The cozy vibe of December had slipped away, replaced by the sharp chill of January winds that whipped through the Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López. The winter break was behind them. The lights were back on. Fans were flocking back in large numbers. And with that, the pressure was mounting.
Mauro Cabrera hardly seemed to notice the cold. He was buried in calls and paperwork, pacing back and forth between his office window and desk. His mind was laser-focused on one name that kept popping up in bold letters across scouting reports and agent emails.
Raphaël Varane.
The 18-year-old center-back at Lens had done something quite remarkable—he had coaches and scouts all over Europe sitting up and taking notice. Manchester United was circling. Others were too. But Mauro had spotted an opportunity. Lens wasn't entirely closed off to negotiations. They were struggling in Ligue 1, and there was a growing realization that Varane needed to experience higher-pressure matches.
Tenerife—on the brink of Europa, playing fearless football under Laurence Gonzales—had emerged as a surprising yet promising option.
"I'm not here to waste your time," Mauro said over the phone, his voice steady as he switched effortlessly between French and Spanish depending on who was on the other end. "But I need an answer before the window closes. We can promise high-level minutes. He'll come back sharper. United wants him to gain experience. We give him the experience. Later, you get the money. It's a win-win for everyone."
It wasn't quite finished. But the door was slightly open, and Mauro had never been one to shy away from an opportunity like that.
Fast forward two days, and it was done.
The ink on the paperwork was still fresh when the internal email circulated around the club. It was short, straightforward, and almost dull in its phrasing:
CD Tenerife signs Raphaël Varane on a six-month loan from RC Lens.
There was no fanfare, yet within the club, there was a subtle excitement. Not because Varane was a superstar, which he wasn't. But those who had seen him play sensed potential—an unusual calmness for his age, sharp timing, and great anticipation. Tenerife needed another defender, especially with De Vrij slowly returning from a hamstring injury and Nino García still being too raw.
As training kicked off again under the January sun, the cool air felt refreshing. The grass looked sharper than the players, who still bore the marks of the holiday break. Their touches were a bit off, and their runs came just a moment too late. Kikoto grimaced through his sprints, and even Neymar, back from Brazil, seemed half a beat behind.
Laurence observed it all from the sidelines, dressed in a black coat, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
Victor strolled over, blowing warmth into his hands. "The first week back always looks like this."
"I know," Laurence replied softly. "I just can't stand it."
Varane showed up, a tall, lean teenager juggling two bags and doing his best not to look overwhelmed.
He changed quickly and was already stretching when the others started to trickle out. He nodded at the young faces—Casemiro, Kante, Grimaldo, Neymar. A shy smile crept onto his face for Koulibaly, and he shared a grateful handshake with De Vrij, who was still nursing his hamstring.
"You'll be dead in an hour," De Vrij said with a gentle pat on the back.
Varane blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"
"You'll see," De Vrij replied with a grin.
Laurence blew the whistle. "Pair drills. Joel with Grimaldo. Kante with Kikoto. Koulibaly, you're with Varane."
The first few minutes went smoothly. Simple passing, quick feet. Varane was tidy, quiet, and focused. But then the pace picked up. And up. And up.
That's when the pressing kicked in.
Suddenly, the reality of Tenerife hit him like a tidal wave. His timing faltered. His feet felt heavy. What had looked so synchronized and effortless on video now felt like trying to sprint through thick sand.
He lunged at Bony but missed by a mile. Quaresma's laughter echoed loud enough to reach half the island.
"¡Bienvenido a Tenerife, chico! You'll need a wheelchair by noon."
Even Joel—who usually had about three expressions—gave him a thumbs-up. "Breathing helps," he said dryly. "I'd recommend it."
Varane didn't complain. He kept pushing through, gasping for air, socks slipping down, shirt drenched. At one point, he put his hands on his hips, and the wheeze that escaped him sounded like a rusty accordion.
During the drinks break, he collapsed onto the grass, eyes shut tight, chest heaving for air. Kante strolled over and plopped down next to him, handing him a bottle.
"First day always takes it out of you," he said softly in French.
"It's… quick," Varane managed to reply.
Kante nodded knowingly. "Next week will be even tougher. But after that, it gets easier."
From a distance, Casemiro tossed an orange their way. "You should tell him about Kouli on day one!"
Koulibaly raised a hand without lifting his gaze. "Don't."
"He threw up twice," Casemiro chimed in with a grin.
Laurence caught every word. For once, he felt a smile creeping onto his face.
By the time training wrapped up, Varane's legs looked like they were ready to file a formal complaint against his body. He stumbled into the dressing room, dazed.
Victor intercepted Laurence outside the tunnel. "He'll be alright."
"He will," Laurence replied. "He's got the mindset for it. The feet will catch up."
That evening, Varane found himself alone in the team café with a bowl of pasta. He hadn't said much all day, feeling uncertain about where to sit or how much to contribute to the conversation.
Grimaldo dropped into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. "You can't eat in silence here."
Joel chimed in too. "Club rule. Just made it up on the spot."
Varane blinked in response. "Right."
Koulibaly strolled in, balancing two plates in his hands.
"I brought tuna empanada," he announced with a serious tone. "Nino's cousin makes it. No negotiations here."
Bony ambled by in his recovery sandals. "Eat," he said, sounding like a doctor handing out a prescription.
Suddenly, a wet napkin flew in from the doorway and smacked Joel right on the head. Neymar flashed a grin, winked at Varane, and then vanished again.
It wasn't exactly a team dinner, but it sure felt like one.
As the days rolled on, Varane started to find his footing. His passes became sharper, his pressing more intense. Sure, there were still a few slip-ups, but he was definitely making strides. The atmosphere in the dressing room began to warm up, with the teasing shifting from "You might die" to "You're doing alright, kid."
Laurence didn't say much to him directly—just the occasional nod or a quiet correction. But Varane could read the unspoken approval in those gestures.
Meanwhile, Mauro kept stealing glances at his phone, like a parent anxiously waiting for exam results, half-expecting Lens or some bigger club to swoop in and say there'd been a mix-up. But the deal was solid. Varane was theirs—at least for the next six months.
The league, however, wasn't going to wait for anyone.
Granada kicked things off after the break. Freshly promoted, they were organized and stubborn—exactly the kind of team that would defend their territory for a full ninety minutes as if it held hidden treasure.
The Heliodoro came alive with energy. Scarves waved, flags fluttered, and drums beat in rhythm. Beneath all the noise, there was a low hum of anxiety as fans realized that every single point was crucial now.
Laurence made his adjustments carefully. Casemiro and Kante held down the midfield, while Neymar and Joel spread wide. Bony was up front, and De Vrij, bundled in a jacket like someone in witness protection, sat on the bench.
From the very first whistle, Tenerife had possession but struggled to make anything of it. Granada formed two tight lines, staring back like uninterested librarians.
Neymar attempted to weave past two defenders but was easily shouldered off the ball. Joel cut in on his right, only to have his shot blocked. Quaresma floated between the lines, but his timing with Bony was off, as if they were dancing to different tunes.
Laurence remained calm, continuing to give instructions.
"Rotate earlier! Don't hesitate to pass—show, then go. Kante, switch it!"
By halftime, the score was still 0–0.
In the dressing room in half time, sweat dripped, boots were loosened, and no one dared to meet the manager's gaze.
Laurence didn't raise his voice. Leaning against the whiteboard, he spoke softly.
"We're not here to play at their pace. We control the rhythm. Control the possession. Chances will come, just be patient."
Kante cracked his knuckles, Casemiro nodded in agreement, and Neymar stared at the floor, chewing gum as if it owed him something.
The second half promised to be better.
Grimaldo surged ten meters up the pitch, and suddenly Granada had to spring into action. Kante and Casemiro exchanged passes, almost like they were probing the defense for any vulnerabilities. Neymar drifted wide before making a quick cut inside. Joel showed up late, snapping at the loose balls.
Chances appeared, then slipped away. A shot was saved. A header went over. A collective groan echoed through the stands, reminiscent of distant thunder.
At last, in the seventy-fourth minute, something clicked into place. Casemiro sent a clever pass into Neymar's path. Instead of going for the goal himself, Neymar squared it off. Hard and low.
Bony arrived like an unexpected guest at a birthday party and calmly side-footed it in.
The stadium didn't erupt in celebration; it felt more like a collective sigh of relief. People embraced, while others leaned back, shaking their heads and smiling, as if to say, "Thank goodness."
Granada made one last push near the end—a header that flashed wide enough to make Sergio Aragoneses shout something in Canary Spanish that even his teammates struggled to grasp.
And then it was done.
1–0. Three points in the bag.
In the tunnel, Neymar nudged Bony. "See? Easy."
Bony chuckled. "I missed three that were easier than the one I actually scored."
Casemiro joined in. "Next time, I'm taking the shot."
Kante just smiled and strolled past, as quiet as ever.