Tonight, the Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López was like a cathedral.
From the moment the referee stepped onto the pitch for the Tenerife vs. Sporting Gijón match, the atmosphere crackled with a fierce energy. It was the kind of fire only a small club knows when they feel the weight of the world pressing down on them one too many times.
Boos. Whistles. Roars.
Banners unfurled across the north stand:
"VALENTÍA: GONZALES 100%."
The message was unmistakable: rally behind the coach who dared to voice what everyone else was too afraid to say.
But tonight, the coach wasn't in his usual spot.
Laurence Gonzales—suspended, fined, and definitely not welcome on the touchline—made his way through the narrow concrete corridor of the stadium like a ghost returning to a place he wasn't allowed to enter.
No suit. Just a black hoodie, jeans, and a cap pulled low. He almost blended in, but the cameras picked him up within thirty seconds.
He settled into a seat in the middle rows, right where the ultras mingled with families, where the tension eased just enough to catch a breath. The faces around him lit up—some surprised, some proud, some amused. A few fans even started to chant his name softly, like a secret song.
Then he spotted her.
Lucía, the woman from the bar. Denim jacket. Hair a bit tousled by the wind. Her eyes were just as unreadable and calm as they had been the first night they met. She turned, as if she felt his presence before she actually saw him, and the surprise on her face melted into a warm, inviting smile.
He cleared his throat and gestured toward the empty seat next to her.
"Mind if I…?"
"Yes," she teased. "Sit."
He chuckled and settled onto the plastic seat.
A minute later, his phone buzzed.
VICTOR CALLING.
He answered quietly, muttering, "I'm here."
Victor's voice came through, tense and low. "This is crazy. You're really in the stands?"
"Genius is often misunderstood," Laurence whispered back.
"You're not a genius; you're suspended."
"Details, details," Laurence replied. "Listen—tell Bony to spread wide. Their left-back is terrified of him."
"Got it."
Lucía shot him a sideways glance, clearly amused. "You do realize people can see you coaching from up here, right?"
"I'm not coaching," Laurence said, feigning innocence. "I'm… consulting."
"Sure. And I only drink water at bars."
He smirked, but his gaze remained fixed on the pitch.
From the moment the whistle blew, Tenerife came out with a fierce intensity—not physical violence, but a raw hunger. That fire small clubs ignite when they feel wronged by the world.
In the 8th minute, Neymar danced past two defenders near the touchline. A third one clipped him, and he went down. The referee waved play on.
The stadium erupted in a deep, primal boo.
Laurence didn't flinch… but his jaw tightened as if it could crack stone.
Victor's voice crackled through the phone again. "He's not calling fouls. We need to keep them calm."
"Tell Kante to protect Neymar. And switch Joel and Griezmann. Joel's getting caught in traffic."
"Switching now."
Lucía watched him like someone observing a fascinating creature. "Are you always like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like a lunatic."
Laurence blinked. "That's a bit harsh."
"Well," she shrugged, "you are what you are."
Before he could reply, the first goal came.
A corner kick. Bodies jostling in the box. De Vrij moving forward, then back, shaking off his marker like dust. The ball soared in.
De Vrij took off.
He smashed it.
The net shook. The crowd went wild.
Laurence leaped from his seat, roaring with excitement, fists pumping in the air. He yelled something that was probably a mix of "YES!" and "LET'S GO!" or maybe just a raw, unfiltered shout of joy.
Then reality hit him.
He plopped back down, cheeks flushed, clearing his throat.
Lucía chuckled. "Coach first, fan second?"
"Fan because I'm coach," he shot back.
"And suspended," she reminded him.
"And suspended," he sighed, feeling the weight of it.
A couple of nearby fans patted him on the back.
"¡Míster! Buen planteamiento desde la grada, eh!"
(Coach! Good strategy from the stands!)
Laurence beamed. "Best view in the stadium."
Another guy leaned in. "Are you… actually coaching on your phone?"
Lucía jumped in before he could respond. "He's 'consulting.' Don't spoil the magic."
Laurence lifted his phone again as Victor fired updates his way.
"They're doubling up on Neymar—he's getting frustrated."
Laurence whispered urgently, "Tell him to drift inside. Get him away from that full-back before he gets taken out. And Kante needs to slow it down. They're trying to drag us into a brawl."
"Got it."
For twenty minutes, everything flowed perfectly. Tenerife played smart, controlled, and sharp. The fans chanted Gonzales' name, just loud enough to catch the cameras' attention without causing a ruckus.
Journalists in the press box were quick to notice.
"Is he really coaching from the stands?" one murmured.
Another snapped a photo—Laurence leaning forward, whispering into his phone, with Lucía beside him, a subtle smile on her face.
"She must be his girlfriend," the reporter speculated.
"No way," another countered. "He doesn't have that kind of social life."
Unbeknownst to her, Lucía quickly earned a new nickname on Twitter: "The Mystery Tenerife Woman."
Back on the pitch, Tenerife's grip tightened. Neymar weaved through the midfield and slipped a pass to Joel, who cut inside and unleashed a shot which went wide.
As the first half was winding down, Laurence leaned into the phone once more. "Get Kikoto closer to Kante. We need to control the midfield before they get a chance to grow. No more turnovers."
"I've already told them."
"And let Griezmann know he's rushing the final ball. I want him to take one more touch before he sets up Neymar. Make him take a breath."
"Got it."
Lucía watched him, a small smile creeping onto her face. "You know… I'm starting to see why my dad has so much respect for you."
"Your dad respects me?"
"He says you're a bit crazy. But in a good way. He appreciates that."
Laurence chuckled. "Crazy seems to be my thing. Your dad didn't come today?"
"He is busy watching from the bar, drinking with his friends." she replied.
The second half kicked off with Tenerife taking charge. Neymar, despite the rough treatment, kept slicing through the midfield time and again. The fans were loving every moment.
Then, in the 70th minute, the second goal arrived.
A slick one-two between Griezmann and Joel. A perfect cutback. And Kante—yes, Kante—slotted it into the bottom corner like a pro.
Laurence's jaw dropped.
"Kante?" he whispered in disbelief.
Lucía cheered loudly. "Even I know he doesn't score often."
He nodded, still in shock. "He really doesn't."
"But maybe he just needed a coach in the stands," she joked.
He shook his head, unable to hide his grin.
The Heliodoro erupted with cheers for minutes on end. A wave of sound. Pride. Love. Unity.
When the final whistle blew—2–0, a clean sheet, disciplined and controlled—Laurence let out a long, weary breath. No chaos. No fights. N
Just football.
Beautiful football.