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The Bernabéu was still buzzing, but something felt different. The once-boisterous jeers from the Madridistas had faded into low, anxious murmurs. You could sense it—not just from the noise, but in the way the home team carried themselves. Real Madrid was still in the game, but they were losing their grip. Xabi Alonso was more animated than usual, his hands flailing as he tried to impose some order in the midfield. Pepe was gesturing wildly, turning to Mourinho with exaggerated movements, desperately trying to patch up a gap that seemed to be everywhere.
Tenerife, against all odds, had stopped merely defending a dream.
They were now in pursuit of it.
The change was subtle, like a tide shifting in the midst of a storm. A misplaced pass from Madrid. A clumsy tackle. A few too many players retreating.
This time it was Joel—young Joel from La Masia, barely old enough to vote and certainly too young to feel fear in the fiery atmosphere of the Bernabéu. He received a pass from Ricardo León, turned, and shot down the right wing like a bolt of lightning, the ball seemingly glued to his feet.
Arbeloa was in hot pursuit, but Joel's speed was something else—raw, exhilarating, untamed. With a quick shimmy and a dip of his shoulder, he slipped between two white shirts like water flowing through cracks.
Just as he planned to cut inside—
Pepe arrived, in a hard way.
The crunch resounded through the stadium—studs on turf, then a dull thud of impact.
Joel fell in a heap, rolling across the turf, holding his ankle. The whistle shrilled.
The Tenerife bench erupted. Victor was on his feet, gripping the front barrier to get a better view, his knuckles turned white. His mouth was forming words that never escaped the pitch.
But Joel was already getting himself back on his feet, limping, waving off the medics with a frown. He was pale with pain, but he was not coming off.
Laurence was back on the touchline now, eyes unreadable. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked up and found Neymar.
He already had the ball.
No words needed.
Same place. Same distance. Same consequences.
Casillas squatted, barking orders his defenders. The wall lined up one more time. Madrid's crowd held itself, it felt like one deep breath between the stadium and Tenerife, the tension in the air ready to snap.
Neymar took a long breath and stepped up and struck it.
This one was launched higher—harder—bent wickedly toward the top right. It cleared the wall, who didn't jump high enough. Casillas dived, fingertips just brushing the ball, but that was all.
The net whipped.
GOAL! 2–0 Tenerife.
And suddenly the Bernabéu was not the Bernabéu. It belonged to the islanders.
The Tenerife supporters, crushed into one corner like their small fan base became the spark of defiance— exploded into jubilance. Flags waved! Men roared! One boy wept in his father's arms, both of them sporting old Tenerife jerseys from a decade ago. Someone threw a scarf skyward. Someone kneeled and kissed the stony concrete steps.
On the pitch, Neymar sprinted towards them, jumped up onto the barriers, arms outstretched above his head like a man trying to fly. He screamed, and the crowd screamed back. It didn't matter who you backed—at that moment, he was irresistible.
Griezmann caught up and wrapped his arms around him, slapping him on the back. Joel limped over and joined them, hugging Casemiro, who just smiled in the middle of all the sweaty madness.
Victor ran a hand over his head and looked to the scoreboard, breathing heavily.
But Laurence didn't move.
He just stared at the numbers.
2–2 on aggregate.
What had started off as a fairy tale had become a goal away from folklore. For a split second, hope surged through him—an irrational, dangerous hope. A hope that can make men reckless. But he pulled back. There was time left, and Real Madrid were still Real Madrid.
Laurence turned back to the bench and began barking instructions.
Across the field, Mourinho was doing the same.
Karim Benzema and Ángel Di María started jogging and stretching on the field. Ramos began to venture forward with every throw-in, abandoning all duty as a defender. Sami Khedira pushed on, vertical across the pitch; he joined every attack. Xabi Alonso, however, was both the pivot and the lone soldier—a commander forced to fight the war alone.
Laurence was rebutting the assault. He asked Joel to drop ever so slightly deeper and alongside Ricardo León, who was now the second shield beside Casemiro. They created a small triangle at the base of midfield to deny Madrid space it loved to exploit.
The match became a siege.
Madrid circled. Attacked. Circled. Ronaldo began to pick up scraps, moving more centrally. Ozil started to drift between lines, momentarily receiving small pocket spaces to begin threading balls through.
In the 78th minute, Ronaldo took a step-back and blasted a rocket from thirty-yards that saw the crossbar rattle. In the 80th minute, Ozil slipped Higuain in behind, but Sergio Aragoneses made a brilliant read, flying off his line to claim the shot.
Now, it wasn't that Tenerife were defending, yes—but they were defending with meaning, they had a structure. They were not simply backing off. They were absorbing, countering, and annoying.
In the 83rd minute, Di María's rabona (a cross, if you were puzzled) sailed past every teammate, past all the defenders, and literally hit the turf just past a sliding Benzema, missing by inches.
In the 84th, Casemiro threw his whole body in front of a thunderous Kroos shot. It hit him on the thigh and sent him to the knee. He got up, grimacing—but he got up.
Laurence wasn't screaming. He didn't need to. His players knew what they had to do.
Griezmann, who had tracked back continually, still found spurts to link with Neymar. Natalio, the veteran forward, was clever with his fouls and dribbles, wasting seconds and buying spaces. Even Joel, with his injury, pressed the ball with a personal intensity.
From the upper tiers of the Bernabéu the atmosphere buzzed with nervous energy. The fans themselves were now standing on the edge of their seats, turning their heads to the pitch and shouting, yelling down at players. It was no longer noise. It was fear. Fear that something incredible was happening right in front of them.
The clock ticked into the 85th minute.
Victor turned to Laurence, his voice low. "We might just pull this off."
Laurence didn't reply. He didn't smile either.
Because in football—real football—nothing is over until the final whistle.