There was a stillness in the room after the draw was conducted: Real Madrid versus CD Tenerife. Laurence Gonzalez sat frozen at the press table, and the RFEF representative behind him was impeccable in his delivery. On screen, the draw stared back blankly. Everyone gasped collectively. A reporter's voice broke the silence: "Well, that's the end of the fairytale."
Laurence said nothing. He didn't smile, he didn't move. His mind was already letting loose—defensive shapes, pressing triggers, how Ronaldo would rip through his midfield. Nothing more.
The draw felt like an anchor that has been dragging at Matteo's resolve all week. He slept very little. Even when he did sleep, it was in fits and starts. Snippets of how to implement tactics, Neymar's promise of Europe, and the burden of that promise. He had made it under the floodlights after winning against Hércules—he offered it openly—and it resonated back to him every time his eyes closed. His body moved unconsciously that night; he did come home.
He found himself back at the same bar by the beach—Victor's choice months ago after the humiliation at the Bernabéu. It was decorated in dark red wood, tiles cracked from wear with a corner booth with no view, but looked out at the blackened shoreline. The salt on the breeze from the open window.
He had a whiskey, double in hand. He sipped slowly as he looked out as waves rolled in. The bulbs over head hummed as the bar buzzed around him. Then, a voice, a laugh, low and throaty, made him lose his focus.
"I didn't expect to see you here again."
He turned. Tall, dark curly hair; a loose bun, glasses on her nose. Her eyes were mildly amused but warm. He recognized her but could not explain why. Her presence felt familiar. Lucia. The same woman he met drunk at the bar a few drinks ago. They only exchanged names and nothing else, but he remembered.
"You remember me?" she said.
He exhaled a short laugh. "Yeah. I... left in a hurry last time."
"You left your socks," she said, the false solemnity of her comment underlined by her slight smile as if it was a joke.
He blinked. "Really?"
She slid her phone across the table, pulled out a picture of his abandoned socks "Found them under the booth. Should be burnt—or in a museum."
Laurence laughed again—real laughter, the first in days. She slid in across the table and ordered another round for them both.
They clinked glasses. She studied him. "I didn't recognize you last time. Didn't follow football. But my dad—loves Tenerife. Thought he'd never live to see them in a cup semi again. Then he calls you the team's messiah."
Laurence choked on his drink. "Messiah? That sounds… dramatic."
She shrugged, smile faint. "He says they play like Barcelona, but fight like underdogs. I started watching, trying to understand." She looked at him, curious. "You carry the world on your shoulders. It's… interesting."
He tapped the side of his glass, contemplative. "That… means something. Thank you."
Silence lingered, not awkward, but soft, hopeful.
She reached for a napkin and slid it over to him. "You told me the last time you explained football with one of these. With the big game coming up, you owe me a much better version. A reason my dad calls you a messiah."
He looked at the napkin. Then he looked at her. Maybe it was true that the world was absurd. Maybe he truly was in over his head. Maybe meeting Madrid in a semifinal was nothing short of classical suicide. But here, now, with a drink warming the palm of his hand and someone willing to believe, he felt a flicker of something that he hadn't felt in a long time. Maybe... hope.
He placed his fingers on the napkin and pulled in the pen from his coat pocket.
-----
Tenerife, seventh in La Liga with 34 points after 22 games. Sevilla with 36 points. Villarreal with 38. Atlético with 37. Tenerife was just two points from Europe. First time in decades. Laurence looked at the table again and again, they slipped at all, one bad run, the table would swallow them.
He felt like each result had grown more important. But from the moment Real visited the island and Neymar scored that ridiculous goal, the mood had turned. Faith, they'd replaced fear.
He had told the press, "You sell Neymar, and we're small again. But you keep him and we get Europe." Now, they had a Copa semifinal against a team that had twice their budget and wage bill and an eternity of history—and Laurence wondered if their belief could stretch beyond one draw.
Laurence had Monday nights filled with insomnia and inspiration. But this wasn't about tactics anymore. It was something much bigger. He turned diagrams upside down, moved magnets around. Fore-back were pinning Madrid's wingers, Casemiro sat just behind Kitoko, Griezmann drifting off behind Natalio. Pressing triggers: one wave, and then the next. Press hard for twenty minutes, then drop deep, compact, resilient, lethal on the counter.
But beyond that, he sketched something for Lucia's napkin: "We hurt them between right-back and center-back, crosses run low, sudden flanks. Ronaldo hates looking left before a run got him."
When the team assembled the next day for their midday session, the air was different. A catch in the air and straps of tension in their legs. Casillas and Cristiano—they hadn't seen these tests heavier than now. Madrid's fullbacks roared forward; volleying movements ahead of midfield vaults to hold passes as Madrid worked it.
During training, the players overloaded the wings of the pitch. Joel trained crosses under pressure. Kirby watched Natalio sprint the half-space channels again and again. Casemiro and Kitoko practicing the shield dance midfielders do; block passes, line up, shift seamlessly but never get pulled about.
On matchday Lucia turned up again. She held tickets. One father, one daughter, one belief. Laurence glimpsed her watching him from the front row. She gave him a slight nod, almost as a silent way of saying keep positive, son. He would send her dad an invite after the highlights of the first leg video - somebody would have to explain what transpired next.
Real stepped on to their pitch with calmness. Mourihno's knights lined up thoughtlessly clean. But Madrid's dominance was more than effortless. They pinged the ball but Tenerife pressed not with panic, but with structure. Di María turned often, searching with nerves. Özil was restricted times one too many by Javi did lose a stride but got blocked by Kitoko, Aragoneses bellowed loudly - was Tenerife standing ground again?
In the 22nd minute, the miscommunication came. Madrid's right-back fell asleep at the touchline. Joel sped towards him, poked the ball free. Griezmann timed his run perfectly. Natalio pealed around behind him. Kitoko passed quickly but correctly. The defense was transition-blind. Shot. Past Casillas' left leg. Tenerife 1 - 0 Real Madrid
Pandemonium. Somewhere in the stands, Lucia's father stood punching the air. Lucia waved, eyes tear filled. Laurence felt a spark of validation. Not an accident, but something built.
Madrid sidled back. That goal scratched their confidence. But Torres quickly tried to rally - long diagonal; quick pattern - Tenerife held solid. Offside traps tried to snag Ronaldo once. Twice. And Aragoneses claimed the crosses. Authoritatively.
Half time: Tropical tension diffused by belief. Laurence led quietly. "That goal was everything. But they will return. Press resets. You have to hold the mind now, not just a body."
When the second half kicked off, Madrid turned up the heat. Their midfielders tried to overrun. All thought it was going to crack. But Tenerife defended together. Kitoko recovered bravely. Natalio tried to stretch the away backline; Griezmann tried to mix pressing with hold up - creating angles.
Ninety minutes came and went with no twist.
But as the second half went along, Madrid's frustration began to show. Careless passes; Ronaldo drifting. Until the 98th minute, Griezmann - who had been carrying the Madrid's scraps all game became. Soft flick; one-two with Casemiro; shift beyond the line. Natalio's run was on time; Antoine created; Natalio squared low- past the defender - the net rippled again.
Goal. Tenerife 2–0 Real Madrid.
As the whistle blew, the crowd erupted as it had never done before. The chants reverberated through the stadium. Laurence made his way across the pitch, slowly, just taking it all in. Arms folded, feeling completely overwhelmed, and just raw with emotion.
In the press room afterwards, laughter came quite easily. One journalist asked, "Messiah--are you still okay with that?"
Laurence smiled this time. "I'm just the coach. The boys did it. We hurt them where it mattered. By believing we could."
The afternoon after the match, he returned to the bar. Lucia was waiting.
"I told you," she udged, holding her glass aloft.