The late summer heat hung heavy over the stadium in Geneva, a place that was supposed to be neutral but felt anything but. Tenerife was gearing up for their final test before the new season, facing off against Juventus, a team under the guidance of Antonio Conte—rebuilding yet still tough as nails.
With Neymar finally getting a breather, Tenerife's attack had a fresh look. Quaresma, starting on the left, tried to strut his stuff, aiming to channel the player he used to be. Griezmann took the center forward position, while Natalio—who usually thrived in the middle—found himself pushed out wide, a role he wasn't used to.
In midfield, Kante and Kitoko formed a duo that relied more on sheer determination than on physical presence. The back three remained steady as ever—Koulibaly, Luna, and de Vrij. Grimaldo and Cancelo were on wing duty, tasked with both stretching the play and providing cover.
"We stick to our principles," Laurence reminded them as they stepped onto the pitch. "Even against them."
But it didn't take long for those principles to come under fire. Juventus pressed, but not in a frantic way. Pirlo floated between the lines like a maestro, controlling the game's rhythm with subtle flicks and glances that drove Kante to distraction as he tried to intercept.
Vidal was relentless in his pressing, Marchisio slipped into those tricky half-spaces, and every time Tenerife misplaced a pass, it felt like it turned into a Juventus counterattack.
The first goal came in almost a polite manner.
Pirlo sent a beautifully shaped pass to Vučinić, who executed a perfect, gentle flick right behind Tenerife's midfield. Vidal burst through like a hot knife through butter and slid his shot past Aragonéses before any defender had a chance to react. It wasn't loud or chaotic—just eerily precise.
Laurence clapped his hands twice. "Adjust, Kikoto! Don't let him run past you for free!"
There was no sense of panic. He was ready for some setbacks in this match.
Tenerife started to regain some control. Quaresma began to test Lichtsteiner, with his first few attempts either blocked or chased down, but he kept pushing forward. Then, in the twenty-fifth minute, Kante charged into Marchisio, snatched the ball cleanly, and quickly released Quaresma down the channel.
The winger cut inside onto his right foot, curling a cross that floated like silk toward Griezmann, who connected with it on the first touch. The volley hit the netting behind Buffon before the keeper even had a chance to move.
Griezmann immediately looked for Quaresma, pointed at him, and flashed a grin.
"That's more like it!" Victor shouted from the sidelines.
But Juventus didn't flinch. Just five minutes later, Vučinić drew a foul from Luna just outside the box. Pirlo stood over the ball, his expression calm as if he were contemplating dinner rather than the free kick.
Laurence muttered under his breath, "Don't jump."
The wall seemed to leap, but Pirlo stayed put. The ball zipped underneath and found its way into the corner. Aragonéses turned, hands on his hips, shaking his head as if he were apologizing to the universe itself.
Just when Tenerife thought they were finding their rhythm again, disaster struck. Natalio sprinted after a loose ball near the halfway line, nudging it past Chiellini—just a fraction of a second too late. Chiellini came crashing in like a freight train.
The sound of the impact echoed. Natalio let out a scream as he hit the ground, clutching his ankle. Griezmann rushed to his side, calling for medical assistance. Kante knelt beside him, gently trying to keep him calm. Even some of the Juventus players looked rattled.
Laurence felt a knot in his stomach as the stretcher appeared. Natalio bit down on his jersey, trying to stifle his cries. As he was lifted away, the Tenerife bench sat in shocked silence.
Laurence didn't raise his voice or wave his arms around. Instead, he approached Joel, who was already fumbling with his boots, his hands shaking.
"You're ready," Laurence said softly. "Go out there and play your game."
Joel nodded, took a deep breath, and dashed onto the field.
The match picked up again, but something unspoken had changed. The rest of the first half slipped by in a haze of controlled chaos.
_______
When Tenerife came back for the second half, Laurence made a change—not in strategy, but in spirit. He crouched down in front of the players just before they headed back onto the pitch.
"We don't shrink," he declared. "We carry this with us into the season. We match them step for step. Earn their respect."
For a while, Tenerife did just that. But Juventus knew how to weather the storm. In the fifty-second minute, Cancelo misjudged a press and lost the ball too easily. Pirlo quickly sent a pass to Marchisio, who set up Matri. One touch, one finish. Aragonéses could only watch as the ball sailed by. 3–1.
Laurence punched the air in frustration—not because of the mistake, but due to the naivety. "Don't hide!" he shouted. "Play out!"
Gradually, the courage began to return. Kante and Kitoko closed down space more quickly. Joel started finding openings where his quick feet made defenders uneasy. Griezmann dropped deeper to connect the play. With an hour gone, a moment of brilliance broke through the tension. Griezmann drew two defenders toward him and slipped a pass right into Quaresma's path.
Quaresma didn't hesitate. He struck a shot with the outside of his foot—his trademark move—and the ball arced beautifully into the far top corner. For a brief moment, the stadium buzzed with excitement. Even Buffon seemed to pause, appreciating the skill on display.
Quaresma stood tall, chin up, as if he was reminding himself of who he was.
Now it was 3–2, and suddenly Juventus seemed a bit vulnerable. Tenerife was pressing high, forcing a couple of mistakes. Grimaldo sent in a dangerous cross that Buffon managed to punch away. Joel almost capitalized on a loose pass. Conte was barking orders more urgently from the other side of the field.
But experience isn't something you can just buy—it's something you earn over time. With twelve minutes to go, Koulibaly misjudged a touch while under pressure. The ball fell to Matri, who didn't need a second chance. His shot rocketed into the top corner. 4–2. That kind of finish can seal a match and highlight the power dynamics on the field.
In those final minutes, it wasn't about scoring anymore—it was about showing resilience. Tenerife didn't back down. Quaresma kept pushing forward. Joel kept receiving the ball even under pressure. Kante pressed on until he was nearly spent. When the whistle blew, there was no shame in their posture—just sheer exhaustion and contemplation.
Laurence wasn't about to let them just walk off. He gathered them in a tight huddle at the center circle. His voice wasn't loud, but it resonated.
"That's what the top looks like," he said. "They hurt us, and we hurt them back. We may have lost the match, but we learned valuable lessons that we'll carry through the season. We're closer to where we need to be than you realize."
He turned to Joel, who was wiping sweat from his brow, his eyes still alive with adrenaline.
"You really stepped up," Laurence told him. Joel could barely manage a nod in response.
Next, he looked at Quaresma. The winger's breathing was uneven, his emotions a mix of pride and a fierce hunger for more.
"That goal," Laurence said, "you fight for more like it."
Quaresma didn't need to speak—his eyes already promised he would.
As they began walking toward the tunnel, Victor leaned toward Laurence.
"Tough night," he said. "But not a bad one."
Laurence exhaled, eyes following his players.
"I am more worried for Natalio."