The second half kicked off with a different kind of tension in the air, like the pressure building inside a kettle about to boil over. The crowd was on their feet, a buzzing wall of noise surging forward like a gust of wind pushing the Tenerife players along.
Laurence Gonzales observed from the edge of his technical area, his shoulders tense. He had made his adjustments at halftime — Grimaldo pushed higher, Quaresma moving more centrally, and Cancelo spreading wide. It was a gamble, but one he was ready to take. You don't take down Madrid by playing it safe.
"We're still in this," he whispered to Victor next to him. "As long as we don't hand them anything."
Football has a way of being cruelly ironic.
Just five minutes in, Real Madrid struck.
A Tenerife corner was sent high into the night sky. Pepe soared above everyone, heading it away with a thud that resonated. The loose ball fell to Xabi Alonso, who didn't waste a moment — he simply flicked it forward with that calm, ruthless precision that made him so formidable. One pass turned into two, with Di María nudging it along like a relay baton.
And then Ronaldo took off.
Koulibaly turned, sprinted, and strained. But it didn't matter. Ronaldo was a force of nature, gliding over the grass, straightening his shoulders, and for just a moment, it seemed like he was about to take a shot.
But he didn't.
Instead, he lifted his head and sent a wicked cross into the corridor of death — too far for the keeper to reach, too fast for any defender to react. Higuaín appeared like a ghost between De Vrij and Bellvís, side-footing the ball home with a brutal simplicity.
The net rippled. The away fans erupted.
GOOOOOL.
The commentator's voice cracked with the excitement.
"¡MADRID MARCA OTRO! ¡3–2!"
Laurence didn't shout or flail about. He simply pressed his palms against his face and dragged them down, as if he could erase the mistake. Behind him, Victor exhaled slowly.
"We're down again."
For a while, it seemed like Madrid was ready to seal the deal. Mourinho's team tightened their grip on the game, every second ball claimed, every counterattack snuffed out before it could begin. Alonso orchestrated the tempo like a maestro. Khedira stood like a fortress. Özil floated around freely, a ghost in white.
Tenerife staggered.
Laurence was now a silhouette in motion along the touchline, pacing, pointing, shouting instructions that were part strategy, part desperate hope.
"Settle down. Breathe. Don't panic!"
The Heliodoro wouldn't sit still. Chants surged in waves — angry, hopeful, desperate.
Then slowly, like a tide turning, the match began to shift back.
Cancelo pushed up the right flank, stretching Arbeloa to his limits. On the left, Grimaldo mirrored his movements, forcing Di María to track back more than he wanted to. Casemiro, now deeper in the field, played the role of a hinge, soaking up pressure and then launching the ball forward the moment he spotted an opening.
In the 64th minute, Neymar drifted to the left again, pulling Marcelo along with him. Cancelo made a powerful run on the overlap, dragging Arbeloa along. Ramos hesitated—should he step up or hold his position?
That moment of uncertainty was all it took.
Neymar cut inside with a quick, sharp touch and glanced up. Griezmann had already made his move, slipping past Pepe's blind spot into the left channel.
The pass was pinpoint. A low diagonal that sliced through Madrid's defense.
Griezmann didn't need a second thought. The ball rolled across his body, and he expertly guided it low past Casillas, showing the calmness of a seasoned striker.
GOOOOOL.
The stadium erupted.
"¡GOOOOOL DE TENERIFE!"
3–3
Laurence let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, nudging Victor with his elbow.
"He's pulling Arbeloa tighter," he noted. "He's scared of Neymar. He's inviting him inside."
Victor frowned, deep in thought. "He's playing it safe."
"Exactly," Laurence replied. "So let's break that safety net."
The match intensified into a battle—Mourinho on one side, arms crossed tightly, barking orders in quick, sharp bursts; Laurence on the other, more animated and exposed, determined not to let the tempo drop.
Madrid pulled their line back just a few meters, enough to stifle Tenerife's momentum and tighten the spaces where Neymar and Griezmann loved to weave their magic. Alonso took control, slowing the game down with his precise, calculated moves. Two touches. Three. Sideways. Calm.
Laurence countered by allowing Casemiro to surge forward in quick, sharp bursts, embracing the chaos.
The danger was clear. Every mistake from Tenerife could bite back. Ronaldo, frustrated by heavy tackles and Aragonéses' quick saves, began to drop deeper, demanding the ball, craving control. Özil probed like a skilled surgeon. Di María floated, biding his time for the perfect moment.
But something was shifting in the stands.
And tonight, it was leaning toward Tenerife.
By the 75th minute, cracks were starting to show in Madrid. Ramos was shouting, arms wide, fury etched across his face, urging his defense to concentrate. Pepe prowled. Arbeloa looked worn out. Mourinho paced the technical area, his agitation a careful dance of a man who thrived on control—and despised losing even a fraction of it.
And to Laurence- control was not as important. He liked chaos more.
Then came the 78th minute.
A Tenerife corner was only half-cleared. The ball floated out to the right flank, where Cancelo gathered it under pressure. He squared up, waited, then calmly recycled the ball back toward the top of the box instead of sending in a desperate cross.
It landed perfectly at Joel's feet.
The stadium held its breath.
Joel—the quiet worker who had given everything all night. He cushioned the ball with one touch, rolling it across his body. Marcelo stepped forward, leaning the wrong way. Joel shifted again.
Outside of the boot, the ball curled wickedly through the air, bending away from Casillas, kissing the inside of the far post before sinking into the net like destiny.
For a second, there was silence. Disbelief.
Then the Heliodoro Rodríguez López exploded into sound so loud it stopped being noise and became something closer to stormy weather.
3–4.
"¡JOEL! ¡JOEL! ¡QUÉ GOLAZO!"
Bodies everywhere — players, fans, arms in the air, tears in some eyes, laughter in others. Neymar sprinted to Joel and slammed into him, followed by Griezmann, Cancelo, half the bench. Joel just pointed to the sky, face raw with emotion.
Laurence didn't care about composure now.
He leapt. He threw both hands up and roared. He turned and grabbed Victor in a full embrace, both men half-laughing, half-shouting into each other's shoulders while the assistant coaches pounded backs and clapped and yelled.
Even in the directors' box, Mauro — usually carved from stone — was clapping, shaking his head like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
On the other side of the touchline, Mourinho was already moving pieces in his head. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the small, deliberate steps he took back toward the bench. He wasn't happy. Alonso looked toward him for instruction. Ramos gestured. Orders were given, quick and controlled.