The atmosphere in the Heliodoro Rodríguez López that evening was electric. The walls hadn't changed—the same white paint, the same framed photos of club legends, and that familiar mix of grass and liniment wafting from the dressing rooms. But there was something more profound at play.
Laurence Gonzales was back.
His three-match suspension felt like an eternity. Watching from the stands was pure agony—close enough to hear the crowd erupt but too far to influence the game with a word or a gesture. No yelling at referees, no directing players with a pointed finger, no pacing his imaginary box on the sidelines. Just a phone, shaking in his grip, with Victor's voice on the other end trying to channel him.
Victor had stepped up. Better than most had anticipated. But even he confessed it felt like trying to steer someone else's car. You know the drill, sure—but it's not your ride.
Tonight felt like reclaiming what was his.
It was Matchday 4 of their Europa League group. Facing Legia Warsaw once more. Tenerife had seven points, with Legia trailing closely at six. PSV was leading the pack with eight. Nothing was guaranteed; one slip, one misstep, and the entire European dream could come crashing down.
Laurence pushed the dressing-room door open. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Heads turned. He looked a bit leaner than before the suspension—three matches of stress and solitude will do that to a person—but there was a tension in his jaw and a sharpness in his eyes that hadn't faded.
"Did you hear what they said?" His voice was low, almost like he was just chatting, but it drew everyone in. "They think we can't make it in Europe. That we're just a temporary story. A nice surprise. A cute little overachievement."
Some players shifted uncomfortably, while others, like Koulibaly and Kante, locked eyes with him.
"They'll keep saying it," Laurence went on, "until you decide you're done hearing it."
He took a few slow, deliberate steps, letting them absorb his words instead of blasting them with volume.
"No panic tonight. No reckless tackles. No late lunges. You know how LaLiga refs treat us. You know how UEFA refs treat us. Fine. Let them do what they want. We control what we can control."
"Play smart. Use the system. Trust each other. That's how we win."
The walk down the tunnel felt oddly peaceful. The stadium noise rolled over them in waves—the drums, the whistles, the chant of "¡Teneri, Teneri, Tenerife!" echoing like thunder along the coast.
Kickoff came without any fanfare. Just the sharp whistle and the thud of Kante's first touch as he passed the ball back to De Vrij. And right away, anyone watching could see the difference. Tenerife wasn't frantic.
They weren't scrambling to fill the gaps Neymar usually opened up. They rotated. They trusted the patterns Laurence had instilled during his suspension.
Kikoto set the pace right from the start, always glancing over his shoulder and moving into the next space before anyone could catch up to him. Kante was the unsung hero—making interceptions, throwing in small body checks, and delivering delayed passes that kept Legia's midfield on edge without giving the referee any reason to blow the whistle.
Grimaldo and Cancelo pushed forward with a smart sense of width. When one surged ahead, the other held back. If both went forward, Casemiro would slip in between the center-backs without needing to be told.
It was all about discipline. Pure and simple. And Legia was clearly uncomfortable with it.
In the 25th minute, De Vrij was the first to see the opening. He sent a diagonal pass—clean, driven, and sharp—over Legia's midfield line right into Cancelo's path. The right-back took one touch forward and another inward, drawing his marker away from the box. Bony moved toward him, seemingly expecting a cut-back, and the defenders followed the big striker's lead.
But the ball didn't go to Bony.
Instead, it slipped behind him, landing in the space Quaresma had drifted into.
The shot was classic Quaresma—curved toward the far post, perhaps a bit too ambitious—but a deflection off a Legia defender completely wrong-footed the keeper.
1–0 Tenerife.
Laurence jumped up and wildly pumped his fist. He then turned to Victor, saying quietly, "Good. Keep the momentum."
Legia responded with more aggression, but it wasn't chaotic. They aimed to stretch Tenerife through the center, knowing the islanders didn't have towering figures in midfield. But Koulibaly and De Vrij timed their movements perfectly, winning aerial duels with a calm authority. Bellvís, stepping in for Luna, didn't try to overcomplicate things. He just cleared the danger whenever it arose.
Neymar sat in the stands, nervously tapping his knee but breaking into a smile every time Kante intercepted another pass.
As halftime drew near, Casemiro sent a beautifully lofted ball over the defense. Bony fought his way through and attempted to slide it past the keeper, but a strong hand kept it out.
The second half kicked off with a bit more intensity, both teams aware that a single mistake could dramatically alter the group standings. Legia pushed higher, trying to pin Kikoto near the touchlines, but Tenerife was now moving as a cohesive unit. Every backward pass was followed by two forward steps, and each sideways pass prompted a shift in positioning.
At the hour mark, Laurence made the call: Griezmann for Bony. They needed fresh legs. They needed pace instead of strength, diagonal runs instead of hold-up play.
Griezmann jogged onto the field and cracked his knuckles, and immediately started weaving between Legia's full-back and center-back. Cancelo, picking up on the pattern, adjusted his stance. Now, whenever he received the ball, he angled his hips toward the space ahead of Griezmann instead of playing it inside.
It was an unspoken connection—the kind that only forms in a team that's finally starting to gel.
The pass came in the 68th minute. A well-timed, lofted ball into the open corridor.
Griezmann read it perfectly. One touch with the instep to settle it, then a softer touch to lift it over the onrushing keeper.
2–0.
Legia tried to rally. They pushed more bodies forward. They swung crosses into the box. They attempted long-range strikes. But Tenerife didn't break.
De Vrij's positioning remained almost arrogant in its certainty. Koulibaly matched every duel with a cool shrug. Casemiro slid into pockets to help.
When the final whistle finally came, the stadium erupted in a roar that carried relief as much as joy.
Tenerife climbed to 10 points. PSV remained ahead at 11. But more importantly, the team had shown something they hadn't shown since Neymar's injury.
They could win without magic.
They could win on structure.