Laurence found himself at that cozy bar just off Calle del Castillo, the little gem in Santa Cruz where the lighting was soft, the music barely a whisper, and the regulars chatted in gentle tones rather than loud roars. It was the night after the derby victory against Las Palmas—one of the toughest matches Tenerife had ever faced—and yet, he didn't feel the satisfaction he expected. Instead, there was a strange unease, as if the win was just a thin veil over something much more complex lurking beneath.
Sitting alone, he sipped his drink slowly, replaying the game in his mind. Neymar's stunning goal. Koulibaly's fierce tackles. Casemiro almost getting himself sent off. The raw emotions, the pressure, the animosity from the crowd. They had made it through. They had triumphed. But deep down, Laurence felt a weight he couldn't quite shake off.
Then, he heard her voice.
"Didn't think you'd show up this soon."
He turned slightly to see her standing in the same corner where they had first met. Her presence wasn't loud—never was—but there was something undeniably magnetic about her. Her eyes didn't try to pry into his thoughts, and her smile didn't seek to impress.
Laurence motioned to the empty stool next to him. "I would've come earlier if I'd known you'd be here. I wanted to thank you for the message."
She raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on her lips. "Sure you would."
He let out a soft chuckle. "Okay, maybe not earlier. But I would have eventually."
It felt surprisingly easy with her. No tension, no expectations, no idolization. Just a man and a woman sharing a quiet moment in a bar.
"What's your name?" he asked out of the blue, realizing he had never learned it while sober.
She paused before replying, "Lucía."
He repeated it softly, letting it roll off his tongue. "Lucía. That fits you well."
"Oh?" she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. "And why's that?"
"It means light, right? You're like the light of my life," he blurted out, instantly wishing he could take it back. "Uh… I mean, in a good way."
Lucía chuckled, and just like that, the awkwardness melted away. "Chill out. I've heard way worse. Trust me."
He couldn't help but watch her as she leaned over the counter to place her order with the bartender. In that fleeting moment, he felt something he hadn't experienced in ages—something quieter than joy and softer than relief. The simple comfort of normalcy.
"My dad nearly had a heart attack during the match," she shared. "He actually cried when Neymar scored."
"That's the good kind of tears," Laurence replied with a smile.
"And now my whole family thinks I owe you a thank you on behalf of the island." She flashed a grin. "So… thanks, I guess."
Laurence shrugged. "They play, I guide. That's all there is to it."
"But you care," she said softly. "You really do. It's obvious."
He stayed silent. Caring—truly caring—was what scared him the most. It meant losing things when they fell apart. It meant feeling every single failure. It meant taking on responsibility.
Lucía must have sensed the shift in his mood because her smile softened, and she started asking about anything but football. Her job. Her favorite beach. Her dislike for long ferry rides. He learned that she grew up in La Laguna, had a love for old bookstores, and only started following football because her dad made it a family tradition.
"It's not love for me," she admitted. "But I appreciate what it does for people. The passion. The unity."
Laurence swirled his drink thoughtfully. "For me, it's not love either. It's… battle. A fight I keep choosing. To prove myself to.... me."
"And is it worth it?"
He met her gaze, really met it. "Sometimes."
Laurence was reminded of his young days as a footballer, a defender for a second division Brazilian team- Parana. He was 24 at the time he realized he was not meant for the big leagues. And that realization broke him.
Everyone aspires to be the next 'big' thing. Like Ronaldinho, like Beckham. But there is only one Beckham, only one Ronaldinho.
Laurence had realized early on he had no talent on the pitch. So he retired.
Two years he spent at home in Spain before he decided to switch to coaching. Three years later, he got his first Managerial job at C.D Tenerife, which was still struggling in Segunda Division.
After securing promotion in his first ever season, he decided what he wanted to do. He wanted to challenge the likes of Arsene Wenger, Alex Ferguson, Pep Guardiola, Jose Mourinho. Build something which lasts. Which people remember him for.
That was when he got the memories of his previous life.
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De Grolsch Veste Stadium in the Netherlands had a unique football spirit. The traveling fans from Tenerife arrived with their drums, flares, and flags, bringing the raw thrill of a club making its European debut. Their chants filled the air, creating a sound that Laurence had never experienced outside the Heliodoro. European nights had a rhythm all their own.
But as the players gathered in the tunnel, Laurence felt a tightening in his chest. It wasn't nerves; it was a sense of awareness. Europe could be ruthless. Europe had a history.
Neymar was at the front of the line, lightly bouncing on his toes. He was made for nights like this—bright lights, relentless cameras, and eyes everywhere. Yet, Laurence was suddenly gripped by an odd fear. It wasn't about Neymar's skill; it was what Neymar represented to him.
In another life—a life he'd watched unfold through screens and commentary—Neymar had been dubbed "The Prince Who Never Became King." A boy of extraordinary talent, burdened by a body that let him down, with a career marred by injuries and heartbreak. A fragile prince.
Laurence clenched his fists behind his back.
Not this time.
He wouldn't allow injuries to claim him again. He wouldn't let the world shatter him.
The whistle blew, and reality snapped back into focus.
The match ignited with intensity.
And it took less than two minutes for Laurence to grasp the harsh truth of European football.
Neymar received the ball on the left, tried to cut inside, and was instantly brought down. A full-body collision. The sickening sound of studs meeting ankle.
No whistle.
Laurence shot up from his spot in the technical area. "Ref! That's a foul!"
The referee barely acknowledged him.
Twente had a clear strategy. Every time Neymar got the ball, it was like a magnet for trouble. Bodies crashed into him—shirt pulls, shoulder checks, shoves. They were rough, cynical tackles that skirted the line of a yellow card but were definitely painful.
By the 20th minute, Neymar had hit the ground four times.
By the 35th, it was up to nine.
Laurence felt a surge of anger bubbling inside him, but Victor leaned in and whispered, "This is how they disrupt our flow. They know Neymar is our key player."
"But this is just brutal," Laurence muttered through gritted teeth.
Neymar was trying to power through it, pulling off some dazzling moments—a nutmeg here, a brilliant feint there—but Twente didn't care. The fans were jeering, the defenders were smirking, and every time Neymar lifted his head, another shoulder slammed into him.
In the 44th minute, Tenerife finally broke through with a slick move. Kikoto found Joel, who sent a deep cross, and Bony muscled past two defenders to slot the ball home.
The away end erupted in cheers.
But just minutes into the second half, Twente equalized with a scrappy rebound. Tenerife pressed on, but the rhythm was lost. Neymar's confidence was shaken, and his ankle was swelling from the constant battering.
Then came the moment Laurence had been dreading.
In the 68th minute, Neymar was fouled again—this time yanked down by the collar. He sprang up, shoved the defender, and shouted something fierce.
The referee rushed in.
Laurence shouted from the sidelines, "Ney! Let it go! Just let it go!"
But Neymar was shaking, a mix of anger and hurt flashing in his eyes. The threat of a red card loomed over him like a sword ready to drop.
Without hesitation, Laurence made his call.
Joel off. Neymar off.
The Brazilian walked past him in silence, simmering with rage.
When the final whistle blew—1–1—it felt empty.
In the locker room, Neymar sat hunched over, an ice pack pressed against his ankle.
"You good?" Laurence asked.
Neymar nodded, but his gaze was far away. "They didn't want to play."
"That's Europe for you," Laurence said softly as he settled next to him. "Some teams aren't interested in winning through skill. They want to break you down. For some, the game is secondary."
Neymar looked down, his jaw clenched tight.
Laurence put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Listen, you're not the kid they think you are. You won't be remembered for the wrong reasons. Not here. Not with me."
Neymar met his gaze, and for a brief moment, the world around them faded. There was fear in his eyes, but also a flicker of trust.
Laurence squeezed his shoulder gently. "You're not going to break in this life, Ney. I won't allow it."
As the team bus rolled through the quiet streets of Enschede, Tenerife's flags fluttering from the windows despite the somber evening, Laurence gazed out at the twinkling lights.
In Europe, brilliance came at a cost.
And now, he understood just how steep that price could be.
But he also knew this:
He would pay whatever it took to protect his players—especially the delicate genius beside him—from the fate that history had once predicted.