The shadows of San Mamés still wrapped around Tenerife like a second skin when the team arrived in the Vicente Calderón. That 1–0 defeat to Athletic Club at home in the first leg of the Copa del Rey quarterfinal had left more than just a sore blot on their record to that point. It had driven deeper — in both flesh and spirit.
And now, a matter of days later, they had an away game against Atlético Madrid in the league. No room to breathe. No time to pause. One giant was followed by another with teeth.
The Calderón was rocking — flags waving, chants flowing like fire, knowing blood was in the water. While not at the top of their game this season, Atlético always had their bite at home. Diego Forlán, José Antonio Reyes and Simao all were starting.
Raúl García and Assunção were in the centre of the pitch holding the midfield. They were strong, experienced and, most dangerously, totally fresh. Tenerife resembled the side they were — a young squad stretched to the limits.
Laurence González stood on the touchline, in a long dark coat, collar up against the Madrid chill with his hands deep in his pockets. Joel was on the bench — the teenagerwas still finding his place in the physical realities of top-flight football. Natalio started again, but dropped deeper into midfield to give Casemiro and Kitoto some cover.
The greatest apprehension, however, was Neymar.
The boy wonder had been brilliant in bursts — dizzying on his day — but Laurence had noticed some things in recent matches: slight limps after sprints, subtle winces when changing direction, an increasing slowness in his recovery. He had hoped it was nothing; he had hoped wrong.
The match began with a bang.
From the first whistle, Atlético Madrid attacked with venom. Reyes and Simao stretched the flanks, looking to isolate Tenerife's full-backs. Every time Tenerife touched the ball inside their own half, there was a shadow chasing them down. No rhythm, no composure. Atlético's midfield were winning every second ball.
By the 15th minute, the inevitable happened - Tenerife lost the ball trying to play out from the back. Raúl García intercepted it and immediately played Reyes, who saw Forlán making a curved run between the center-backs. One touch to control, one touch to finish - low and clean past Sergio Aragoneses.
The score was 1-0.
Calderon erupted. Forlan barely celebrated, he simply trotted back to the halfway line as if he had done it a thousand times before. Laurence twitched his arms tighter to himself. The worst part? He had seen the goal coming five minutes earlier. Tenerife had been lethargic, reactive, disjointed.
He turned to Victor who was sitting on the bench, "They can't hear each other. They aren't communicating."
Victor frowned and nodded. "They're still in Bilbao."
Tenerife tried to respond but nothing stuck. Natalio's touches were loose. Griezmann kept dropping deeper and deeper, more and more frustrated with the lack of support. Casemiro, already tired from back-to-back games, misplayed some passes. Kitoko could not do it himself. And Neymar? He was lost.
Then came the moment Laurence feared.
In the 33rd minute, Neymar picked up an easy diagonal pass from Omar, and tried to accelerate down the left side. He didn't yell. He didn't fall down. But he slowed down - instantly - grabbed behind his thigh, took three hobbles, and stopped.
Laurence didn't even wait for the physio to wave him on.
He turned and said quietly to Victor, "He's done."
The substitution was made. Neymar came off without a fuss, a towel thrown over his shoulders, his expression unreadable. But Laurence saw it — the fear. Not just pain. Fear that something bigger was wrong. That he'd let the team down. That the rhythm he'd been building was about to unravel.
Before halftime, Atlético doubled their lead.
A corner. Tenerife failed to clear. Domínguez headed it back into the six-yard box. Forlán was there again, rising between defenders to nod it in.
2–0.
No mistakes. No hesitation. Just clinical execution.
The halftime dressing room was quiet. The players sat slouched in their seats, breathing heavily, not from effort — but from exhaustion. Physical and emotional. Laurence didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. They knew.
The halftime dressing room was subdued. The players were slumped in their seats, breaths heavy — not from exertion — but exhaustion. Physical and emotional. Laurence didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. They knew.
Instead, he leant against door, "You're not the first team to be beaten here. But we can't play like ghosts. You want to survive in this league? You have to begin to fight again — even if you lose; fight."
He didn't change tactically. No miraculous switch to be flicked. All he was asking for was pride.
The players came out with a little more purpose in the second half. Casemiro was pushing higher up to press again and win the ball back, Juanlu was trying to advance on the right. Griezmann, as lonely as he was, was at least attempting to drift inside to create some space.
But the Hayters had been shot down. The damage was done. Tenerife was chasing a game that was never going to slow up enough to be caught.
In the 70th minute, it turned worse.
Reyes found a yard of space on the left and curled in a deep cross. The ball hit Luna's shin and sat perfectly in front of Simao. The winger smashed it into the top corner from six yards out.
3-0.
Laurence had no response. He just stared blankly at the game, his face an unreadable mask.
The last twenty minutes were a matter of damage limitation. Joel got ten minutes off the bench and showed some calmness in possession but that would amount to little in the grand scheme of things. Tenneteife were exhausted. When the final whistle went it was almost with a sense of relief.
In the aftermath, in the corridor, Laurence walked past a group of journalists without even a gaze. They would have their questions, questions about Neymar, questions about fatigue and questions about whether Tenerife's early season vibrancy was now burned out. The answers were not in Laurence's immediate vicinity.
Later that night, after the team flight home, Mauro entered Laurence's office at the training ground. The physio's report was in his hand.
"Grade one strain in the left hamstring," he answered. "Could have been worse, two weeks out maybe three. But at least we've caught it early.'
Laurence didn't look up straight away. He sat behind his desk, still in his jacket and staring at the wall with the magnets detailing the upcoming fixtures.
"Two league matches," he murmured. "And the second leg against Bilbao."
Mauro nodded. "We'll manage."
Laurence smiled faintly. "Manage what? Our expectations?"
Mauro didn't respond. He knew better than to give false hope. But there was still fight left in this team — even if the road ahead was getting darker.
Outside, rain had begun to fall over Santa Cruz. Light, steady. The kind that washed, not broke.
Laurence leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.