That evening, the Estadio de la Cerámica had its own kind of pulse. The yellow stands sparkled beneath the floodlights, the noise ebbed and flowed, but somewhere beneath it all, Laurence González experienced something different.
Sixth in the table, hanging onto that last European spot like a man hanging over the edge of a cliff. And here were Villarreal, right behind them, a point back. All week Laurence had drilled it into them: This is it. This is the one we can't drop. But as the first whistle rang out in the night, he saw the reality in the players' eyes. The pressure was no longer driving them forward; it was wrapping around their throats.
Villarreal played like a chess Grandmaster, probing with every measured pass for a weak spot in Tenerife's shape. They were strategic, calculated, happy to wait for their opportunity.
Tenerife, however, seemed a step late to everything. Neymar, a chaotic genius, tried to dictate play—removing himself away from his own markers, drawing defenders in like moths to light—but when he looked for support, the runs weren't there.
Laurence squatted at the edge of the coaching area, voice quiet but clipped as he sent out adjustments. Neymar was told to stay higher. Ricardo León was instructed to be more adventuresome with his passing. The defensive line was told to move to attract Villarreal to one sideline, then pass to another player to spring a trap. But each goal line they opened closed just as quickly.
The best chance to score came in the 64th minute. Victor Bravo saw Joel's diagonal run and dropped a ball over the top. Joel settled on his chest and fired on the bounce. For half a heartbeat, it looked guaranteed for the corner—until the goalie stretched out a glove and clawed it away.
Laurence clapped. Not in appreciation but annoyance. That was the one.
It never came again.
The final whistle sounded and polite applause from the home supporters broke the quiet. For Tenerife, yet another scoreless draw, and yet another scoreless night with no break-through. The players sweat-slick, hollow-eyed, meandered down the tunnel. Laurence followed behind, quiet. Inside, it smelled of despair.
______
A week later, everything changed.
The sun was shining brightly on Santa Cruz, the Atlantic breeze whipped around the stands, and the crowd came in swells and waves of blue and white. From the very first whistle, the home side moved and corresponded with one another as if they were playing to cadence only known to each of them.
Neymar was electric. He didn't just dribble around defenders, he was pulling apart Racing's back line with every feint. Griezmann was roaming in between the lines, stitching the attack together with silk and steel. Casemiro and Ricardo León were dictating everything, one was breaking-up play, the other was bending it to his will. Kikoto - once free from the shadow of injury - was running everywhere, closing down passing lanes before they existed.
What truly made it beautiful was the intent. Laurence had been studying Racing for a week now.
He knew when and where their press fell apart, where their full-backs were hesitant, how their midfielders tracked - or didn't track - certain runs. His orders were clear: overload the wings and draw them wide, then slice into the spaces they would leave behind. For Samuel to force high turnovers in the first pressing lane, and to not let them breathe.
It wasn't just gegenpressing. It was insanity, but organized.
When the first goal came, it was a thing of beauty. Neymar danced inside, played a one-two with Griezmann, then slipped Joel behind. One touch, then another, then a finish that whipped past the keeper's foot. The Heliodoro roared, and Laurence stood there, arms crossed.
"This," he muttered to Victor next to him, "is the best football we've ever played."
The second goal was pure savagery. Casemiro stole a lazy pass in midfield and immediately sent it to Neymar. Neymar, without even looking, flicked it into Griezmann's stride. One clever touch and he wrong-footed his man, then curled one home to the far corner. 2-0. The stadium shook.
By the time the third-one arrived - twenty passes linked together in a patient, coaxing build-up - and Joel tapped in - Racing's bench had the glazed look of a men who understand the fight is over.
When the final whistle came, the players were buzzing. Laurence clapped everyone off, hugged Kikoto, ruffled Neymar's hair. He didn't need to tell them they'd been magnificent - they all knew.
The music blasted in the changerooms. Water bottles were thrown. Jokes were told. But underneath it all, there was something uniting them.
Victor leaned over to him. "So, fifth now," he said, leaning back. "So, one game left. Sevilla. If we beat them, Europe is ours."
Laurence affirmed, but was already thinking about the next ninety minutes. Sevilla were not Racing. They were the type of side built for pressure matches, the type to turn hope to ash for types of teams like his. And they would want to win that European spot, too.
He turned to face his players, all wide-eyed and buzzing after the effort.
"Sevilla are not going to give us anything here. They will come for us. Hard."
He paused.
"But if we play like that again, or next game… if we use that energy, that hunger… not even Sevilla can stop us."