adaptation suits us well."
The players trudged off the field, shirts drenched, bodies weary. Joel limped a bit, Cancelo rubbed his calves, and Quaresma had blood seeping through his sock. Yet, none of them complained.
The groundwork was laid. Preseason matches were on the horizon—Liverpool, Blackburn, Juventus. A chance to test out different styles and rhythms.