The bright light of the morning sun glittered off the dew-drenched grass at El Mundialito, but there was so warmth on the training pitch. It was hard. Hard and brutal. Laurence González had his arms crossed and his jaw set at the edge of the field. His eyes tracked every run every tackle, every sprint with a laser focus. His team had just defeated Villarreal with one of their most aggressive pressing performances of the season, but Laurence was not happy.
He understands the challenges ahead — stronger teams, tighter margins, and players beginning to feel the full weight of a season at full speed.
Then that moment came that shattered a morning.
Kitoko went down.
No collision, no yelp, just a slip, a wince, then a groan, hands clutching his left leg. A pair of physios came racing over, lug-soled boots thudding into the grass, Silence shrunk down over the squat.
The other players stopped mid drill, exchanging looks of concern amongst each other. Even the yelling from the youth match taking place on the neighbouring pitch began to feel muted, far away.
Laurence remained still. All he could do was watch, expressionless, mouth a hard line, as Kitoko was helped off the pitch, unable to put any weight on the leg. He had been the heartbeat of Tenerife's midfield the entire season, impossible to stop, unyielding, the first line of defence and often the flare for a counter. Now he was limping towards the sideline with an arm draped over the shoulders of the medical staff.
Victor had come to stand next to Laurence, his tone low. "That's not just a knock. I saw him slow down twenty minutes ago. We pushed too hard."
Laurence had no response. His eyes were still glued to Kitoko, who was now being sat down, an ice pack already against the hamstring. Eventually he spoke, as if he was talking to himself.
"I needed the intensity," he said. "We've been getting results from fight, and that margin is getting thinner every time we go out."
Victor's voice dropped down a notch, not quite reproachful, but directed towards Laurence. "We've been lucky too. Casemiro and Natalio are covering twelve kilometers a match. Kitoko has been covering both boxes every single week. Something had to give."
Laurence looked to the far end of the field where Natalio was finishing sprints, hands on knees, out of breath, sweat pouring from his face as he stood up straight and jogged back to the group.
Victor continued, "We won't be able to run this system without rotation. Not at that intensity. We do not have the squad for it. Let them rest against Almería. We have earned it."
Laurence sighed and pulled his cap down lower on his brow, "Fine. Ricardo León starts in the midfield. Griezmann drops deeper. Joel goes wide. Neymar is back after all."
Victor raised his eyebrows. "You're starting Neymar? Just like that?"
"What's the newly promoted team going to do?," Laurence said plainly.
With that, Laurence turned and walked off toward the dressing rooms. Behind him, the physios confirmed their assessment: a Grade II hamstring tear. Kitoko was going to be out of the play, at least four weeks. Laurence felt sudden coldness, even in the warm sun of the Canary Islands.
That evening, Laurence sat alone in his office at the training complex, with just a lamp glowing above the piles of papers on the desk in front of him. Fitness reports. Player workloads. Minutes training. Stats from matches.
The door gave a loud creak as Victor entered with two cans of Coke.
"You going to blind yourself reading that?" he asked. He tossed one of the cans onto the desk.
Laurence caught it without looking up. "I'm just trying to figure out a squad running on fumes for two months."
Victor opened his can. "At least you aren't even drinking coffee. I thought I was going to have to intervene."
Laurence smiled as he spoke; it was a half smile at best. "You ever think this is all about to fall apart?"
Victor answered without thinking. "Every damn week. Then Griezmann scores a brace or Neymar nutmegs three defenders, and I think, maybe not this week."
Laurence looked up from the papers. His eyes were tired but sharp. "I'm asking for too much."
"You're asking them to believe. And they do."
He looked at the whiteboard behind Laurence's desk. Fixtures. Notes. Injuries. There was a long list of names, and one line at the very top written in huge bold black ink.
"European football or I break my promise."
Laurence's expression did not change. He took a sip of Coke and looked at the line for longer than was comfortable.
Matchday had arrived with a different energy to it. The starting XI looked bizarre on matchday. Kitoko was out. Casemiro was on the bench. Natalio had a break. Instead, a patched together midfield was comprised of veteran Ricardo León and oft-derided Omar. Griezmann played behind Alejandro, a long and skinny 20-year-old striker from the B team. Decent raw talent, fast but clearly nervous.
Joel and Neymar were on the wings; it was Neymar's first start after a knock kept him out for several weeks.
No doubt raised a few eyebrows from the press. Some called it arrogance. Others called it rotation roulette.
Laurence addressed none of it. In the pre-match conference he said simply, "You either rest in January, or you break in February."
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The game kicked off slowly. Tenerife was missing Kitoko's bite in the midfield. Ricardo León was steady, sure, but did not have the punch to win second balls. Griezmann was dropping deeper to help the midfield but left Alejandro isolated.
Neymar was electric, however. Every time he touched the ball, the crowd stirred. He was sharper than we generally see—gliding along the ground past defenders, feinting with both legs and delivering crosses that deserved better. In the 27th minute, he beat two defenders down the left and swung in a low cross that missed Alejandro's boot by mere inches.
At half time, it was still 0–0.
Laurence gathered the team in the dressing room, crouching in front of them. "We're close," he said. "But close doesn't count."
He pointed at Joel and Neymar. "If you see the space, take the shot. Don't wait for the perfect ball. It's not coming."
Joel nodded. Neymar smiled.
With just under thirty minutes to go, urgency crept into the game. Joel began to drift inside; after slipping between two defenders, he fired a shot, from the edge of the box, in the 59th minute; parried wide. Neymar attempted his own version, two minutes, later, curling one towards the top corner. It clipped the far side of the post.
The pressure was building.
Finally, In the 72nd minute, Griezmann slipped a perfectly weighted ball into Neymar's path. The Brazilian took it on the outside of his right boot, danced past a defender with a flick, and buried one in the bottom corner.
The stadium erupted.
Laurence didn't scream. Didn't punch the air. He just stood on the sideline with both fists clenched at his side and deep breaths, relief not joy.
The final 15 minutes were tense. Almería were pushing to at least get something out of the game, and Ricardo León, in his own impromptu way, perfectly slows the game down, taking fouls from Almeria, contact going down, and even taking a yellow card for a deliberate pull in the 88th minute during one of our rare counter attacks.
When the final whistle went, it was not a roar that came from the stands, rather an exhale.
Tenerife 1 – Almería 0.
Ugly, nervy, hard-fought—but a win.