The roar from the Heliodoro Rodríguez López didn't fade after Higuaín's equalizer; if anything, it grew even louder. The Tenerife fans understood what it meant to endure. They had watched stronger teams than theirs get pushed around by giants like Real Madrid. Infact, as a long playing Segunda side they had been battered by Real Madrid many times in Copa. So they know to enjoy the moments till they are gone.
On the sidelines, Laurence Gonzales could feel the tension weaving through the grass, the air, and the very veins of his players. The floodlights cast a harsh white glow over the pitch, and under that light, Real Madrid moved forward in their shiny kits as if they owned the place.
But they didn't tonight if Tenerife had anything to say about it.
Laurence stood just outside the technical area, shifting from hands on hips to arms crossed, then back to hands on hips—restless and deep in thought. Victor lingered a step behind him, notepad tucked under his arm, his eyes darting from the ball to the formation, then to the bench, and back to the manager.
"Check out the gaps," Laurence muttered, mostly to himself.
Victor leaned in closer. "Which ones are you talking about?"
"When Neymar drifts wide, their fullback follows him too eagerly. That opens up Cancelo's lane. And when Griezmann drops—"
"One of their center-backs is stepping up," Victor said, finishing his thought. "Leaving the blindside open."
Laurence couldn't help but grin for a moment. "Exactly right."
Victor turned and waved his arms wildly, fingers snapping in the air.
"João! Get wider! Stretch them out!"
Cancelo raised a hand to show he heard.
Then Laurence's voice rang out across the pitch, slicing through the noise of the crowd.
"Ricardo — just wait! Don't rush it. Hold on!"
Quaresma caught the message. You could see it in the slight nod of his head, the way his body shifted.
As the match approached the thirty-sixth minute, the moment arrived.
Neymar didn't have to shout for the ball. He moved wider, slower, pulling Marcelo along with him. Marcelo had no choice but to follow; it was second nature for a fullback. This left Real Madrid's defense momentarily out of sync.
Griezmann slipped into the space. Ramos moved with him, knowing he couldn't let the Frenchman turn. Pepe was caught in a dilemma — should he cover Ramos or maintain the line?
That brief moment of uncertainty was all Cancelo needed.
Casemiro smoothly recycled the ball into Cancelo's path as he made his way down the right half-space. Cancelo took his time, positioning himself like a player ready to drive it down the channel. Then, with a deft touch, he wrapped his foot around the ball and curled a clever pass through the tiniest of openings.
Quaresma was already on the move.
He slipped in behind, his first touch perfectly angled into the box. Ramos lunged in late. It's rare for Ramos to misjudge anything — but this time, he did.
Quaresma set himself up for an outside-foot drive. Ramos bit. He flew right past.
But Quaresma didn't rush it. He calmly passed the ball into the far corner, low and precise, almost nonchalantly.
The net rippled.
GOOOOOOL.
The stadium erupted into a cacophony of sound. It was a wave of vibration. Flares ignited. People jumped. Strangers embraced.
Quaresma made no effort to hide what it meant to him. He sprinted toward the corner flag, chest out, his face set with determination. He pointed purposefully toward the away bench.
Toward Mourinho.
A message.
You thought you buried me. I'm still here.
On the touchline, Laurence let himself enjoy this time — a shout, a jump, a triumphant punch in the air before he caught himself. Then he turned, exhaled, and clapped once, long and firm.
Victor was beaming like a child on Christmas morning. "What a goal!"
Laurence shook his head, concern etched on his face. "We're still too exposed. They'll come back at us."
Miguel, the goalkeeping coach, leaned in closer. "We need to take control. Slow it down. Just two minutes."
"Tell them!" Laurence shouted, waving his arms in frustration.
The stadium was still vibrating when reality hit hard.
Tenerife attempted to build from the back. Casemiro received the ball, his back to the goal, with Di María closing in fast. He turned — wrong shoulder. Di María managed to poke it away. Just a slight touch.
The ball rolled to Ronaldo, waiting at the edge of the area.
De Vrij stepped in, but it was too late. Koulibaly hadn't reset. Time seemed to slow down.
Ronaldo didn't hesitate. He pulled the ball into stride and unleashed a shot so pure it echoed like thunder.
Aragonéses leaped — fingertips reaching out — but the ball zipped past him and nestled into the corner.
Silence fell. Then, Madrid's small group of traveling fans erupted in cheers.
The commentator's voice cut through the tension.
"¡RONALDO! ¡LO HACE OTRA VEZ!"
("RONALDO! HE DOES IT AGAIN!")
2–2.
Laurence closed his eyes, muttering a soft curse. "We gave them the chance," he said, almost tenderly. Then, with more intensity: "We're still hanging on, but just barely."
Victor exhaled sharply. "We're on shaky ground. The back line's rattled."
The clock was ticking down, just minutes left before halftime — those long, tense minutes.
You could almost taste the fear in the air.
Xabi Alonso took charge, orchestrating the play with his passes slicing through Tenerife's defense like a hot knife through butter. Özil floated between Kikoto and Casemiro, elusive like smoke. And there was Ronaldo, always lurking, ready to pounce on the last defender's shoulder.
The crowd — despite their fiery passion — started to feel the pressure mounting.
The whistles began to rise. They weren't aimed at the referee. No, they were directed at Madrid, at Ronaldo, at the mounting tension.
Then came that moment that seemed to suck the very breath from the stadium.
Cancelo, eager to ignite another attack, pushed too far forward. The ball slipped loose in midfield. Alonso seized the opportunity, sending a perfectly timed pass into the channel. Özil, gliding effortlessly, positioned himself and delivered a devastating diagonal pass that sliced behind Koulibaly with surgical precision.
Ronaldo didn't miss a beat.
One touch.
Boom.
Aragonéses stretched to his limits, but sometimes, goalkeepers are just human.
The net rippled once more.
GOOOOOOL.
Cristiano spun away toward the corner, leaping, twisting in mid-air, and landing with that familiar, explosive burst of energy.
"SIUUUU!"
The sound hit the home fans like a sharp slap.
Whistles. Insults. A chaotic symphony that barely resembled language anymore—just raw emotion spilling out as sound.
Laurence stood his ground, unflinching. His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was razor-sharp.
"Alright," he said softly. "This is it. No turning back now."
The fourth official signaled for added time, and it felt like a cruel sentence.
Tenerife tried to regain their composure. Their passes became more cautious and concise. Neymar dropped back further, while Griezmann tightened up his touches. But Madrid was relentless, pressing hard, and Tenerife knew that conceding another goal before halftime would shatter their spirits.
Finally, the whistle blew.
In the tunnel, everything felt constricted. The noise was amplified, the space tighter.
Laurence hurried along, almost too fast. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the bench, running a hand through his hair as if trying to untangle his racing thoughts.
"Victor."
"I know," Victor replied instantly. "We're losing control in midfield. Kikoto's....not having a good day."
The rest of the staff gathered around—Miguel, Sergio, the analysts clutching their iPads, their faces etched with concern.
Laurence wasted no time.
"Quaresma can drop into the half-space. He's clever enough to manage it. Grimaldo will come on at wing-back. Cancelo shifts to full-back. Casemiro will cover wider."
Victor blinked in surprise. "We're dropping the second pivot?"
"We're already losing grip," Laurence snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I won't wait until we sink. We either push them back or we fall apart."
Kikoto was silent when his name was called. He didn't argue and simply swallowed hard, nodded, and met Laurence's gaze.
The manager placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"This is about tactics, not you."
Kikoto managed a tight smile. "I get it."
The roar of the crowd outside seeped through the concrete walls like a breeze through old windows.
But there were still forty-five minutes to go.