Victor was standing at the edge of the training pitch, arms crossed, boots sinking slightly into the wet gravel. The squad was in the middle of their warm-ups—some stretching, some running, others playing rondos—but Victor's gaze wasn't on the players.
His gaze was on Laurence González, who was standing alone by the dugout, pacing like a man whose dog had run away and whose house had burned down the same hour.
"Why did I say that?" Laurence said to himself, raking one hand through his hair. "Europe. Europe! You're an absolute idiot."
Victor walked over to him, with an easy tone. "You okay, boss?"
Laurence spun around, pale and wide-eyed. "No. No, Victor; I'm not. I promised Europe. To Neymar. To the board. To myself." He stopped and laughed a laugh with no humor. "I just think I signed my own death warrant."
Victor laughed lightly, just for a short second. "You wouldn't be the first manager to make a bold promise after a win. You might be the first manager to promise European football with a team like the one we have."
Laurence gave him a look that was equal parts irritating and thankful. "Tell me honestly, do you think I'm insane?"
Victor shrugged. "Probably. But you're the only man I know crazy enough to make this club dream again. Come on. Let's get a drink. Before you start quoting Sun Tzu and shaving your head."
_____
The bar they went to was hidden back in the older parts of Santa Cruz, where the buildings were weathered by the sea winds and the passage of time, the tiles cracked, the air had notes of citrus and smoke and, if someone bothered to feed it coins, the jukebox in the corner still played Joan Manuel Serrat.
Perfect.
They sat at the bar. The barman, old enough to have seen Tenerife rise and fall twice, nodded before sliding them two cold Doradas without asking.
For a while, they didn't speak. Just sat in silence, drinking, soaking in the low murmur of the locals talking about fishing, politics, anything that wasn't football.
"I keep trying to act like I've got this all figured out," Laurence finally said, swirling the golden liquid in his glass. "Like I'm a step ahead. But the truth is, I'm making it up as I go along. Most of the time, I'm just trying not to feel like a fraud."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "You've got Neymar playing like he's on a different planet, Casemiro controlling the midfield liked a seasoned pro, and we're sitting mid-table in La Liga. If that's fraud, sign me up for the con!"
Laurence let out a small laugh, low and genuine. That felt good to be able to release some of it. But then she arrived.
Her dark curls were tied up in a messy bun, headphones under her chin, and she was clutching a stack of textbooks to her chest. She paused in the doorway, scanning the room until her eyes landed on the corner of the bar, where the noise wouldn't disturb her.
Victor nudged him. "Go on. You look like you need the distraction. Otherwise, you're going to wake up having drawn out 4-4-2 formations, again."
Laurence started to offer resistance, but Victor's signal for another round was already going in to the barman. By the time the barman had returned with two pints of beer, Laurence hesitated only momentarily before leaning over, grabbing one and walking over.
"Hi," he said, presenting the beer. "You look like you've had a longer day than I have."
She looked up, amused. "That bad, huh?"
"Depends," he said. "Did your entire week hinge on a 17-year-old, deciding whether or not to leave you for Barcelona?"
She smiled and took the beer. "I'll take that as a no."
He sat beside her. "Laurence."
"Lucia," she said. "You're not from here."
"That obvious."
"You carry your jaw like you're chewing your teeth off your face. Locals don't wear stress on their sleeve like you."
Laurence smiled. "You caught me. I'm a... teacher. Kinda."
She raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm a student. So I guess we cancel each other out."
They talked. About books, politics, island rain. Lucia was studying literature and journalism. She hated bureaucracy, loved old movies, and had opinions about Cervantes that Laurence didn't understand but appreciated nonetheless.
She never referenced football. She never asked him what he did for a living.
Laurence felt himself breathe for the first time in weeks. The boardroom, the press, the tactics board with the whiteboard's dozens of magnets and arrows, all very slowly faded from his mind. It was only her voice, the comforting warmth of beer, and the sound of Serrat humming in the background.
____
The next day, Laurence's phone began buzzing like a jackhammer. He moaned and squinted against the sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains.
This isn't his bed.
This is Lucia's bed.
The flat was small but gracious. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, and next to it, a note written in pen on the back of a university pamphlet:
"You snore like a frustrated poet. Text me if you live today."
Laurence rubbed his temples. His jacket was draped over a chair, his shoes next to the couch. He slipped them on like a man in a minefield, with his phone already buzzing in his hand.
Seventeen missed calls.
Victor.
Kitoko.
Mauro.
The board.
Training.
He tore through the training ground gates as if he had just escaped from being kidnapped. His hair was still messy, shirt wrinkled beneath a jacket that had been pulled on in haste.
Victor was already in charge of the drills. Casemiro and Kitoko were deep in a rondo, Neymar juggling near the sideline like it came naturally.
Victor didn't even look at him. "You are late."
"Don't go there," Laurence said still getting his breath.
Victor smiled knowingly. "Let me guess. Woke up in a bed that wasn't yours?"
Laurence gave an awkward silence.
Victor tossed him the clipboard. "Just don't fall in love. We've still got Europe to chase."
Laurence looked out at the players—stretching, joking, and passing with clear thoughts in mind. Neymar flicked the ball up and caught it near the base of his neck, smiling without looking. The kid looked electric.