Neymar didn't scream. That was what really unnerved Laurence Gonzales the most.
Usually, the Brazilian would make a scene when he hit the ground—part frustration, part drama. But this time, when Joao Cancelo accidentally clipped him during a training rondo, there was nothing but silence.
Then came the hand on the ankle.
Then the limp.
Laurence rushed over before the physios could get there. One glance at Neymar's face—pale, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused—and he knew something was wrong.
"Stop," Laurence whispered, crouching down next to him. "Don't try to stand."
Neymar tried anyway. He swayed, grimaced, and quickly leaned on Casemiro for support.
"Boss… I can play this weekend," he insisted, because that was Neymar: the kid who believed he could outmaneuver the laws of physics.
Laurence put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "No, you can't."
And he was right. The scan later confirmed what his gut had already screamed: four weeks on the sidelines. Maybe five if the swelling didn't cooperate.
A month without their most dynamic player.
A month where Tenerife would have to find out what they were without Neymar—and Laurence didn't like the answer forming in his mind.
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Athletic Club away. San Mamés. The cathedral that never shows mercy to the weak. Usually, Neymar's presence would make opponents drop back, keep a close eye on him, and hesitate just a moment longer.
But without him? Athletic came charging out like wolves on the hunt for injured prey.
Griezmann tried to stretch the field. Joel made runs into the channels. Quaresma stepped in, bringing his unpredictable flair. Yet the Basques pressed like a relentless tide; every opening was shut down in an instant, every mistake punished, every touch fiercely contested.
Casemiro tried to step in as a secondary playmaker, but Bilbao was all over him at every turn. Bony struggled against center-backs who were built like brick walls and got nowhere.
By halftime, Tenerife had managed just one shot. One.
Laurence, stuck at home due to his suspension, sat in front of his laptop with his phone glued to his ear. He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper, trying to avoid the microphones picking up anything from the broadcast.
"Victor, push Griezmann into the left half-space. We need him between the lines, not stuck on the touchline."
Victor's response was short and breathless. "I'm trying. They're suffocating us."
The second half? More of the same. Bilbao doubled their lead with a corner routine that felt almost like a taunt.
Final whistle: 2–0.
Deserved. Complete. Clinical.
Laurence didn't break anything or shout. He simply closed his laptop and sat in the dark, rubbing his face with both hands.
Training the next day felt unusually somber. The players weren't their usual playful selves, and even the staff moved about with a heavy sense of caution.
Sevilla was up next—quick, relentless, and tough. They thrived on chaos and were quick to exploit any hesitation. And Tenerife had been hesitating ever since Neymar got injured.
On match day morning, Mauro stepped into Laurence's makeshift "suspended coach office," which was really just a conference room equipped with a single laptop, two whiteboards, and a stack of scouting reports.
"You look like you haven't had a wink of sleep," Mauro said softly.
"I haven't," Laurence confessed. "We're not creating anything. Losing Neymar feels like the whole team forgets how to function."
Mauro settled in next to him. "He's one of a kind. Losing a player like that always stings."
"That's exactly the issue," Laurence replied. "We shouldn't fall apart just because he's not here."
Mauro stayed quiet, but the silence spoke volumes.
Sevilla kicked off the match with fierce intensity, focusing their attacks on the wings. Tenerife's young wingbacks had potential, skill, and speed—but they were missing the battle scars, the experiences that instill tactical discipline deep within.
Grimaldo lost track of Joaquín at a crucial moment. Cancelo hesitated on a backpass. And from those two mistakes, Valencia seized the opportunity.
Soldado scored just before halftime, a precise, efficient strike.
Laurence, glued to the feed on his laptop, whispered into his phone, "Victor, pull Cancelo back ten meters. We can't let him get isolated during transitions."
Victor's voice was laced with frustration. "They're overloading the right side. We can't cover everything."
"Then move Bony closer to the right when we're out of possession. He needs to be the first one to press there."
But even with those adjustments, it only postponed the inevitable. Tenerife walked off the pitch with a disappointing 1–0 defeat.
Back home in his dim conference-turned-office, Laurence spread tactical sheets across the table. Passing networks from the Bilbao match. Shot maps from Sevilla. Heat maps showing the void where Neymar used to be.
A void that terrified him.
Not because Neymar was irreplaceable. But because Tenerife played as if he was.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled through clenched teeth.
"We can't be this dependent on one man," he muttered into the room. "I can't build a system that collapses because one player is missing. I won't."
He grabbed a marker and dragged it across the whiteboard, sketching new passing patterns, rotations, automated movements. Movements that didn't rely on a player doing something miraculous. Movements that could be executed by anyone—Joel, Griezmann, even a youth player if needed.
A machine. That's what they needed. A machine with interchangeable pieces.
AN: SHORT CHAPTER, BUT I AM TIRED