The January air on the island felt crisp and dry, a refreshing change after the chaotic storms of December. CD Tenerife held their ground in LaLiga, just above mid-table, fluctuating between flashes of brilliance and reminders that the relegation zone was always close.
Laurence González felt the pressure. He clearly saw what the team needed. The squad was thin. The attack depended on Neymar's unpredictability and Natalio's resurgence, but that connection felt delicate for a long thirty-eight-game season. One injury or one suspension could disrupt their flow.
Then Mauro Pérez entered his office, coat half-buttoned and coffee in hand, wearing a smile Laurence hadn't seen since the season opener.
"He's coming," Mauro said.
Laurence looked up. "Did Sociedad agree?"
"Loan until June. Option to buy for three million. They get performance bonuses, and we get the player."
"And what about the boy?"
Mauro nodded. "He's not excited, but he's not foolish. He wants to play. He knows he's stuck on the bench over there."
Laurence leaned back in his chair, hands clasped. "Then we give him what he wants."
Antoine Griezmann arrived on the island two days later.
He wore a faded hoodie and slim jeans, his blond hair barely held down by a grey beanie. If you passed him in the airport, you might think he was a student on vacation—not a LaLiga forward on a mission.
But when he stepped onto the training pitch, he realized this was different.
This wasn't a retreat. It was something else entirely.
Laurence greeted him at the sideline with a firm handshake and a nod. "Welcome to Tenerife. This is your chance to play."
Griezmann nodded. "Thanks, míster. I just want minutes."
What followed surprised him completely.
The drills weren't just intense; they were smart. Each possession had depth. Runs were calculated, and touches were timed. The wide overloads were designed. Fullbacks curved in as decoys. Midfielders practiced third-man movements with precision.
It wasn't flashy. It was logical.
Griezmann joined the attacking trio with Neymar and Natalio. Neymar—charismatic and sharp—laughed through the warm-ups but tore through defenses like he knew their weaknesses. Natalio had quietly evolved into a tactical anchor, unselfish, clever, and ruthlessly efficient.
They didn't just train. They studied.
After practice, Neymar stayed to work on one-touch linkups with Joel Barros, the La Masia teenager who always pointed and moved. Natalio sat with Victor and a tablet, replaying clips from their last match, dissecting pressing angles and second-ball triggers.
As Griezmann took off his boots, Neymar jogged over and nudged him with a grin.
"Didn't expect that, huh?"
Griezmann laughed, wiping sweat from his brow. "I thought this was Tenerife, not Bayern Munich."
Neymar chuckled. "Míster thinks ten years ahead. He talks about 'the future' like he's already been there."
"He's strict?"
"He's… obsessed," Neymar said. "But fair. He listens, and he believes in us."
Natalio walked by, stretching his calves. "Give it two weeks," he said without stopping. "You'll start loving the madness."
Griezmann looked around. The training ground was small, with a few aging buildings. No high-tech recovery rooms. But the energy was electric. These players weren't going through the motions. They believed in something.
A coach. A system. Each other.
As the players drifted back to the dressing rooms, Laurence's voice rang out.
"Antoine."
Griezmann turned. Laurence approached, calm but focused.
"I know this isn't where you thought you'd be this season," Laurence said, stopping beside him. "No trophies. No spotlight. No media."
He paused.
"But I think you can grow here more than anywhere else right now. I won't flatter you. I'll push you harder than you've ever been pushed. I'll expect more. But in return, I'll give you what you want—minutes, freedom, responsibility."
Griezmann didn't respond immediately. Then he nodded.
"I'm ready."
Laurence held his gaze for a moment. "Good. You'll be in the squad this weekend."
As Griezmann walked away, Laurence watched him go—another piece, another move. Still raw, still quiet. But a sharpness marked his movements and a weight in his step. Not flair. Not yet. But purpose.
Laurence turned back toward the pitch.
The pieces were falling into place.
And now, the real work began.
_____
The Heliodoro Rodríguez López buzzed with excitement under the pale January sun as the stands began to fill with noise, flags, and restless energy. CD Tenerife had played bigger matches this season, but today felt different. Today was about curiosity. A new name appeared on the teamsheet.
Antoine Griezmann was making his debut. He was a wiry French forward with a mop of blond hair and eyes that seemed unusually thoughtful for a footballer.
For most fans, he was a ghost—a name mentioned briefly, a benchwarmer at Real Sociedad. But for Laurence González, he was something else entirely—a piece, a spark, a flicker of movement that could change games without trying to take over.
There was no flashy unveiling. No press tour. Just a name scribbled on the lineup graphic and one line to the media:
"He fits what we're building."
Zaragoza arrived ready for a fight. They were a scrappy, tough team—survivors by nature, not easily impressed. Their sporting director had once held Mauro Pérez's position at Tenerife—another detail Laurence noted.
The starting eleven was straightforward but bold. Griezmann lined up on the right of a front three, Neymar floated wide left with freedom, and Natalio, the relentless worker, led the attack.
Before kickoff, Laurence pulled Griezmann aside.
"You're not a 10. You're not a winger. You're a ghost," he said, keeping his voice low and sharp. "Slip between lines. Find shadows. Move."
Antoine smirked. "I like that."
From the first whistle, you could feel the intensity.
Zaragoza came out strong. Their midfield pressed high, trying to pin back Casemiro and Kitoko, testing whether the teenage Brazilian could be shaken. Casemiro played it safe at first, making short passes and staying grounded. Kitoko, as always, remained calm amidst the chaos—intercepting, guiding, never rushed.
The first moment belonged to Griezmann.
In the ninth minute, he drifted into the center, unnoticed, and received the ball near the halfway line. One deft touch got him free. Then he made the pass—a diagonal whip across the pitch to Neymar, who was already speeding down the wing. Neymar cut inside, drew a defender, and then passed it back into Griezmann's path.
One stride, one curve of the left foot.
Low. Bending. Out of reach.
1–0.
The Heliodoro erupted. Fans jumped to their feet. Scarves rose. Flags waved. Griezmann jogged to the corner flag, arms slightly raised but his face composed—as if he'd done this countless times before.
On the bench, Victor leaned toward Laurence, amazed.
"He's been here five days."
Laurence didn't move. His arms were still crossed, but something in his jaw relaxed. It's working, he thought.
Zaragoza regrouped, looking to smother Neymar by forcing him to the touchline with double coverage. But Laurence had planned for that. Space opened up elsewhere—and space was all Tenerife needed.
In the 28th minute, Natalio pulled wide, dragging a center-back with him. Casemiro sensed the moment and played a clever lofted ball to the edge of the box. Griezmann appeared again—not sprinting, just... arriving.
One touch to control the ball. One to slot it home.
2–0.
He didn't celebrate this time. He simply turned back toward midfield as if he were clocking in for a second shift.
Laurence nudged Victor. "Still questioning why I brought him?"
Victor chuckled. "I'm wondering how Sociedad let him go."
In the second half, Zaragoza pushed forward. Long balls. Switches. Gamble after gamble. But Tenerife was ready. The press—practiced for months—snapped into action.
Offside traps held. Defensive lines moved in sync. Casemiro had moments of vulnerability, but Kitoko covered for him tirelessly. At the back, Llorente, Mauro's summer signing, barked orders and shut down aerial threats like a general on the field.
Even the fullbacks got involved. Bertran and Dinei overlapped enough to stretch the game but fell back when Zaragoza tried to counter.
In the 67th minute, Neymar—finally finding space—danced past two defenders and squared the ball across the box. Griezmann was there again but let it roll, knowing Natalio was behind him in a better position.
3–0.
Unselfish. Smart. Exactly what Laurence wanted.
He stood and quietly applauded—not for the goal, but for the play. The thought. The awareness.
In the dugout, Victor turned. "If he keeps this up, we're going to owe you a dinner apology."
Laurence smirked. "Make it a bottle of red. French."
By full-time, the stadium swayed with chants. Tenerife had their fourth consecutive home win. And they hadn't just won—they'd dominated.
Inside the locker room, the atmosphere was light. Soft reggaetón played from the speakers, damp shirts hung over benches, and players laughed between gulps of water and protein shakes.
Griezmann sat quietly, towel around his shoulders. He didn't soak it in. He just processed it.
Neymar walked by and clapped him on the back.
"Nice goals, hermano. You made it look easy."
Antoine smirked. "That's because you made it easy."
Laurence entered then; the room buzzed but calmed just enough.
He looked around at the tired legs, the quiet smiles, the togetherness.
He didn't speak like a man delivering a lecture. Just a coach acknowledging the truth.
"Good match," he said. "This—this is what it looks like when we play with purpose."
He turned to Griezmann.
"Antoine. Welcome."