The morning after the 0–0 draw with Valencia felt heavy, a weight that hung in the air, seeping into the hallways, the locker room, and even the training pitches where the grass was still glistening from the early dew. Tenerife should have clinched that game. They should have put it away long before frustration began to gnaw at them.
Laurence Gonzáles didn't need to raise his voice as he gathered the team in a semicircle near the halfway line. The silence he created spoke volumes.
"We missed twelve chances," he said, his tone steady, hands tucked into his training coat pockets. "Twelve. Not half-chances. Not wild shots from thirty meters. Real opportunities. Crafted through our strategy. And then squandered through carelessness."
A few heads dropped — De Vrij, always introspective; Joel, still young enough to take every word to heart; Joel, who had fluffed an easy chance; Neymar, who tried to act indifferent but clearly failed; even Casemiro, who usually stood like a rock.
Laurence paced slowly in front of them, his gaze moving from one face to another. "The issue wasn't technique. It wasn't fatigue. It was focus. Decision-making. You make the extra pass when the goal is clearer. You take the shot when the pass isn't as good. What we did yesterday was the complete opposite."
He didn't look directly at Neymar when he said it, but Neymar shifted uncomfortably. Griezmann let out a small sigh, knowing they had it coming.
"And passing," Laurence added, a hint of a smile on his face. "Some of you looked like you were allergic to a simple five-meter ball. We've trained this structure so everything flows smoothly. If we disrupt that flow, we risk becoming just average. And let's be clear, we're not here to be average."
He let that last thought linger in the air. It wasn't about scaring them; it was a reminder of the high bar they had set for themselves.
Their high bar — not his.
Turning slightly back to the younger group, he subtly offered each of them something. A reassuring glance at Grimaldo.
A small nod for Joel.
A moment of eye contact with De Vrij that said, You've improved since yesterday, and we both know it.
Neymar didn't get any words, just a raised eyebrow that conveyed everything.
Cancelo, hands on his hips, bounced lightly on his toes like a boxer eager to prove himself. Kante, with his arms tucked behind his back, absorbed the words with the calmness of someone determined to get better.
Even Nino García, one of the youngest in the squad, listened as if every word was crucial.
Behind them, Quaresma stood a bit apart, arms crossed, jaw set tight. Two rough games in a row weighed heavily on him. Laurence paused near him, not saying a word, just letting his presence be felt. Quaresma didn't need any words today.
"Alright," Laurence finally said, clapping his hands once. "Let's focus on patterns. First team with me. It's all about finishing, finishing, finishing. If a ball goes over the crossbar today, I swear I'll make you run until your legs will give out. Even then you will have to crawl and crawl."
A few chuckles broke through — tension easing, but not disappearing entirely.
Training ran hot. They drilled combination plays until movement became instinct. Neymar and Griezmann linked with sharper edges. Joel looked more confident with every repetition. Kante broke lines with smooth passes that seemed too easy to be real. Even Robertson and Cancelo pushed the rhythm higher.
By noon, the team looked sharper, angrier, hungrier. Laurence didn't say it out loud, but he felt the shift.
They needed it.
Because the Copa del Rey game against Córdoba wasn't the real storm.
The derby was coming.
But first, the cup.
______
The Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López was shrouded in a chilly winter mist, a delicate layer that softened the glow of the floodlights, making the crowd appear as shadowy figures drifting through the fog. Despite the rotations, Tenerife played with purpose. With a 2–0 advantage from the first leg, they had some breathing room, but Laurence ensured that no one got too comfortable.
Ricardo León donned the captain's armband, taking his place in midfield alongside Kante. Neymar was given a well-deserved night off. Joel took charge of the right flank, while Grimaldo, still searching for his confidence, found himself at left wingback once more.
Córdoba came out strong, eager to create chaos. For the first twenty minutes, Tenerife handled it with poise—patient, compact, and disciplined. De Vrij and Luna anticipated every move, while Kante was everywhere the ball tried to escape. Grimaldo, still a bit jittery, kept his passes straightforward and precise.
Then came the 38th minute.
De Vrij intercepted the ball high up the pitch and sent a well-placed long pass toward Bony. Wilfried expertly chested it down, holding off his defender like a solid wall. He laid it off to Quaresma.
Quaresma cut inside.
In that fleeting moment, all the frustration from the last two matches coalesced into a perfect strike—the ball curling just beyond the keeper's fingertips, finding the back of the net.
He didn't go overboard with his celebration. Instead, he closed his eyes, a wave of relief washing over his face. Joel dashed over to embrace him, followed closely by Grimaldo. Even Laurence couldn't help but pump his fist in approval.
A man rediscovering himself-that was significant.
The second half unfolded with professionalism and control. Tenerife didn't rush to score more goals; they played it cool. Laurence had emphasized the importance of control in knockout football, and they executed it flawlessly with clean, unhurried passing triangles.
Final score: 1–0. Aggregate: 3–0. Job done.
But everyone knew this wasn't the chapter people would remember.
That was coming next.
The Derby of the Canary Islands.
-----
To really grasp why the derby was such a big deal, you had to get a feel for the islands. Tenerife and Gran Canaria weren't just next-door neighbors — they were fierce rivals in everything from identity and politics to tourism and, of course, who could claim the title of having the "real beauty." For years, fans from Las Palmas would poke fun at Tenerife for being too quiet and laid-back, while Tenerife supporters would tease Las Palmas for being loud and a bit insecure.
The football rivalry reflected all of this.
Since the 1950s, the archipelago had gauged its worth by this match. Families found themselves divided in their loyalties. Businesses would shut down early. Every bar, every street corner, every café buzzed with chatter about the derby for days on end.
For those in Santa Cruz, it didn't matter if you lost every other match in the season — just don't lose to Las Palmas.
On the night when Tenerife triumphed over Cordoba in the second leg, he found himself wandering into a cozy little bar by the coast. The locals recognized him right away. A group of fishermen treated him to drinks until he was leaning against the counter, laughing with rosy cheeks.
"You gave us a great night, míster," one of the older gentlemen said, giving him a hearty pat on the back.
He recalled turning around, feeling a bit dizzy and warm from the drinks, when a woman approached him — she had long dark hair, a gentle smile, and a spark of curiosity in her eyes rather than just admiration.
"You look like someone who's enjoying victory a bit too much," she remarked.
"I'm… just celebrating the peace of the island," he replied, which made her chuckle.
They talked for a while, mostly about nothing — her work, his difficulty managing a bunch of young 'brats', the way the sea sounded different this time of the year. Before leaving, she said softly, "Good luck on the derby. Don't let them bully us."
He, drunk and foolishly confident, handed her his number.
"It's for tactical advice," he had joked.
She had laughed and taken it.
______
And just like that, derby day was finally here.
The Estadio de Gran Canaria was buzzing long before the match even kicked off. Yellow flares lit up the concourse, and the sound of drums echoed like distant thunder. The Tenerife fans had claimed their corner of the stadium, small but mighty, waving their blue-and-white banners like proud battle flags.
As Laurence stepped out of the tunnel, boos rained down on him.
He just smiled.
Pressure had a way of sharpening his focus.
Tenerife set up with Koulibaly, Luna, and De Vrij forming a solid back three. Neymar was back in action, with Griezmann darting around him, and Bony leading the attack. Casemiro and Kikoto held down the central midfield, while Cancelo and Grimaldo pushed forward.
Las Palmas, under the fiery Paco Jémez, came ready to fight: Jonathan Viera, Vitolo, and Sergio Araujo made up a front line designed for chaos.
Then the whistle blew.
The stadium erupted.
The derby kicked off just like it always did — with a blend of aggression and football. Vitolo charged into Cancelo within the first minute, sending him sliding off the pitch. The referee let it go, which infuriated Cancelo so much that Grimaldo had to step in and pull him away.
In the twelfth minute, Casemiro picked up a yellow card — not for anything dirty, but for misjudging a sliding tackle on Viera that sent the winger tumbling. Instantly, Las Palmas players surrounded the referee. Kikoto and Bony intervened, with Bony raising his hands and saying something calm enough to ease the tension.
But the match didn't calm down.
Every time the ball was received, it came with a player ready to battle. Every clearance sparked a contest. The stadium erupted with every foul and every clash. Laurence kept urging for calm, but the adrenaline turned even the most composed players into puppets.
In the 18th minute, Neymar was brutally taken down from behind by Ángel López. He jumped up, seething, and shoved the defender back. A scuffle was on the verge of breaking out — Griezmann rushed in to grab Neymar's shoulders, while Kante wrapped an arm around his waist, physically pulling him away.
Neymar yelled in Portuguese, clearly furious. The referee issued a warning. Laurence let out a sharp breath — they couldn't afford to lose a player.
Amidst the chaos, Tenerife was still creating opportunities. In the 27th minute, Griezmann flicked a ball through the defense for Neymar, who danced past two defenders but shot just inches wide. The Tenerife fans let out a collective groan.
Las Palmas quickly retaliated — Vitolo cut inside and unleashed a shot that De Vrij blocked with his chest. The impact sent him to his knees, breathless. He waved off the physios, jaw clenched, refusing to show any sign of weakness.
The intensity didn't let up.
In the 38th minute, a perfect cross from Cancelo found Bony sandwiched between two defenders. He powered a header that forced an incredible save from the keeper, who tipped it over the bar.
Then came the turning point.
Kikoto intercepted the ball in midfield and slipped it to Casemiro, who played a rare forward pass that sliced through the defense. Neymar collected it, dipped his shoulder, beat his man, and struck low toward the far corner.
This time — it found the back of the net.
1-0
Neymar didn't celebrate at all. Instead, he turned to the Las Palmas stand and put a finger to his lips. In an instant, flares lit up the crowd, and the stadium vibrated with energy.
The second half kicked off with even more intensity.
Las Palmas pushed hard, throwing everything they had into the attack. Viera hit the post in the 52nd minute, and Araujo forced Aragonesses into a spectacular fingertip save. Koulibaly executed a tackle so perfectly timed it could've been framed on a wall.
By the 60th minute, Tenerife was in a battle for discipline. Casemiro, already on a yellow card, was walking a tightrope. Kante was everywhere, extinguishing fires all over the pitch. Grimaldo, surprisingly calm, didn't make a single mistake.
In the 71st minute, Neymar was brought down again. This time, he really lost his cool, lunging back at the defender — but Griezmann was there to hold him back, shouting in French, urging him to breathe and think. Kikoto pulled away the Las Palmas players who were demanding a red card, while Bony stood firm like a wall.
Laurence made his tactical move. Kante dropped deeper, Griezmann came off, bolstering the midfield. Tenerife became compact, suffocating any space for Las Palmas.
Las Palmas kept the pressure on.
Free-kicks rained into the box. Corners soared high. Bodies collided. Every clearance felt like a fight for survival.
Then came the moment of truth.
In the 87th minute, Vitolo cut inside and unleashed a curling shot aimed for the far corner. Aragonesses stretched out, fingertips grazing the ball. It just edged wide.
Laurence only breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the roar of the Tenerife fans behind him.
Five minutes of stoppage time felt like an eternity.
Neymar kept the ball in the corner. Cancelo won a crucial throw-in. Bony drew a foul to waste precious seconds. De Vrij headed away the final cross.
And then, finally, the whistle blew.
Las Palmas 0–1 Tenerife.
Blue and white smoke flares lit the away end. Players collapsed — not in celebration, but in sheer exhaustion. The staff hugged. The Tenerife fans chanted with a force that drowned out everything else.
Victor shouted, fists raised, "¡Somos los reyes del Atlántico!"
Laurence didn't say much. Just nodded, pride hidden behind calmness. Then his phone buzzed.
A message.
From her.
"Saw the match. Congrats. I didn't know island wars could be this intense."
He smiled, and for the first time all night, allowed himself a long breath.
The Atlantic was theirs tonight.