Just two days after the tough loss to Real Madrid, Tenerife didn't have the luxury of wallowing in their disappointment. Football has a way of pushing you forward, whether you're ready for it or not, and this time it was dragging them right into the lion's den.
Camp Nou.
The journey to Barcelona felt almost cruel. Emotionally spent, physically worn out, still haunted by that last-minute gut punch. Everyone expected a response—but not from Tenerife. They anticipated it from Barcelona. A chance to set things straight. A reminder of who was in charge.
Laurence Gonzales had never bought into the idea of hierarchy.
As the teams took the field, the noise crashed over them like a tidal wave. Blue and claret everywhere, flags fluttering, that deep, constant roar that made your chest thrum. Laurence stood there with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders tense, eyes focused.
The lineup alone was enough to raise eyebrows.
Three centre-backs: De Vrij holding the fort in the middle, Koulibaly to his right, and Luna to his left. The wing-backs, Robertson and Grimaldo, were high up the pitch but kept their discipline. Kanté and Kikoto anchored the midfield, their legs primed for action. Just ahead, Quaresma floated freely, unburdened by strict tactics. Up front, Neymar and Griezmann were close enough to press together but far enough apart to create space.
Natalio and Casemiro sat on the bench, while Laurence wasn't taking any sentimental risks.
From the very first minute, Tenerife pressed like a team with something to prove. Griezmann curved his runs to cut off passing lanes, while Neymar hunted with purpose. Kanté moved like a shadow around Busquets, and Kikoto stepped up whenever Iniesta turned.
Barcelona still moved the ball with their usual elegance. They always did. But it felt… slower.
Then, fourteen minutes in, it all fell apart.
Piqué casually rolled a pass back to Valdés, the kind of pass Barcelona had executed a thousand times before. The kind that teams were trained not to press.
But Griezmann went for it anyway.
He blocked the return pass. Valdés hesitated, just for a moment. Dani Alves called for the ball, but Kikoto had already anticipated it. He stepped in, intercepted cleanly, and slid the ball into space in one smooth motion.
Neymar was already on the move.
With a single touch, he propelled the ball forward. Another touch set him up perfectly. Instead of smashing it, he skillfully passed it into the corner, low and precise, just grazing the inside of the post.
An eerie silence fell over the stadium.
Neymar raised both arms, turning back toward his half, his jaw clenched. Griezmann let out a triumphant scream. Koulibaly dashed thirty yards to envelop him in a hug. Laurence took a moment to breathe, then clapped once and pointed ahead.
Barcelona responded like the giants they are—with possession, pressure, and a sense of wounded pride. Alves pushed higher up the pitch. Abidal moved into midfield. Iniesta floated around, while Messi started to drop deeper.
But Tenerife stood their ground.
Koulibaly marked tightly without committing a foul. De Vrij swept up intelligently, never diving in recklessly. Luna was calm and efficient, providing exactly what was needed. Kanté and Robertson kept a close watch on Messi, never chasing him blindly. When Messi tried to make a break, Kanté met him shoulder-to-shoulder, nudging the ball away and resetting the play.
Laurence was now pacing the sidelines, calling for rotations, gesturing for Grimaldo to get back into position, and urging Robertson to hold back instead of diving in. Quaresma dropped into spaces, blocking lanes toward Xavi, disrupting their rhythm without even needing to touch the ball.
Just after the half-hour mark, Griezmann nearly doubled the lead, slipping in behind the defense again, but Valdés quickly closed the angle. The opportunity slipped away, but the message was clear.
Tenerife wasn't here to simply admire the stadium.
At halftime, the tunnel was alive with whispers and chatter. Guardiola moved quickly, already deep in conversation with his staff. Laurence lingered for a moment, watching his players vanish down the tunnel, their chests rising and falling with each breath. Victor leaned in closer.
"They're frustrated," Victor observed.
Laurence nodded in agreement. "Exactly. That's when they start to commit more mistakes."
And force things they did as the second half kicked off. The tempo picked up. Passes zipped around. Messi floated to the right, then to the left, trying to draw Kanté out of position. Iniesta began to take some risks.
That's when Tenerife struck again.
Iniesta attempted to play through the pressure. Kikoto stepped in, snatched the ball cleanly, and kept moving. He pushed it forward, spotted some space, and took a shot from distance. The ball deflected off a defender, took a strange bounce, and caught Valdés off guard.
It rolled into the net.
Silence fell over the stadium.
Laurence clenched his fists at his sides for a moment, then turned sharply, shouting instructions to drop back five yards and reset their shape. He was celebrating a two-goal lead at Camp Nou and wanted to make it even bigger.
Not long after, Griezmann started to limp. It was subtle at first, but then it became clear.
Victor caught Laurence's gaze. "He's limping."
"I can see."
Laurence watched as Griezmann tried to pick up speed but couldn't. He muttered a curse under his breath.
"Get Natalio ready."
Griezmann protested briefly when he was subbed off, more out of frustration than anger, but Laurence placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You've done your part," he said softly. "We'll need you later."
Natalio stepped onto the pitch, looking nervous, his eyes wide as he took in the atmosphere, the noise, the scoreboard.
Just five minutes later, Quaresma sealed the deal.
He drifted inside, caught sight of Valdés a step off his line, and didn't hesitate. The strike left his foot with precision, bending, fierce, flawless. Right into the top corner.
Laurence finally let himself react wildly.
Barcelona were in disarray now, trying to get at least a goal back. Guardiola was gesturing non-stop, but the grip on the game was slipping away. Tenerife could sense it.
Neymar sealed the deal late in the game, rounding the keeper after a beautiful play, sliding the ball into an open net. This time, he slid towards the away corner, gesturing wildly.
Messi managed a consolation goal at the end, a reminder of his brilliance, but it hardly made an impact.
When the final whistle blew, the Tenerife players collapsed where they stood. Some laughed, others gazed up at the sky. Koulibaly sat down heavily, covering his face. Laurence embraced Victor, then went towards Barcelona's bench to give Pep a simple handshake.
In the VIP box, Miguel Concepción watched in silence. Sandro Rosell sat stiffly beside him.
"He's incredible," Rosell murmured, his eyes glued to Neymar.
Miguel didn't reply right away. He waited for the noise to fade, for the weight of the result to sink in.
"No," he said calmly. "He stays here."
Rosell frowned. "Barcelona—"
Miguel gently interrupted. "Laurence has built something special. Neymar is a key part of that."
Rosell nodded, but his eyes revealed something deeper. Understanding. Certainty.
Miguel felt it too.
He knew, that with their current finances, keeping all their players was a feeble dream.
They would come for Neymar.
They would come for Griezmann.