The autumn skies over Tenerife had taken on that dreary, grey hue that made the Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López feel heavier than usual. The islands don't often get cold, but the wind sweeping down from the mountains had a bite to it, a clear sign that winter football was on the horizon. It was the Copa del Rey Round of 32—early, unglamorous, and typically brushed aside by the national press. But for Tenerife, it meant so much more.
They were the defending champions.
Even if most pundits viewed last season's miraculous run as a fluke, a one-time event that the big clubs would "fix" this year, the badge still carried the weight of a title. The fans felt it. The staff felt it. Laurence Gonzales, in particular, felt it deeply.
The morning training session before the match wasn't treated like a casual rotation day. It was sharp. It was precise. It was a bit more intense than the players had anticipated for a Segunda opponent.
Laurence observed the drills with a serious, almost clinical intensity. Passing sequences were restarted if they were even slightly off. Defensive shape exercises went on longer than usual. Finishing drills were repeated until the forwards looked more frustrated than fatigued.
When Victor leaned in and whispered, "You're really pushing them hard for a Round of 32 opener," Laurence didn't take his eyes off the pitch.
"We're not stepping into this competition like tourists," he said. "We've got something to protect. Even if no one believes we can."
Victor smirked. "The media doesn't expect much from us."
"That's their issue," Laurence shot back. "But if we start thinking it's not our issue too, we'll lose this trophy before the real games even kick off."
By noon, he gathered the squad for a tactical briefing. There were no raised voices or grand speeches—just a steady tone and an unwavering gaze.
"I don't care what league Córdoba is in," he started. "If we treat this like a warm-up, we'll regret it. The Copa punishes arrogance more than any other tournament. Most upsets happen because some team thinks they're too big to fail."
He paused, scanning the room. The rotation players—the ones itching for playing time—were all ears. Others seemed more laid-back. He focused particularly on the second-unit midfielders and wingbacks.
"And remember—maybe the press doesn't think we can win it again. But I do. And if you want to lift that trophy twice, it all starts today."
He clicked the tactical remote, and the screen changed to show Córdoba's defensive setup.
"Don't underestimate this team," he warned. "They play with a fierce hunger. And that hunger can make up for any lack of skill if we give them the chance."
He wrapped up the session with a powerful statement:
"We're not just defending a miracle. We're defending a trophy."
----
Kickoff was just around the corner, and the sky was a heavy blanket of grey. The stadium wasn't overflowing with fans, but you could still feel the buzz of excitement in the air. Tenerife's supporters hadn't forgotten the thrill of last year's journey.
They arrived with a mix of hope and caution, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks, expecting nothing less than professionalism—even if the team they were up against seemed like an easy match on paper.
The line-up showed a blend of rotation and seriousness. Neymar and Griezmann were on the bench, while Quaresma, Joel, and Bony took charge of the front line. Kante and Ricardo León were in the midfield, with Robertson on the left and Cancelo on the right. Koulibaly and De Vrij held down the center, and Bellvís got the nod at left center-back to give Luna a breather. Argoneses was in goal.
As the players jogged out, their breath visible in the crisp air, Laurence watched them settle in, arms crossed and expression hard to read. His mind wasn't on Córdoba; it was on habits—professionalism, consistency, and the mindset they'd need later in the tournament, in Europe, in La Liga. Everything started right here.
Then the whistle blew.
The rhythm fell into place quickly: Tenerife took control of the ball, while Córdoba pushed back with their gritty Segunda spirit, battling for every challenge. Joel found some early success down the right, cutting inside to send a curling shot toward the far post in the 11th minute. Their keeper, Caro, leaped across the goal and managed to tip it wide with an impressive save that drew an appreciative murmur from the crowd.
Tenerife stayed calm, but it was clear that Córdoba had some bite.
"And Córdoba showing they didn't come here to roll over," the commentator noted.
By the 20th minute, Laurence was already on his feet. His hands sliced through the air, delivering calm yet firm instructions.
"Cancelo, invert earlier!"
"Kante, hold your line, don't chase!"
"Switch faster! Don't wait for them to regroup!"
Córdoba aimed to frustrate, tightening the center and doubling up on Joel whenever they could. Tenerife moved the ball from side to side, with Robertson occasionally darting into space, but the goal remained elusive.
Then, the moment came.
In the 34th minute, Joel received the ball wide, faked out one defender with a shoulder drop, and then zipped past another with a quick burst of speed. He sent a deep cross into the box. Bony, grappling with a center-back, leaped high and directed the ball down with a soft header.
Quaresma was the first to react.
The ball bounced awkwardly, but he connected perfectly on the volley, driving it into the bottom corner. No celebration. Just pure instinct—control—finish.
"¡GOOOOL DE TENERIFE! Ricardo Quaresma with a sharp volley! 1–0!"
Laurence smiled. He turned to Victor and murmured, "Good. But one's not enough. We need to show more intent."
He understood that matches like this could spiral into chaos if they didn't secure a second goal.
The half ended quietly, but Córdoba's aggression didn't wane after the break. They pushed higher, pressing with renewed urgency, sending bodies forward whenever possible. The tempo slowed, Tenerife's passing lost its edge, and mistakes began to creep into the midfield.
In the 66th minute, Kante misjudged a pass and played it short, handing Córdoba a chance to counterattack. Their forward charged through the middle, unleashed a powerful shot toward the corner, and Argonese had to dive at full stretch to tip it wide.
The stadium held its breath. Laurence clapped loudly—one sharp, echoing sound.
"Focus!" he yelled. "Wake up!"
Griezmann came on for Bony. Neymar took Joel's place. Fresh legs, fresh energy. The message was clear: finish the job.
Right away, the game shifted. Córdoba's defense, brave but stretched, struggled to keep up with the sudden burst of pace and sharp decision-making. Griezmann floated between the lines, connecting passes. Neymar moved inside, finding space between defenders.
In the 78th minute, the breakthrough arrived.
Griezmann dropped deep, attracted two defenders, then spun sharply and delivered a perfect through ball behind Córdoba's high line. Neymar surged forward, took a touch to steady himself, then calmly chipped the keeper.
"GOAL! Neymar—coming off the bench with a cool finish! Tenerife leads 2–0!"
The crowd let out a wave of cheers. Laurence hugged the coaching staff and Victor.
The final minutes became a controlled exercise. He brought on Nino García, the young defender, to give De Vrij a well-earned rest. The back line held strong. Cancelo, despite some early struggles, finished the game confidently, reading transitions better with Kante staying disciplined beside him.
The whistle blew.
A professional 2–0. Tenerife were through.