The atmosphere inside the Heliodoro Rodríguez López was thick with the weight of the moment. Tenerife had clawed their way back into a match that had already spiraled out of control once, and the crowd could feel it—the kind of rare moment that poses a single, crucial question: will you seize it, or will it slip through your fingers?
Laurence Gonzales stood at the edge of the technical area, frozen in place, his hands resting at his sides. He had stopped shouting. There was nothing left to fix in the heat of the moment.
All he could do was observe, his eyes darting around, measuring distances, angles, and noting how the players' tired legs were dragging just a fraction slower than before. Despite his calm demeanor, his face revealed the tension within. He couldn't do anything now. It was all up to the players.
The players felt the pressure too. Every pass was charged with urgency. Every tackle was strained by fatigue.
And then, the opportunity arose.
In the eighty-fifth minute, Neymar, battered and visibly limping, picked up a loose ball near the halfway line. He had endured hit after hit all night—arms pulling, ankles clipping—but his touch still remained magical. He glanced up once and threaded a pass through the gap that Madrid had left unguarded for just a heartbeat.
It was perfect.
Antoine Griezmann made a perfectly timed run, slipping between defenders and breaking the line with ease. Suddenly, he found himself with nothing but open grass and the goal in front of him. The stadium erupted in noise, only to fall silent in an instant, as thousands of fans collectively held their breath.
Casillas charged out, narrowing the angle quickly, arms spread wide, instinctively reading the situation honed from countless moments like this.
Griezmann took a touch to steady himself.
Then another.
And in that brief moment of hesitation, the opportunity slipped away.
His shot veered wide.
The sound that followed was not of outrage but sheer disbelief—a long, painful groan echoed through the stands.
Griezmann fell to his knees, hands gripping his face, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Neymar threw his arms up in frustration and turned away, his jaw clenched tight. Cancelo bent over, hands resting on his knees. On the sidelines, Laurence slowly turned and sank onto the bench, staring at the grass as if it had betrayed them.
The commentator's voice trembled. There was no need for embellishment.
"That was it," he said. "That was the chance."
Three minutes of added time appeared on the board. Three minutes that felt both endless and agonizingly brief.
Laurence sprang to his feet, clapping sharply and waving his arm forward.
"Press," he shouted. "One more push. Together."
Madrid matched the intensity. Mourinho edged closer to the sideline, arms crossed behind him, speaking softly to his staff. There was no sign of panic, just a laser focus. He had a knack for closing out games like this.
The final minutes turned chaotic. Tenerife pushed forward, but their legs were running on empty.
Joel kept trying to drive the play, chasing after lost balls, but his sprint had no actual sprint in them. Quaresma drifted into the center, searching for space that just wasn't materializing. Casemiro held his ground, resisting the temptation to take risks, anchoring the team against any counterattacks.
Everyone on the field felt it. One clean play would tip the scales. One mistake could unravel it all.
And then it happened.
In stoppage time, Ronaldo found the ball near the left edge of the box. He took a moment to breathe and looked up.
Bellvís, the seasoned player brought in to stabilize the defense, was already struggling to regain his position. His legs felt heavy, his body was out of alignment. The defensive line scrambled to adjust, but they were half a second too late.
Ronaldo lifted the ball.
Higuaín had been poised, timing his run perfectly. He surged forward, sliding in just ahead of Aragoneses as the keeper rushed out in a desperate attempt to close him down. The ball slipped right under the goalkeeper's legs and rolled into the net.
For a brief moment, the stadium fell silent.
Then the noise erupted with groans. Shouts. Applause from the away fans.
Aragoneses leaned back against the goalpost, his head drooping forward. Bellvís lay flat on the grass, arms spread wide, staring blankly at the sky. Griezmann pulled his shirt up over his face and stayed there, lost in the moment.
On the sidelines, Laurence kicked a water bottle with enough force that it flipped end over end into the lower rows. He turned away instantly, his jaw clenched, eyes shimmering with frustration.
The final whistle was heard not late after.
Mourinho clapped once, then again. He was calm and composed. A quick fist pump followed, sharp and contained. He made his way over to Laurence, extending his hand and offering a nod of acknowledgment.
Laurence shook his hand, not wanting to show frustration.
In the press room afterward, it was packed to the brim. Reporters leaned forward in their chairs, phones raised, notebooks open. A thrilling 5–4 match against Real Madrid was bound to draw attention.
Laurence arrived a few minutes late, dressed in a black pullover and jeans. He looked worn out, not defeated, but drained of adrenaline. He took a seat, folded his hands once, and nodded for the first question.
When asked what was on his mind, he paused longer than usual.
"That we were close," he finally said. "And close isn't enough at this level."
He spoke steadily, without any drama.
"We showed character. We proved we can compete. But we lost focus for just one moment. One. That's all it takes."
He didn't shy away when asked about the last goal.
"I don't blame individuals. Bellvís gave everything he had. Aragoneses kept us in the game all night. We had chances to win it. We just didn't take them. That's the truth."
When Griezmann's miss came up, he answered without hesitation.
"He's young. He'll miss chances. He'll score others. This won't define him unless we let it."
The question about mentality hung in the air a bit longer.
"We're still learning," Laurence said. "We've grown quickly. Maybe faster than we expected. Games like this show you what the next step costs. That's not a failure; it's a lesson."
Inside the dressing room, the silence was complete. Players sitting where they'd dropped their bags, some still in full kit, others staring at the floor.
Casemiro sat hunched over, hands clasped tightly. Neymar had his arm around Joel, murmuring something quietly. Griezmann hadn't moved from his seat, eyes fixed on the tiles.
Victor clapped once, sharp and deliberate.
"This hurts," he said. "It should. But don't confuse pain with weakness. We were here. We made them uncomfortable. Remember that."
Laurence stepped forward, voice low but steady.
"They're not better than us," he said. "They maybe were better today. But it's not the same thing."
He looked around the room, meeting eyes one by one.
"This feeling? Don't run from it. Keep it. Because the next time we're in this position—and we will be—you don't hesitate. You finish. You close. You win."