The Heliodoro Rodríguez López had fallen into a tense silence, the kind that follows a collective gut punch.
The scoreboard still displayed the moment that changed everything: 72' – Cristiano Ronaldo.
A free kick. Executed to perfection. Aragoneses stretched out fully but stood no chance. Throughout the match, Tenerife had managed to keep Madrid in check—disciplined, organized, and refusing to be intimidated. But just one slip, one foul in a risky area, and Madrid's superstar turned the tide of the entire evening.
Ronaldo jogged back from the corner flag, his shirt clinging to him, arms slightly raised—celebrating. The Madrid bench erupted in cheers. Mourinho clapped sharply once, then crossed his arms again, as if the goal had been a foregone conclusion.
On the home bench, Laurence Gonzales didn't flinch, tightening his jaw and a blinking longer than usual. He focused on his players instead—the immediate slump in their shoulders, the visible frustration. Neymar was brushing his hair back, muttering at the ground. Griezmann was clapping angrily, trying to rally the team. And Quaresma… just staring into space, hands on his hips, not even bothering to watch Ronaldo celebrate.
The final whistle blew twenty minutes later. 0–1. A match that Tenerife had executed almost flawlessly, only to be undone by a footballer who thrived on defining the margins.
Inside the dressing room, the air was heavy. Steam from the showers mingled with the soft shuffle of boots and the sound of tape being pulled. There were no arguments, no lockers slamming shut—just the heavy realization that they had played well but still come up short.
Laurence took his time making his entrance. He stepped in silently, dropped his tactics clipboard onto the bench, picked it up again, and then placed it down with care. The players braced themselves for an outburst. But it never came.
"We should've had them," he said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact.
"We defended well. We were compact. We made them uncomfortable." He began to pace slowly, his gaze sweeping across the room. "But we didn't capitalize when we had the chance. Against teams like this, you don't get six opportunities. You get only two."
Some players stared at the floor, lost in thought. Neymar rubbed his temples, while Casemiro frowned, replaying every duel in his head.
Laurence's gaze settled on Quaresma.
The winger was slumped over, elbows resting on his knees, a towel draped over half his face. He hadn't uttered a word since leaving the pitch. His passes had been clean, and his defensive work was better than usual—but there was a noticeable hesitation. A reluctance to take on defenders. Two moments where he held onto the ball too long instead of making a pass. And that split-second pause every time he glanced toward the Madrid bench, towards his former mentor.
Laurence chose not to address it right then. He simply nodded once at the group.
"Rest up. We'll have a proper talk tomorrow."
And with that, he walked away.
The press conference felt robotic. Laurence's responses were steady, brief, and composed.
"Was the free kick avoidable?"
"Fouls happen. Ronaldo scores free kicks. That's just football."
"Were you surprised by how disciplined your team looked?"
"No. I expect discipline every match."
"What did Madrid do better?"
"They converted better than us."
"What's next?"
"Training for the next game."
Even when asked about the upcoming Europa League fixture—the first in the club's history—his tone remained unchanged.
"We'll prepare the same way as today. With intent. Europe is a responsibility."
Later, back in the locker room, most of the players had already filtered out. Only Quaresma was left, sitting by himself, the towel gone but that distant look still on his face. His boots were in front of him, as if he was torn between packing them away or just continuing to stare at them.
Laurence appeared in the doorway.
"You played well," he said softly.
Quaresma didn't lift his gaze. "You don't have to lie. I know how I played."
"I'm not saying it for you to feel better."
The winger let out a sigh, rubbing his hand across his face. "I wanted more today. I thought… maybe I could show him something."
Laurence stepped a bit closer but didn't take a seat. He kept his gaze steady at eye-level.
"Show who?" he asked, though he already had a good idea.
Quaresma chuckled dryly, without any real humor. "Don't make me say it. You know who I mean."
Laurence remained silent, waiting.
"He's the one who told me I could be unstoppable," Quaresma said, his voice dropping. "But just two months later, he made me feel like I wasn't even good enough to tie the others' boots. Like everything I did was wrong. Every mistake? Punished. Every risk? Criticized. He shattered whatever confidence I had left."
He took a moment to breathe. "And today? When I glanced over and saw him… it all came rushing back. Even with how well I've been playing here."
Laurence didn't argue. "You hesitated," he said plainly. "A few times."
Quaresma nodded slowly. "Because a part of me still believes he's just waiting to laugh when I mess up."
Laurence crouched down a bit, resting his hands on his knees.
"Listen," he said, his voice calm. "Every player has someone from their past who they think defines them. A coach, a teammate, a moment. But those people don't get to write your story unless you let them."
Quaresma looked up, his eyes weary.
"You want to answer him?" Laurence pressed on. "But not with stepovers or circus tricks. Those won't earn his respect. What really makes someone like him reconsider you is consistency, reliability, and discipline. It's about becoming the player he never thought you could be."
Quaresma let out a slow breath. "And today?"
"Today, you were solid," Laurence replied. "But you were stuck in your own head, not playing out there on the pitch."
The winger took in the feedback with a slight nod. He wasn't fully convinced but there was something in Laurence's voice that made it easier for him to exhale.
Later that night, after the stadium lights had faded, Laurence found himself in his office with Victor, going over match clips on the screen.
"Griezmann should've taken an extra touch here," Victor pointed out.
"And Cancelo's cross," Laurence added thoughtfully. "He rushed it."
"Neymar could've squared it instead of going for the shot."
Laurence nodded in agreement. "We created enough chances."
"But we didn't capitalize on them. Maybe we should have bought Bony on," Victor concluded, arms crossed.
"It wouldn't do much either. Look-"
Laurence rewound to Ronaldo's free kick. The curve, the dip, the precision. He watched it intently for a long moment.
"That's the difference," he said. "They get one good opportunity, and they make it count."
He didn't sound angry. He was aware that his team needed to sharpen up if they wanted to compete at that level.
He hit play again.
The loss was final. But the season? It was far from over.