The newspapers couldn't get enough of them.
"Tenerife Rewrite the Narrative," shouted Marca, with a headline that sprawled across two full pages, complete with tactical diagrams, possession maps, and a lengthy column celebrating Laurence González's revolution.
AS followed suit with a dramatic pull-quote: "From Survival to Europe: A Tactical Revolution." The buzz even reached beyond Spain, with L'Équipe calling Tenerife "Spain's most poetic side," while The Guardian referred to Laurence as "the mastermind from nowhere," the unsung hero who had managed to bend La Liga to his will.
But amidst all the headlines, one name shone the brightest: Neymar.
The young Brazilian had transformed from just a footballer into a spectacle, a phenomenon, a magician who left grown men in the stands gasping like kids. Every touch, every flick, every free-kick was a blend of menace and beauty.
In the match against Racing Santander, he played the role of conductor, creator, and executioner all at once. Three goals in two games. Six dazzling dribbles that left defenders in his wake. His arms-outstretched celebration at the barricade had already been immortalized in a mural in Santa Cruz, painted overnight by artists who claimed they "just wanted to freeze the moment forever."
But with all that attention came the vultures.
Mauro Pérez found Laurence early the next morning, wearing that cautious, almost apologetic smile he reserved for sensitive talks. His tie was a bit loose, as if he'd been up half the night on calls.
"They're calling, Laurence," Mauro started, his voice calm yet measured. "PSG, Milan, Chelsea… even Manchester United sent someone quietly."
Laurence didn't flinch. He remained at the tactical whiteboard in the training complex, marker in hand, with notes from yesterday's match still scattered across it.
Mauro pressed on, "The chairman… well, you know he was up there with Florentino for the Copa del Rey. They've had some talks since then. The board's tempted. It's a lot of money. Enough to—"
"No."
The word sliced through the air, sharp as a referee's whistle.
Mauro blinked. "Laurence—"
"No," Laurence repeated, this time with more emphasis, his tone steady. He turned away from the whiteboard and locked eyes with Mauro. "Neymar isn't for sale. Not this summer. Not for any price."
Mauro studied him closely. He'd seen plenty of managers bluff, posture, and crumble under pressure. But Laurence's gaze held none of that uncertainty.
Finally, Mauro nodded slightly. "Understood. I'll let them know."
"Good." Laurence uncapped the marker again, as if the conversation had never taken place. "Tell them we're not done yet."
The final training session of the season arrived bathed in sunlight. The Heliodoro Rodríguez López sparkled in late spring, the seats shimmering like turquoise beneath the clear sky. Fans had gathered outside the gates in clusters, waving flags, singing chants, and lighting small flares. There wasn't a match yet, but the air was already buzzing with excitement.
After warm-ups, Laurence called the players into a tight circle. Boots scuffed against the turf. Hands rested on hips. Even Neymar, usually so talkative, was silent, his eyes locked on his coach.
Laurence scanned the group, taking them in one by one. Neymar, with that wild spark of youth in his eyes. Griezmann, calm and focused, stretching his calves with quiet determination. Casemiro, his wrist wrapped in tape like a knight's armor. Kikoto, finally back to himself after weeks of struggle, fists clenched in anticipation. And behind them all, Victor stood with arms crossed, watching his boss with a proud half-smile.
Laurence began softly.
"Remember what they said when this season kicked off?"
A few heads nodded, and some of the veterans chuckled.
"They claimed we'd be heading straight back down. That we'd get crushed. That La Liga was too much for us—that our best days were behind us."
He let those words hang in the air for a moment, then took a deep breath.
"But we didn't let that get to us. We played hard. We fought. We gave it our all. And now look at us… just one match away from Europe. One match away from rewriting our story."
The circle instinctively drew closer. The only sound was the gentle breeze rustling through the stands.
"Do you know what that means?" Laurence asked.
He paused, letting the silence build, before answering himself.
"It means Thursday nights under the floodlights. It means Tenerife shining on the continental stage. It means proving to the world that what we've built here isn't just luck. It's our future."
He stepped forward, lowering his voice to a near whisper.
"Sevilla won't be easy. They'll want this just as much as we do. But if we stick to our game, if we give everything—every ounce, every drop—then I promise you…"
He turned, locking eyes with each person in the circle.
"…we will make history."
The silence shattered, not with words but with a wave of applause, boots thumping on the ground, Neymar pumping his fist in the air. Even Casemiro, usually so composed, let out a primal shout. The circle erupted with energy.
_______
Later that evening, when the stadium was empty and the sun had slipped below the Atlantic horizon, Laurence found himself back at the bar.
Nothing had changed. The same smooth jazz floated lazily from the speakers. The same quiet conversations filled the corners. The same polished counter caught the dim light. And in the back, the same crooked stool leaned slightly toward the jukebox.
Laurence settled in, nursing a glass of something dark and sharp. The weight of the entire season pressed down on him—not just the tactical challenges, not just the pressure of history, but the sheer exhaustion of it all.
He had come here with the hope of seeing her again—the same woman he had noticed earlier in the season. She wasn't just some random face anymore; she had been in the stands, her father beside her, both die-hard Tenerife fans. Her dad had called Laurence "a messiah," and while she had laughed at that, she hadn't exactly disagreed.
But tonight, she was missing.
Laurence pulled out his phone, staring at the empty message box for what felt like an eternity, his thumb hovering over the screen. Ten minutes ticked by, maybe even more. Finally, he decided to type something straightforward.
"Big match tomorrow. You said I make this team dream. Just hoping you'll wish us luck."
He hit send.
That night, there was no reply. The glass was emptied, the bar closed, and Laurence stepped back into the cool Santa Cruz air, the distant sound of waves crashing in his ears.
Then, the next morning, as the first light of dawn seeped through the thin curtains of his hotel room, his phone lit up.
The message was brief. To the point.
"You don't need luck. You've already made history. But I'll be cheering—always. Go make them dream again."
Laurence read it over twice, then a third time. He set the phone down on the nightstand and leaned back, closing his eyes.