As the final whistle echoed after Tenerife's stunning 5–0 victory over Atlético Madrid, a palpable shift swept across Spain. Suddenly, the newspapers, talk shows, and even the hushed conversations in cafés began to drift away from the match itself and toward a much bigger, more unsettling question.
Could CD Tenerife… actually clinch La Liga?
By the time December's fixtures came to a close, the league table resembled something straight out of a football manager's wildest dreams:
Barcelona – 42 points
Tenerife – 38 points
Real Madrid – 37 points
Laurence Gonzales found himself staring at those numbers late one night in his dimly lit office at the training ground. The soft glow from his laptop illuminated his face, revealing tired eyes that seemed to resist blinking.
Second place. Just four points behind Barcelona. One point ahead of Mourinho's Madrid.
It felt surreal to say it out loud. Tenerife wasn't supposed to be here. They were expected to linger in the mid-table at best. Some even predicted they'd falter completely under the relentless pressure of Europe and Spain's grueling fixture schedule. Yet, here they stood: ahead of Valencia, Sevilla, Atlético — and not by mere chance. It was by design. By sheer determination.
But the toll was evident. De Vrij's hamstring injury had rattled the squad. Natalio's departure had sent them scrambling for Bony. Neymar, as brilliant as he was, bore the bruises from every grueling minute on the pitch. Suspensions, muscle strains, travel fatigue — it all piled up.
Yet, so did the points.
The press had already shifted their tone. Where there used to be skepticism — or even a hint of condescension — now there was a sense of curiosity mixed with respect.
"Gonzales: From Relegation Avoider to Title Contender?"
"Tenerife – The Best Story in Europe This Season?"
"Barcelona Have a New Shadow — And It's from the Canary Islands."
Some headlines were romantic, while others were sharp. Yet, they all pointed to the same conclusion.
Tenerife was now on everyone's radar.
That afternoon, just before the winter break settled in, Laurence found himself at a cozy café in Santa Cruz with Lucia. The gentle Atlantic breeze wafted through the narrow street, bringing with it the scent of salt and freshly roasted coffee. The December sunlight bathed the buildings in a warm glow. Nothing about that moment hinted at pressure or expectation.
They didn't dive into tactics or transfers. Instead, they meandered through conversations about books and family, reflecting on what it meant to grow up on an island that was a bit far from the Spanish mainland. Lucia laughed easily, and for the first time in weeks, Laurence found himself laughing too. It felt grounding, a reminder that there was more to life than just football.
But even in that serene moment, the game had a way of creeping back in. He found his eyes drifting toward his phone more than once, almost without realizing it.
"You're lost in thought again," Lucia said softly, catching his gaze.
He smiled, feeling a bit caught. "Bad habit."
"You're allowed a few," she replied with a grin. "Just… try not to be a coach for an hour, okay? You are here as a normal man, not a tactician."
He nodded, genuinely meaning it. But old habits die hard.
That evening, reality hit him the moment he stepped onto the office. Victor handed him a folded document before he even had a chance to take off his coat.
"De Vrij?" Laurence asked right away.
Victor nodded, "Cleared. Full medical approval."
Laurence exhaled deeply, a mix of relief and concern washing over him.
"But," Victor continued, his tone steady. "His semimembranosus is stable, but it's not invincible. If we push him too hard too soon, it could flare up again. He needs to be handled with care. In other words, workload management should be better."
Laurence nodded, knowing this was coming. Koulibaly (who also needed to be desperately rested) and Luna had stepped up brilliantly. Bellvís was a seasoned player, but his age had slowed him down. Nino García showed promise, but he was still a bit raw.
Later that night, with a glass of red wine in hand, he turned on the late-night football broadcast, more out of routine than genuine interest. Manchester United had just trounced Wigan Athletic 5–0. Sir Alex Ferguson appeared on screen — calm, confident, still sharp as ever. The conversation centered around squad rotation, discussing how United managed to keep going even with key players missing.
To his surprise, Laurence found himself tuning in more than he anticipated. Not to the score or the goals, but to the language, the priorities, and the calmness in Ferguson's demeanor. Then the host mentioned it — Ferguson's admiration for a young defender in France. A teenager at RC Lens. Composed, intelligent, and mature beyond his years.
Raphaël Varane.
The name sparked something in Laurence's mind. He recalled the scouting reports he'd read about him. Elegant on the ball, quick enough to recover, and brave without being reckless. Just eighteen.
"What if…" Laurence murmured to himself.
He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he reached for his phone and scrolled to Mauro's number. It was nearly midnight, but he called anyway.
Mauro let out a groan when he picked up the phone. "You do realize that normal people actually sleep, right?"
"Loan," Laurence shot back without missing a beat.
There was a brief silence. "That's not a complete sentence."
"Raphael Varane. Lens. Eighteen. He's not locked down yet. Though United is probably keeping tabs."
Mauro sighed, but there was a flicker of interest beneath his weariness. "You're talking about a kid playing at the bottom of Ligue 1. And United has been sniffing around?"
"I get that," Laurence replied. "But he needs real minutes. We can give him some responsibility without overwhelming him. Plus, we need backup. De Vrij can't just jump back in. Koulibaly needs some rest. Bellvís is barely hanging on. If we're serious — like, really serious — about finishing strong, we can't risk it with such a thin defense."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Finally, Mauro spoke, his voice softer this time:
"You're starting to think like a club that expects to stay up here. You do realize that two years ago we were in segunda division?"
"And now we are topping the Europa group and second in Laliga. Belief changes everything."
"I'll look into it," Mauro said after a moment. "Lens might be open to it, especially if we play our cards right. But if Ferguson makes the call himself, we're done for."
"Do what you can," Laurence urged. "Keep it under wraps. Don't want anybody else to know."
Once they hung up, Laurence didn't head straight to bed. Instead, he wandered over to the window, gazing out at the city lights twinkling beneath the winter sky. He thought about Neymar's bruises, Griezmann's relentless running, Kikoto's leadership, and Aragoneses barking orders like a general. Players who, on paper, shouldn't be in the position of chasing Barcelona — yet here they were.
The winter break rolled in, giving the squad a rare moment of peace. Some players headed home, while others stayed on the island. Neymar jetted back to Brazil for a few days, armed with strict conditioning guidelines — ball work, light aerobic exercises, and no street football. Laurence had faith in him. Or at least, he trusted that Neymar understood what was at stake now.