Tenerife's vibe really picked up as September slipped into October. After that tough draw in the Netherlands, something changed within the team—an air of defiance, a determination not to let Europe rattle their confidence.
Laurence didn't even need to give a pep talk; the players had learned the lesson themselves. They were no longer naive about what awaited them on foreign turf.
Next came a solid 2–0 home win against Sporting Gijón.
Tenerife played with authority—pressing in well-timed bursts, moving the ball around with a calm, almost cruel precision. The fans left the stadium buzzing with pride, the sting of Twente fading away. Just a few days later, they secured an away victory at Espanyol.
Wilfried Bony shook off his early doubts, finally hitting the stride Laurence always knew he had. His hold-up play became the heartbeat of the team, while Griezmann—gaining confidence week by week-provided the spark with two perfectly timed chances.
Neymar, for his part, was nothing short of spectacular. His dazzling footwork, sharp movements, and elastic dribbles left defenders scrambling. But with brilliance comes a price. Every flick drew a kick; every sprint invited a late shove; every feint provoked a desperate tackle that arrived just a moment too late but was fully intended.
Opposing managers didn't hide their game plan anymore. "Stop Neymar." And everyone understood what that meant. He was electric whenever he wasn't on the ground.
Laurence watched it all unfold, feeling a knot tighten in his stomach each week.
He remembered the Neymar from his past—the generational talent who racked up highlights and scars in equal measure. The prince who never quite became king. Not for lack of talent, but because the world chipped away at him with foul after foul, injury after injury, and expectation after expectation.
A star dimmed by the heavy burden he carried alone.
______
The Europa League match kicked off on a warm evening at the Heliodoro Rodríguez López, where Wisła Kraków arrived brimming with confidence but left feeling quite the opposite. Tenerife delivered one of their most impressive performances of the season, moving the ball with such speed that the Polish team could hardly keep up, let alone mount a defense.
A slick interplay between Joel and Kante set the stage for the first goal.
Neymar, drifting in from the left, struck the second with flair. Then, in the second half, Griezmann curled a stunning shot into the far corner, igniting a roar from the crowd.
Yet, even with a 3–0 win, the familiar pattern emerged. Neymar was repeatedly fouled—stamped on, tripped, and yanked back by his shirt. He counted six fouls against him before the 80th minute, but only one yellow card was issued.
When a harsh tackle forced him off the pitch, the fans reacted as if they had just witnessed a crime. Limping to the bench with a frustrated look, Neymar left Laurence visibly tense.
As the final whistle blew, the applause for the team was deafening. However, in the dimly lit press room afterward, the joy of victory quickly faded into a sense of irritation.
Laurence sat at a small table under bright lights, microphones pointed at him like probing beaks. His face was composed, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice.
"Coach González," a journalist from Marca inquired, "Neymar faced a lot of fouls again today. Are you worried this might impact his performance or lead to injuries?"
Laurence took a slow breath, leaning in. He had prepared a response in his mind, but the truth spilled out more forcefully than he had planned.
"I'll be completely honest with you," he began. "If this keeps up, someone is going to get seriously hurt. Neymar is one of the most exciting young talents out there, and for every moment of brilliance he tries to share with the fans, all he gets in return are kicks to the shins and elbows to the ribs. We're here to play football, not wrestle."
Flashes from cameras lit up the room. Pens were busy scribbling notes. Laurence remained unfazed.
"Today wasn't football. It was a player being targeted over and over again, and the referees' protection has been… well, let's just say it's been lacking."
Another journalist from AS raised a hand. "Are you implying that the referees aren't doing their jobs?"
Laurence shook his head, though you could sense the irritation bubbling just beneath his composed exterior.
"I understand that referees have a tough job. I respect them for that. But if they allow this to go on unchecked, they're basically giving teams the green light to handle talent with violence. What kind of message does that send? That the only way to stop brilliance is to foul it? That creativity is a problem? That dribbling is a crime?"
A few reporters exchanged knowing glances, realizing a headline was forming right before their eyes.
"I'm not asking for any special treatment," Laurence continued. "Just fairness. If a player gets fouled, call it. Protect the game. Protect what makes people fall in love with football. Because if we truly love this sport, we need to safeguard what makes it beautiful. Players like Neymar, Messi, Silva, Iniesta—they're not issues to be dealt with through kicks."
He pushed back his chair, signaling the end of the press conference.
"Good night, everyone."
As he stepped into the corridor, the sounds of typing and chatter faded behind him like a distant storm. Outside the medical room, Neymar was waiting, a cold pack strapped to his calf, his face a mix of irritation and resignation.
"You doing okay?" Laurence asked.
Neymar gave a slight nod, a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I've had worse."
Laurence crouched down a bit, getting to Neymar's eye level. "That's not the issue. You shouldn't have to put up with fouls every few minutes."
Neymar tilted his head slightly. "It's football."
"It's not really football when they're not even trying to play the ball," Laurence countered. "Sure, Europe is different. But we're not going to let them turn you into a target."
Neymar blinked slowly, and something in his expression shifted. Beneath the pain and frustration, there was a hint of gratitude—quiet and subtle.
Laurence kept the real thought to himself: I won't let you become the prince who never became king. Not again.
As he stepped out into the cool Santa Cruz night, he glanced at the message unread on his phone.
From Lucía.
"Congratulations on the win tonight."
Laurence typed back slowly, a faint smile tugging at him.
"Thank you."