Rain pounded against the windows of the Heliodoro Rodríguez López offices long after the stadium had cleared out, its rhythm blending with the soft buzz of cleaning machines and the lingering smell of sweat and adrenaline.
Earlier that evening, CD Tenerife had triumphed over Rapid Wien in their very first European match, but as the crowd thinned and the excitement faded, a different kind of tension settled over the building—one that had nothing to do with the final score.
Laurence Gonzales stood just outside the dressing room tunnel, his tie slightly loosened and his shirt damp from the humidity, a paper cup of lukewarm coffee in hand. He wasn't in a celebratory mood. In fact, he wasn't even smiling. His mind was far too preoccupied for that.
Footsteps echoed behind him, and soon Mauro Pérez appeared, carrying two fresh coffees with the kind of tired stride that only transfer-window days could bring.
"Didn't expect to see you still here," Mauro said, extending one of the cups.
Laurence took it with a nod. "Needed some time to think."
Mauro leaned against the wall beside him. "Thinking about Cancelo?"
"Thinking about the whole system," Laurence replied quietly. "You saw him tonight. First half, he was excellent. Tenacious, sharp. But in the last twenty minutes? He was spent. Once he runs out of gas, he loses his defensive shape. And we don't have a backup. Not one I trust."
Mauro let out a sigh. "You want some cover."
"I need it," Laurence corrected him. "Not another experiment. Not a kid who'll take six months to settle in. I need someone who can rotate in. Someone who won't freeze up when we're playing away in Europe."
"We've got… what?" Mauro glanced at his watch. "About thirty-six hours?"
"Less," Laurence murmured. "Then find me someone. Anyone who gets what it means to defend."
Mauro smirked. "You really love asking for miracles, don't you?"
"Just one more," Laurence replied, finishing his coffee. "We can't afford to let the right side collapse. If Cancelo goes down, everything we've built crumbles with him."
Mauro nodded briefly and slipped down the corridor, leaving Laurence alone with the dim lights, the scent of wet grass wafting in from the tunnel, and the feeling that time was closing in on them both.
----
Hours later, the sporting offices were still buzzing. Desks were strewn with empty cups and scattered papers. The glow from the computers lit up the dim room like little islands of stress. Mauro worked quietly, his fingers tapping away at the keyboard, cross-referencing salary structures and scouting reports.
Laurence perched at the edge of the conference table, elbows on his knees, worn out but unable to relax.
"What's our maximum loan wage left?" Laurence asked.
"About €180k a year," Mauro muttered. "Maybe €200k if the board gives the green light. But we don't have a transfer fee unless it's pocket change."
"So we're on the hunt for a miracle."
"Pretty much."
Laurence rubbed his forehead, memories of his past life flashing through his mind—players who emerged late, players nobody valued until it was too late. Some were too pricey now. Some were too raw. Some were just unrealistic.
"What about Clyne?" Laurence finally suggested. "Or De Silvestri?"
"Both out of our budget," Mauro replied. "And they're both getting real minutes. No chance."
Laurence leaned back, exhaling slowly. "Then let's look at Belgium, France, Portugal. Forget the top five leagues for a bit."
Mauro scrolled quickly. "There's a thirty-one-year-old journeyman in Belgium. Solid, disciplined."
"No," Laurence shot back. "I don't want faded legs. I need someone who can actually run."
"Have you thought about Hugo Mallo?"
"Way too pricey."
"What about a young talent from Brazil—"
"Enough with the kids," Laurence interrupted. "We're out of time."
Mauro glanced at him. "So, we're running low on choices."
Laurence got up and started pacing the room, mumbling names, trying to remember matches and hidden gems he'd seen before. Then, out of nowhere, he halted.
"I've got one."
Mauro raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"A kid from Scotland," Laurence said, taking his time. "He plays for Queen's Park. He's still pretty much an amateur. But he's a fierce runner, has a relentless work ethic, and good instincts on the wing. He's raw, but he knows how to read the game better than a lot of pros."
"What's his name?" Mauro asked.
"Andy Robertson."
Mauro blinked in surprise. "And he's a left-back."
"I know," Laurence replied. "We can always convert him. Learning the right wing-back position is tough, but he's sharp, disciplined, and aggressive. If anyone can make the switch, it's him. He's young, eager, and won't break the bank."
Mauro paused, considering. "You mentioned we couldn't take on another youth signing."
"I said I couldn't take on a youth signing who didn't grasp the defensive side," Laurence clarified. "Robertson gets it. Plus, he has the right mentality. I'd trust him over a thirty-year-old who's lost his edge any day."
Mauro looked back at the list of players. Nothing there sparked any confidence. Nothing felt right.
"Okay," he finally said. "I'll make the call."
-----
Queen's Park's training ground was pretty humble, surrounded by damp grass and overcast skies. The next morning, Laurence showed up unexpectedly, just him and a scout by his side. A light rain fell on the pitch, soaking the players' jackets as they went through some basic drills.
It took Laurence less than ten minutes to spot the player he had in mind.
Andy Robertson wasn't the tallest guy on the field. He didn't stand out with flashy moves or loud commands. But what he had was something far more crucial—urgency. Every sprint had a purpose. Every recovery was quick. Each defensive move was thought out, not frantic. And when he charged down the left side, his timing was instinctive.
Laurence observed him like a treasure hunter deciphering the last clue on a map.
After practice, Robertson hung back to help the assistant coach pick up cones. Laurence walked over, hands tucked into his pockets.
"Andy," he said in a calm voice. "I'm Laurence Gonzales, the manager of CD Tenerife."
Robertson paused, looking a bit confused, as if he thought it might be a joke. "The… La Liga club?"
"Exactly."
Robertson blinked in surprise. "What brings you here?"
Laurence offered a slight smile. "I've been keeping an eye on you. I believe you can play at a much higher level than this."
Robertson shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to laugh or take it seriously. "I… I'm just getting started here. I'm not even sure I'm ready for the Scottish Championship, let alone—"
"You're not ready," Laurence interjected. "Nobody is at your age. But you have the skills I can work with. Skills that fit my system."
"Your system?"
"Wing-backs," Laurence explained. "High running, high pressure, and smart transitions. I want to move you to the right side."
Robertson blinked again. "I've… never played right-back."
"You've never had to," Laurence said, looking straight at him. "But the qualities are there. I'll teach you everything else. If you come to Tenerife, you'll get real minutes. Actual minutes. You'll be training in a professional setting, and you'll develop faster than you ever could here."
Robertson swallowed hard. "And what if I fail?"
Laurence held his gaze steady.
"You won't."
The young Scotsman hesitated for a moment, then reached out his hand. "If you believe I can do it… I'll trust you."
Laurence shook his hand firmly. "Great. Now let's get the paperwork sorted."
Back in Tenerife, the deal wrapped up faster than anyone anticipated. Queen's Park agreed to a reasonable fee of €450,000, plus another €75,000 in bonuses and a sell-on clause—a huge boost for a part-time club. Robertson signed a four-year contract with manageable wages, smiling awkwardly during the quick medical checks.
When Mauro strolled into Laurence's office just before midnight, a folder tucked under his arm, he skipped the drama. He set the file down on the desk and let out a breath.
"He's in."
Laurence opened it up: Andy Robertson. Age 17. Transfer from Queen's Park. Four-year contract.
"He's going to need time," Mauro cautioned. "And you're really planning to put him on the right?"
"Yes," Laurence replied without hesitation. "And he'll do great."
Mauro shook his head with a weary chuckle. "You're banking a Europa League campaign on a kid from the Scottish lower leagues."
"I'm banking on someone with the right mindset," Laurence said. "Someone who listens. Someone I can shape. Cancelo needs competition. Someone to challenge him. Someone to back him up. Robertson will be that guy."
Mauro studied him for a long moment. "You really think he'll make it?"
Laurence didn't waver.
"He will."