Tenerife's trip to Slovakia was supposed to be a straightforward professional affair—just a matter of securing three points, playing disciplined football, and avoiding any unnecessary drama.
After the chaos with Osasuna, Neymar's latest injury, De Vrij's awkward yellow card, and Laurence's red card, Tenerife was craving a calm night more than anything else. But Europe had made one thing clear in those early weeks: calm nights were a luxury they simply couldn't afford.
Slovan Bratislava wasn't about finesse. They weren't clever, technical, or artistic. What they were, however, was big and unapologetically brutal. Laurence had spent the flight re-watching their last three domestic games, hitting pause every time a high boot or elbow went unpunished. He didn't even need Victor's input to reach his conclusion.
"We're giving Neymar a rest," he said that night in the hotel.
Victor didn't put up a fight. "Good. He needs to recharge."
The game plan was straightforward: Joel and Griezmann on the wings, Bony leading the attack, and Kante back in midfield to clean up when things inevitably got messy. And messy it got, right from the first whistle.
The first fifteen minutes mirrored every Slovan match Laurence had analyzed. Intense pressing and even more intense contact. Joel was shoved into the advertising boards on his very first touch. Griezmann attempted a turn but felt a hand grab his collar, yanking him back like a rebellious teenager. The referee strolled over with the casual indifference of someone watching pigeons squabble in a plaza.
"Nothing?" Laurence grumbled. "Not even a warning?"
Victor leaned in, his jaw clenched. "He's letting them dictate the pace."
"They're turning this into a damn riot."
Tenerife did their best to keep the game flowing, switching up their play, slowing things down when they needed to, and picking up the pace whenever Slovan overcommitted. It was gritty, not-so-pretty football—just the kind of match that Laurence had warned his players about.
But then came the moment he dreaded the most.
Grimaldo received a pass on the left, surged forward with a burst of speed that left his marker flat-footed, and slipped past the next defender with a quick feint. The crowd let out a collective 'oh' at the display of skill. That's when the right-back decided he'd had enough.
Two feet came flying in. Studs up. High.
The impact wasn't deafening, but the scream that followed certainly was.
Grimaldo went down, clutching his ankle and rolling toward the sideline. In an instant, Tenerife's bench erupted. Bony sprinted twenty yards, shoving the Slovan full-back aside with enough force to send him stumbling. Casemiro charged across the pitch next, pushing away another player who tried to step in.
"¡Casemiro! ¡Para ya!" Victor shouted, but the Brazilian's temper had already reached its boiling point.
What unfolded was less of a confrontation and more like a street brawl in football kits. Players were grabbing shirts. Fists were raised but not thrown. Griezmann was shouting in French, Joel in Spanish, and Kante was desperately trying to separate bodies that were twice his size.
The referee was clearly overwhelmed.
Instead of isolating the situation, he went straight for his pocket and pulled out a red card. Casemiro spotted it before anyone else and threw his arms up in disbelief.
"What? I was just pulling him away!"
But at this point, intent was irrelevant. What mattered was order, and someone had to embody that.
Casemiro stormed off, voicing his discontent all the way.
Then came the second blow.
Bony, still seething and shouting at the Slovan bench, received a yellow card. His second of the night.
Now they were down to nine men.
Laurence didn't raise his voice. He didn't even glance at the fourth official. Instead, he adjusted his coat, took a quick look at the shaken Grimaldo as he was carried off, and said to Victor-
"Bring on Ricardo. We need someone who can take a hit without crumbling."
Playing with just nine men in Europe felt like torture, yet somehow Tenerife managed to hold on. By some miracle, Joel earned a late free kick that bounced around chaotically in the box and landed perfectly for Griezmann, who volleyed it into the top of the net. Slovan equalized just minutes later, but a 1–1 draw felt like a hard-fought victory snatched from the jaws of chaos.
But Europe had no mercy for chaos.
Then two days later, an email from UEFA landed in the inbox. Then another. And a third.
Casemiro was suspended for three Europa matches.
Bony faced a hefty fine for unsporting conduct.
The Tenerife coaching staff received an official warning.
By the time Laurence settled into his office, the printed papers were strewn across the table like pieces of a disaster still unfolding. Victor sat across from him, rubbing his temples.
"This is turning into a pattern now," he said quietly.
"They will fine us and suspend us, but not even touch them." Laurence muttered.
Before Victor could respond, Mauro stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. His expression alone made Laurence brace himself.
"The board isn't happy," Mauro said, voice low. "And neither is the chairman."
Laurence scoffed lightly. "Well, at least we're getting attention."
"The wrong kind," Mauro snapped. "We're getting attention from UEFA, from the RFEF, and from referees who are already starting to talk about us. This isn't just about tonight; it's about the last few matches. Cards flying everywhere, arguments, scuffles. Hotheads on the pitch and on the sidelines."
Laurence leaned back, arms crossed. "We play rough, we get cards. They play rough, and they get nothing. How is that fair?"
"It's not," Mauro conceded. "Referee bias is a real issue. Sometimes it's against smaller clubs, sometimes it's the newly promoted ones. But it's there, and you can't fight it with emotion. You can only adapt."
Laurence let out a sharp breath. "Then explain that to the players."
"They'll get it in time," Mauro replied. "They're young and a bit immature. They're looking up to you, whether you realize it or not."
That last comment struck a nerve deeper than Mauro probably intended. Laurence turned away, his jaw tightening, but he didn't argue.
Victor chimed in softly, "They care about you. They listen to you. That means your temper becomes their temper."
Laurence fell silent, more so than either of them had anticipated.
Mauro stepped closer, lowering his voice. "No one's asking you to change who you are. We just need you to choose your moments wisely. Because if you don't, I think the board will."
And with that, Mauro walked away.
Victor glanced at the stack of UEFA papers again, then back at Laurence. "We need to take back control."
Laurence rubbed his forehead and muttered, "Yeah. I know."
Later that evening, after film review and treatment sessions, Laurence made his way to the training room, where Casemiro sat alone tying his shoes, looking equal parts angry and embarrassed.
Laurence leaned against the doorway. "You okay, Case?"
The Brazilian didn't look up. "I didn't even hit anyone, mister."
"I know."
"They hit us first."
"I know."
Casemiro finally raised his head. "So what do we do?"
Laurence hesitated. Then said the hardest sentence of the day.
"We accept it."
Casemiro blinked. "What?"
"We accept the bias. The fouls. The treatment. For now," Laurence said. "We can't fight the entire system with fists. And if we try, they'll kill us before we even grow."
Casemiro didn't like it. Laurence didn't like saying it. But it was the truth.
And as the midfielder nodded reluctantly, Laurence added softly-
"With time, we'll earn the respect we need. But until then, we stay smart."
Casemiro sighed, rubbing his face. "I'll try."
Laurence pushed off the door frame, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "Good. And next time someone two-foots someone, you walk away."
Casemiro looked up, eyes wide. "Walk away?"
"Or at least pretend you're walking away," Laurence said.
Casemiro laughed weakly. "I'll… try."