The press room at the Santiago Bernabéu was overflowing. Journalists had packed into every possible gap left, and the air was still charged with the aftershocks of whatever had just transpired on the field. There was a subdued drone of conversation, rustling sheets of paper, and the clicking of camera adjustments. Even the journalists looked like they were struggling to be seated, as if claiming a seat would take away some of the fading electricity in the air.
Laurence González approached the table, his dark jacket slightly looser after 90 minutes of walking back and forth in the technical area. He adjusted his collar and lowered himself into the seat. A bottle of water sat on the table waiting for him; he twisted the cap and took a long swig of water then leaned across the table for the 'posing' microphones.
From the front row, a journalist from Marca got in first.
"Laurence," he began, voice still half-charged from the game, "before we even talk about the final, just a word on Neymar's free-kick?"
Laurence released a breath, and tilted his head back somewhat. For a split-second he seemed to be searching for the words, then allowed the faintest traces of a smile to develop.
"What do you even say to something like that?" he said finally. "It's one of those goals you don't teach. That's not tactics. That's art. Pure instinct. And the talent—real talent—to make it matter."
A few chuckles rippled through the room.
"I'll tell you this much," he added. "I'm just glad he's wearing our shirt."
From the other side of the room, a movement caught the attention of a few people. José Mourinho, who had finished his duties for TV, was now taking his seat for his own press conference. He exuded that same demeanor, a swagger combined with a sense of calculated purpose. As he walked by the table with Laurence, he put a hand on the younger manager's shoulder.
"Good game," Mourinho said just loud enough for people at the table to hear it.
"Thanks," Laurence said back, looking into his eyes.
Mourinho stopped and leaned in just a little. "Just be careful; it is easier to surprise the world once than to stay there."
Laurence gave a nod. "And yet, you are always surprised by when someone does."
The journalists burst out laughing again. Some out of genuine amusement, some out of the commercial aspect of what a moment like this would read like in tomorrow's tabloids. Mourinho smiled thinly again and took his seat.
______
When the Tenerife flight touched down on the island during the following afternoon, the airport felt like a scene from a carnival.
In the arrivals hall, hundreds of fans crowded against the exit, their flags waving in the blue and white colors of the Beniatk Mad-Suria. Blue and white flags were fluttering as the warm breeze came through the open doors.
Drums were banging sporadically, a couple of small flares sending little curls of red smoke. And it wasn't just the devout die-hards—there were retirees stretching their necks for a better view, parents hoisting their children on their shoulders, teenagers waving homemade banners.
One of the banners, hurriedly painted in thick blue brush strokes, read: Gracias Aragoneses. Another: Laurence es nuestro profeta.
Victor, walking just behind Laurence, caught sight of the latter banner and elbowed him lightly in the ribs.
"A bit much, no?" he shouted over the din.
Laurence, not breaking his stride, gave a small shrug. "Wouldn't be the first time they called a lunatic a prophet."
As the players walked out, the fans surged forward. It took seconds for one young admirer to overwhelm Neymar, lift him onto shoulders, and beam with delight even though he seemed slightly embarrassed.
Griezmann, while showing signs of shyness as the crowd stared him down, made tiny waves and stopped for just a few photos.
Aragoneses, unlikely hero that he turned out to be in the dying minutes in Madrid, raised his fists high in triumph like a boxer, and the crowd roared.
Some fans even had tears in their eyes—not just because of the flares which had come to symbolize something dangerous during this run, but because this run had significance. Tenerife wasn't supposed to get this far.
A Copa del Rey final.
Beating Real Madrid in the Bernabéu to get there. Things most of them had lived through only at home in grainy black-and-white clipped scenes of historical glory. Now it was real.
While the team soaked it all up for a couple of moments, the applause, and noise, and cameras, and adrenaline could not mask one cold reality. The final was coming. The opponent would be as steep as it comes.
Two days later, back at the training ground, it was a more business-like atmosphere. The walls in Laurence's office were covered in tactical boards and scouting reports, but today there was another big feature on the whiteboard, pinned there by Mauro Pérez, the sporting director, a newly updated fixed calendar.
Five league matches left. Fifteen points to play for. Tenerife were sitting sixth in the table—two points off fifth, three off fourth. Europa League wasn't far off. They could even get into a Champions League position, although that seemed unlikely without a lot of luck.
Mauro tapped the board with a pen.
"Villarreal away," he said. "Getafe at home. Levante away. Racing Santander here. And Sevilla away to end the season."
Laurence's eyes followed the names of the teams, the dates around them. Then, just below the cluster of league matches, there was one more date printed in bold red: Copa del Rey Final – Vicente Calderón.
That final, of course, was just three days after the Sevilla match.
If the league had been a slog, then the final would be Everest. Pep Guardiola's Barcelona awaited - Xavi, Iniesta, Messi, Busquets, Piqué, David Villa, Pedro, Abidal, Dani Alves. The same team that had slaughtered Real Madrid 5 - 0, just a few months before.
Victor came into the office with a couple of mugs of coffee in his hands. He handed one to Laurence and then leant against the desk.
"Think we can do it?" he asked, directing Laurence's attention to the fixture list.
Laurence took a slow sip. "I don't know." He put his cup down and looked at the board again. "But I know what we need to do."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
"Five wins." Laurence said flatly.
Victor blinked. "That's - "
"Ambitious?" Laurence finished for him. "Yeah. But we're not getting to the final by aiming low. And if we go into that Barcelona match having pulled ourselves through the league, they'll tear us apart."
The fans, of course, had one eye firmly on Barcelona. Social media was awash with predictions, nervous banter, and footage of underdogs beating powerhouses.
A local café had even started selling coffee, in small blue-and-white takeaway cups, called the "Gonzalez blend" which had a quote from one of his press conferences printed on the side. Taxi drivers were arguing about whether Tenerife should sit deep and counter, or press high and challenge the Barcelona midfield.
Season ticket holders began queuing for final tickets the second it was announced, even though the club still hadn't stated how they would distribute them. For many, even being able to claim they had been there would be enough.
Yet, the realism was still present. Fans knew Barcelona was not Madrid. Focus wouldn't drift, and certainly not with Guardiola. The margin for error would be lower, and mistakes punished harder.
At one supporters club meeting an older fan summed it up. "We have already made history," he said to nods around the room. "The final is a bonus. But if they believe - really believe - they can win it, that's when miracles happen."
In the days that followed, Laurence split his attention carefully. Training sessions focused on the upcoming Villarreal match, but behind closed doors, there were already quiet conversations about Barcelona. Video analysts clipped together sequences of their pressing triggers, their rotations, the patterns they used to draw teams out of position.
Laurence didn't talk about the final much with the players yet. Not directly. But every drill was sharp, every mistake corrected quickly. There was no complacency, no sense that the job was already done.
In the evenings, when the floodlights shut off and the training ground fell silent, Laurence would stay in his office a little longer. Sometimes he'd stare at the fixture list. Other times, he'd pull up footage from Barcelona's matches, pausing and rewinding, looking for anything—small habits, defensive gaps, moments when even the great sides looked vulnerable.
The island buzzed with anticipation. Shop windows hung Tenerife scarves beside beachwear. Kids in Neymar jerseys played street football in plazas, arguing over who got to take the free-kick. Newspapers ran countdowns to the final, each day profiling a different player's journey to this moment.