The draw for the Copa del Rey Round of 16 came and went with little ceremony. A quiet room in Madrid, where names were pulled from bowls, ties announced between league fixtures and television obligations. CD Tenerife were paired with Deportivo La Coruña. A club with history and pride. A club which could punish Tenerife is Laurence isn't careful.
But Laurence's attention was focused elsewhere.
The Spanish Supercopa Final wasn't meant to feature CD Tenerife. At least, that's how it was supposed to be—by tradition and theory. Yet, there they were, set to take on Barcelona at the Santiago Bernabéu, a neutral ground.
Copa del Rey champions against league winners. It was a tale that sounded beautiful on paper but felt harsh when played out on the pitch.
That evening in Madrid was sharp and chilly. The Bernabéu stood in its pale white tiers, indifferent to who filled its seats. Tenerife's fans arrived early, their flags tied to the railings, drums beating a steady rhythm that felt more defiant than hopeful. They were well aware of the challenge ahead. Still, they sang.
Laurence lingered in the tunnel, watching as Barcelona made their entrance. Xavi was adjusting his socks, Busquets whispered to Piqué, Iniesta stretched with his eyes half-closed, and Messi, barely visible under his hood, seemed mentally miles away.
This wasn't intimidation; it was just routine. And that, more than anything, made Laurence uneasy.
Tenerife's lineup showed determination rather than fear. Luna was back alongside Koulibaly and De Vrij, bringing balance to their defense. Cancelo and Grimaldo were trusted once more, despite the enormity of the occasion. Casemiro and Kikoto held down the midfield, focused on disrupting rhythm rather than outright winning the ball. Neymar returned on the left, not at his sharpest but still essential. Quaresma took the right flank, while Griezmann led the attack solo.
Laurence didn't promise miracles in the final briefing. Every player in that room knew exactly who they were up against.
The first few minutes made that clear.
Barcelona didn't hurry. They simply took control of the ball and held onto it.
Classic Tiki-Taka.
Tenerife attempted to tighten the space, moving as a cohesive unit, but the angles were unyielding. Every time Kikoto stepped up, Iniesta slipped away. When Casemiro held his ground, Xavi drifted wider. Busquets anchored everything, and the relentless rhythm continued.
Messi hardly touched the ball in the first five minutes, yet the entire Tenerife defense seemed to revolve around him.
The first real scare came when Pedro slipped past Cancelo and squared the ball across the goal. Villa arrived just a moment too late. Koulibaly managed to clear it, but the warning was clear: the margin for error was already razor-thin.
Then, just eighteen minutes in, it happened.
Messi dropped back, pulling Luna with him. That one little step forward opened up a gap. Pedro dashed into it, received the pass perfectly, and without a second thought, cut the ball back. Villa struck it first time, low and clean, beyond Aragonéses' reach.
Laurence urged the players to be more alert and practice more caution.
Tenerife attempted to respond by pushing Neymar higher up the pitch, asking Grimaldo to overlap more aggressively. It gave them a few moments of hope. Neymar managed to beat Alves once, then twice, drawing a foul near the touchline. Quaresma found some space on the far side and sent in a cross that Griezmann nearly connected with.
But every time they pushed forward, Barcelona absorbed the pressure effortlessly. They countered smartly.
The second goal soon after.
Xavi, unbothered, lifted a pass that looked harmless in its arc but was spot-on in timing. Messi took it on his thigh, his body already turning before the ball had even settled. De Vrij hesitated for just a split second, unsure whether to step up or hold his ground. That was all it took. Messi chipped Aragonéses with barely any backlift, the ball floating just long enough to force the keeper into a commitment.
Two-nil. Thirty-five minutes gone.
The Tenerife fans grew louder, not quieter. Their songs turned harsher, more rhythmic. It was pure defiance.
Laurence made some adjustments at halftime, subtle tweaks. Kikoto moved up a bit to disrupt Busquets. Cancelo started tucking in more often to limit Messi's space to drift. Griezmann dropped back to help ease the pressure.
For a brief moment, it worked. Tenerife held onto the ball for about ten minutes, stringing passes together and forcing Barcelona to move sideways instead of making those incisive vertical runs. Neymar slipped past Alves once more and cut inside, but his shot was blocked by Mascherano's outstretched leg. Griezmann was there for the follow-up but couldn't quite get his feet sorted in time.
Then, control shifted back to Barcelona, smooth and inevitable.
The third goal didn't come from a moment of brilliance but from sheer persistence. Alves surged forward again; his cross was blocked but not cleared. The ball rolled loose at the edge of the box. Iniesta arrived late, unmarked, and calmly guided the shot into the far corner as if he were finishing a routine training drill.
Three-nil.
Tenerife kept running, pressing selectively, and closing down spaces that opened up the moment they turned their backs. Koulibaly threw himself into tackles. Casemiro tracked runners until his legs felt like lead. Neymar, visibly frustrated, still tried to create something, though every touch was met with immediate pressure.
Laurence remained mostly still during the second half, offering quiet instructions. Hold. Slide left. Don't chase. Let it go.
He understood that this match wasn't going to be salvaged. He also knew it just wasn't meant to be.
When the final whistle blew, parts of the stadium erupted in applause, as many had come expecting a spectacle rather than a contest. Barcelona's players shook hands, barely breaking a sweat. Tenerife's players walked over to their supporters, clapping, their faces tired but resolute.
Laurence waited near the tunnel, and Pep Guardiola was the first to approach him.
"Today we were the best team."
Laurence nodded, acknowledging the difference without any embarrassment.
"Next time."
Pep responded with quiet encouragement, "I look forward to it."
In the dressing room, the silence was heavy but not destructive. No one spoke until Laurence did.
"That," he said, calmly, "is the level."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't soften it either.
"Not because they wanted it more. Not because we didn't try. But because every movement they make has been rehearsed for countless times. Every decision comes without doubt, as if it is a muscle memory."
He looked around the room, meeting eyes without holding them.
"We don't get there by pretending we're already close. We get there by understanding how far we still have to go."
No one argued.
They showered, dressed, boarded the bus. Outside, Tenerife supporters were still waiting, applauding as the team passed.