The dressing room was alive with energy—maybe a bit too much.
Neymar was sitting there, half-dressed, a towel draped over his shoulders, juggling a roll of athletic tape with his feet like it was a soccer ball. Each flick and spin of the tape brought out laughter from his teammates nearby. Griezmann was leaning back against his locker, cracking jokes in his unique blend of French and Spanish, his arms waving animatedly, his laughter blending in with the rest. Even Casemiro, who usually kept a serious demeanor, couldn't help but smirk as he leaned against the massage table, a bottle of water hanging loosely in his hand.
The vibe was light, almost too carefree. And therein lay the issue.
Over by the whiteboard stood Laurence, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His expression was cold and unreadable, like it was chiseled from stone. He observed in silence, his gaze shifting from player to player, noting how their shoulders relaxed and their voices grew louder.
Victor, standing just behind him, sensed the tension in the air. He had seen this before. They were getting too cozy.
At last, Laurence made his move. He wasn't in a hurry, nor was he angry. He simply stepped forward, grabbed the marker from the ledge of the whiteboard, and let his voice slice through the noise.
It was calm. Too calm.
"We're not done yet," he stated.
The mere sound of his voice was enough to hush half the room. Neymar picked up on the tone and let the tape roll drop to the floor, where it made a soft clatter against the tiles.
Laurence's gaze swept over the squad. His words came out slow and measured.
"Can you feel it? That little flutter in your stomach? That nagging voice telling you it's over, that you've already succeeded." His gaze sharpened. "That flutter? That's complacency. And complacency? That's a death sentence."
The room fell silent. Even Griezmann's grin disappeared.
Laurence turned to Neymar, locking eyes with him in a way that was intense without needing to raise his voice.
"You're incredible," Laurence said. "We all see it. But being incredible without discipline? That doesn't create lasting careers. It just creates highlight reels. And those highlight reels? They don't win trophies."
Neymar hung his head.
Laurence let the quiet linger before shifting his focus back to the board. He circled a spot near midfield, then another close to Sevilla's goal. The marker squeaked as it moved.
"The next forty-five minutes? They're the most crucial you've ever played," he said. "One slip-up. One pass that's a second too late. One moment of flashy ego — and Sevilla will tear us apart."
He slammed his finger down on the board.
"We attack. Absolutely. But we attack as a unit. And we stay sharp until that final whistle."
No one was laughing now.
_______
As the sun dipped down toward the western ridge of Tenerife, the sky transformed into a stunning watercolor of orange and purple hues. Shadows stretched long across the pitch, the heat of the day finally easing, though the air still carried the salty scent of the Atlantic breeze.
From the stands, the crowd's murmur swelled into a thunderous roar as the players made their way back onto the field. Blue and white flags danced above the terraces, while the band in the curva kept a steady rhythm, voices rising like a tidal wave.
In the opening quarter of an hour, the match tightened into a fierce contest. Sevilla pressed high, trying to keep Tenerife pinned down, while Laurence's team moved the ball around with care, searching for openings but taking their time. Every interception brought a collective groan, and every clearance was met with a sigh of relief.
Then, in the 60th minute, the breakthrough came.
A slick one-two between Kikoto and Ricardo León sliced right through Sevilla's midfield. Kikoto surged ahead, slipping the ball into the half-space. Neymar, who had drifted in from the left, darted between defenders.
Carlos Martínez's voice rang out from the commentary box:
"He's through again — Neymar, what a touch! Around Escudé, Neymar, SHOOTS — GOAL! GOOOOOOOOAL FOR TENERIFE!"
The stadium erupted.
3–1.
Neymar spun away, arms wide like wings, tongue out, racing toward the corner flag. He slid on his knees, illuminated by the camera flashes popping all around the terrace. Kids on shoulders shouted his name, scarves twirled above heads.
In the VIP box, sporting director Mauro Pérez jumped to his feet, applauding with a huge grin spreading across his face. Next to him, chairman Miguel Concepción remained more composed, but even he nodded in approval, a slight smile creeping onto his lips.
On the sidelines, Victor clapped once, but his eyes were already narrowing. He shot a sideways glance at Laurence.
"They're starting to enjoy it a bit too much again," Victor muttered.
Laurence didn't respond. He just tightened his fists at his sides.
He felt it too. The tension they had worked so hard to build was starting to slip away. With a two-goal lead, Tenerife began to strut their stuff. Griezmann flicked a pass behind his heel. Ricardo León tried a no-look ball across midfield. Neymar, brimming with confidence, attempted a rainbow flick over an incoming tackle — and almost lost the ball in a risky spot.
The crowd was eating it up. Gasps, laughter, applause. But Laurence's jaw tightened. He knew what was coming.
Sevilla felt it too.
The first warning came in the 82nd minute. A turnover high up the pitch. One quick exchange — Kanouté dropping deep, setting up Diego Capel on the left. Capel sent in a cross before Luna could close him down.
Negredo was ready.
He leaped above Luna and powered a header past Aragoneses.
3–2.
The roar of the Heliodoro faded, replaced by anxious whispers.
Laurence was already pacing the edge of the technical area, shouting at his players to tighten up, to stay compact, to keep it simple. His voice sliced through the air, but the fear had already begun to settle in.
But it was too late.
The 84th minute. Casemiro lunged for an interception against Zokora but lost his balance, sliding helplessly as the ball rolled by. In an instant, Jesús Navas sprang into action, electrifying down the right side. His cross was fierce, curling perfectly toward the far post.
Kanouté connected with it on the first touch.
The net rippled.
3–3.
Carlos Martínez exclaimed over the broadcast:
"They've let it slip! Sevilla has made a stunning comeback — and it's all tied up with just six minutes left!"
The Heliodoro went silent. Fans clutched their heads in disbelief. Flags came to a standstill. A heavy silence enveloped the crowd.
On the bench, Victor's eyes widened. He turned to Laurence, searching for a reaction, a strategy, anything at all.
But Laurence remained frozen.
Arms at his sides. Jaw tight. He stared at the pitch as if it had betrayed him. His voice had vanished.
Around him, the stadium noise surged back — Sevilla's traveling fans chanting, their red and white banners fluttering. Tenerife's supporters tried to rally, drumming louder, whistling for encouragement, but the atmosphere had shifted. Confidence had turned into anxiety.
On the field, players exchanged worried glances, shouted nervously, hands raised in frustration. Neymar barked at Ricardo for a misplaced pass. Casemiro, shaking off the slip, waved his arms frantically for calm. Griezmann pressed higher than he was supposed to, leaving gaps behind.
Everything was falling apart.
Victor leaned closer, his voice low but urgent. "Laurence. Say something. Get them back."
But Laurence didn't answer. His fists remained clenched, knuckles white, his face unreadable but burning underneath.
Because he knew.
They hadn't been beaten by Sevilla's tactics. Not really.
They'd been beaten by their own joy.