The sun streamed through the blinds of the training facility, illuminating the dust particles dancing in the air as Laurence González stared into a mug of coffee that had gone cold hours ago.
He hadn't slept well, with snippets of the Juventus match replaying in his mind—the shifting momentum, the tactical insights, and that moment when everything seemed to unravel. The outcome didn't really bother him; friendlies were just that—friendlies. But the injury… that was a different story.
Victor slipped into the office without a sound. No playful jabs, no morning sarcasm, and definitely no clipboard clutched like a shield against bad news. The heavy silence between them spoke volumes.
"How bad is it?" Laurence finally broke the quiet.
Victor settled into the chair across from him, letting out a deep breath as if he were trying to find the right words. "Clean fracture. Lower fibula. There's some ligament involvement too. The physios think he'll heal up fine, but we're looking at months."
Laurence gazed up at the ceiling, letting Victor's words sink in like rain on a chilly sidewalk. Natalio wasn't just any player; he was speed, aggression, and timing—all rolled into one. The first to initiate the press, the first to take a risk.
"What's the earliest he could be back?" Laurence asked.
"January, if everything goes perfectly," Victor replied. "March if it doesn't."
The chair creaked as Laurence leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers digging into his temples. "We can't afford to wait months. We need a No. 9."
------
By midday, Mauro Pérez showed up, phone pressed to his ear and laptop wide open, as if he'd been sprinting from one call to the next since dawn. The satisfaction that once lit up his face was gone — the thrill of knowing Tenerife could shake things up in the transfer market had faded. Today, he looked like a man who was hearing "no" in a dozen different ways.
"This wasn't part of the plan," he said, taking the call off speaker and setting his laptop aside. "Strikers that fit your system don't just pop up in August. Anyone worth having is either already settled in or comes with a hefty price tag. A really hefty one."
Laurence stood by the tactics board, arms crossed, staring at the magnets that represented his ideal setup — a setup that now had a painful void. "Griezmann can handle the middle, sure. But he shines as a second striker. If he's leading the line alone, we lose our flexibility. Neymar can't play every minute. And Joel has talent, but he's still learning. Too much responsibility might overwhelm him."
"And Quaresma needs the ball facing the goal, not with his back to it," Victor chimed in.
Mauro opened a document. "We'll find someone. We have loan options. There are fringe players in Portugal and Italy. Some South Americans looking for a shot in Europe. But nothing is guaranteed."
Laurence stayed silent. His gaze wandered to the footage paused on his laptop screen — Pirlo slipping a pass to Matri, the young wingbacks caught too high up the pitch. He'd replayed that sequence more times than he cared to admit.
"The wingbacks need some guidance," he muttered. "They've got potential, but they're not recognizing the danger behind them quickly enough."
"They're just teenagers," Victor said gently.
"And La Liga doesn't care," Laurence shot back. "We can keep training the system — the spacing between the three and the wingbacks needs to be sharper. Cancelo has to choose his moments wisely. Grimaldo needs to track runners more aggressively. Let's get one of the assistants to focus on that all week."
Victor managed a small smile. "Now you're starting to sound like Conte."
"If Conte had a quarter of our budget," Laurence shot back, "he'd be sipping cocktails on a beach by now."
For days, the pressure of the ticking season weighed heavily on them. Mauro was buried under a mountain of scouting reports and phone calls. One striker was out of their price range. Another wasn't interested. A third was already in talks with another club.
Friday rolled around, and still no breakthrough.
Mauro stepped into the office, shutting the door behind him. He locked his hands over his head for a moment, gathering his thoughts before he spoke. "The Bacca deal is off. Forestieri is staying put. Benfica is asking way too much for Oliveira — it's just not feasible. We're running out of options and time."
Laurence maintained a calm exterior, but inside, every delay felt like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. He turned to the window, watching the team warm up outside on the training pitch. Natalio's absence was palpable — it felt like a wound that wouldn't heal.
Joel was working hard on his finishing drills, pouring his energy into every shot. He was determined to be ready. But asking a teenager to spearhead a La Liga attack in his first real season? That would be a gamble.
Breaking the silence, Victor suggested, "We could still tweak the system. Go with two strikers up top, switch things around—"
"No," Laurence interjected, his tone firm but not unkind. "The structure is solid. The players believe in it. We need the right forward, not a new strategy."
Mauro rubbed his forehead in frustration. "There's no cheap fix here. Anyone who can make a difference will come at a hefty price."
Laurence's eyes narrowed slightly, as if a long-buried thought had just resurfaced.
"What about Cavani?" he proposed.
Mauro blinked in surprise. "Edison Cavani? The one from Palermo?"
"Yes," Laurence confirmed.
Mauro paused, clearly weighing his words. "But Laurence, he's a starter in Serie A. He's made a name for himself there. Palermo won't just let him go—"
"He's still living in Miccoli's shadow," Laurence interjected. "But he shouldn't be. He's got the energy, he can hold up the play, and he has that knack for finding the back of the net out of nowhere. He'd really shine in a setup like ours."
Victor leaned in, curiosity piqued. "And you really think he'd consider coming here?"
"We often think too small," Laurence replied confidently. "Everyone assumes he'll jump to a bigger club. Napoli, or even go abroad. But that hasn't happened yet. If we act first, we can make a compelling case."
Mauro looked at him, caught between realism and hope. "But we don't have much leverage."
"We have a starting position," Laurence countered. "We have a defined role for him. And we can offer La Liga football. That's leverage enough."
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air.
"We'd be stretching our financial limits," Mauro cautioned.
Laurence nodded thoughtfully. "But it's worth it. A striker like him could transform our team. Not just for now, but for seasons to come."
Mauro exhaled slowly, a mix of contemplation and determination. He reached for his phone again.
"No promises," he said firmly.
As the sporting director stepped out, Victor tapped his finger on the table, excitement building. "If we manage to pull this off…"
Laurence cut him off, not wanting to tempt fate.