The vibe at the Heliodoro Rodríguez López was off from the get-go. It felt heavy, almost like there was a metallic taste in the air. Even during warm-ups, the fans could sense something was amiss with their team. Laurence didn't crack a smile. No sly nods to the crowd, no lively gestures to his players. His jaw was tight, his eyes were sharp, and his face was as cold as ice. Neymar barely lifted his gaze while juggling the ball, moving awkwardly, his ankle still haunted by those tough European tackles.
Tenerife facing off against Osasuna should have been just another league match. But instead, it felt charged with the kind of tension from a grudge neither team could quite remember starting.
When the whistle blew, Tenerife charged forward with determination.
But just eight minutes in, the first sign of trouble emerged. Neymar made a quick move inside, executed a slick one-two with Joel, and sped down the channel—only for Osasuna's right-back to come in with a sliding tackle so late that the stadium gasped before Neymar even hit the ground.
The sound of the impact rang out.
Neymar rolled on the ground, clutching his ankle. The referee hurried over, raised a hand in a gesture of apology, and only awarded a free kick.
That's when Laurence lost it.
He stormed out of his technical area, his fury surprising even his own bench. He grabbed a water bottle and slammed it down, splashing water all over the touchline. The fourth official flinched and stepped forward, hands raised in a calming gesture.
"Calma, míster. Calm down."
But Laurence wasn't really paying attention. His anger wasn't just about the foul—he had been holding onto months of frustration, watching Neymar get kicked and pulled without any repercussions. In that moment of boiling rage, he turned to his bench and shouted, loud enough for the stadium microphones to pick up—
"De Vrij! Next time their striker gets close, make sure he feels it!"
It was as if every sound around him had suddenly stopped.
De Vrij froze mid-stretch, his expression a mix of confusion and uncertainty, unsure if he had heard Laurence right or if this was some kind of test he was bound to fail.
The opposition bench erupted in an instant. Osasuna's manager, José Luis Mendilibar, stormed toward the technical area, yelling at the top of his lungs.
"¿Estás loco o qué? ¡This is football, not war!"
Coaches surged forward, fingers pointing, voices clashing in a chaotic symphony. Victor grabbed Laurence by the arm, but Laurence shook him off, still seething over the injustice he felt the referee was ignoring.
The fourth official rushed between the benches, calling for calm. Players from both sides crowded the touchline, their voices overlapping in a rising tide of noise.
In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed the referee sprinting toward the benches until his whistle sliced through the din.
He pulled out a yellow card and directed it toward De Vrij, who hadn't even stepped onto the pitch yet. Confusion washed over the center-back's face, quickly followed by embarrassment. The fourth official leaned in to whisper urgently to the referee. The referee grimaced, then turned—exuding a reluctant authority—and raised a straight red card toward Laurence.
Gasps echoed through the stadium. Tenerife fans were in an uproar, while Osasuna supporters couldn't help but jeer. Laurence stood there for a moment, blinking as if he were trying to ground himself in the chaos. Even then, he didn't respond. The anger had seeped away, leaving behind a heavy feeling he wasn't sure how to bear.
Security and staff had to step in as the benches erupted in argument. Mendes was shouting about professionalism; Victor was urging everyone to calm down; players were pushing each other. It took a full two minutes before things settled down.
As Laurence left the pitch, he was met with a chaotic blend of boos, cheers, and bewildered murmurs. By halftime, with Tenerife barely clinging to a 0–0 draw, the atmosphere felt toxic.
In the end, Tenerife managed a scrappy 1–1 draw—a last-minute equalizer that masked a performance choked by emotion rather than skill. But it wasn't the score that dominated the post-match chatter.
It was the explosion on the sidelines.
By the time Laurence made it to his office, a warning from La Liga officials awaited him in his inbox. The message was formal, cold, and impossible to ignore.
"Comments made during the match by Mr. Gonzales were considered inappropriate and contrary to the spirit of the sport. Further incidents will result in stricter fines or suspensions."
Victor read it aloud while Mauro, arms crossed behind him, shot Laurence a look that mixed disappointment with a hint of fear.
"What were you thinking?" Victor asked, his voice laced with disbelief. "You told a player to hurt someone? Right in front of the cameras? In front of the whole league?"
Laurence didn't say a word. He just stared at the floor, his shoulders tense.
Mauro stepped forward slowly, his tone serious. "Listen up, Gonzales. I've had your back for years. I've supported your methods, your intensity, your passion. But there's a fine line between being passionate and being reckless. Yesterday, you crossed that line so far that you're lucky the whole club isn't caught up in a scandal."
His voice dropped even lower. "And what do you think that does to the young players? Joel sees you lose it like that. Neymar watches you blow up. What do you think they take away from it? That violence is a strategy? That emotions should dictate decisions?"
Laurence flinched, not just at Mauro's words but at the uncomfortable truth behind them.
Victor added softly, "We're trying to build something here. Something lasting. Your choices… they impact everyone."
For a moment, the room fell silent. Laurence raised his hand to his forehead, letting out a slow breath through clenched teeth. He wanted to defend himself, to explain how he'd been pushed to the edge by weeks of unfairness, by the fear of seeing Neymar get hurt again. But the words wouldn't come. Any excuses would just sound empty, even to him.
"I'll take care of it," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Make sure you do," Mauro replied.
After everyone else had left the room, Laurence remained seated, frozen in place for several minutes. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind a hollow emptiness where his confidence used to be. He replayed the scene in his mind—the tackle, Neymar's shout, the blind rage—and felt the weight of it all pressing down even harder.
Later that evening, long after most of the players had headed home, Laurence went looking for De Vrij. He found the defender alone in the gym, using a massage roller to cool down, his bag resting at his feet. De Vrij looked up as Laurence approached, a mix of uncertainty and attentiveness in his expression.
"About what happened earlier," Laurence started, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I crossed a line. I shouldn't have.....yelled at you. Or said anything to anyone, really."
De Vrij blinked and then offered a shy smile. "Mister… it's alright. I get that you were angry."
"No," Laurence replied firmly. "It's not alright. You're my player, not a tool for my frustration. I put you in a really tough spot. I shouldn't have done that."
De Vrij glanced down at the roller, fiddling with it in his hands. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Of course."
"I… I actually thought about doing it," the defender confessed, his voice a bit sheepish. "Just a little foul. Not to hurt anyone, but… you know. To show we won't be pushed around."
Laurence stared at him for a couple of seconds before flicking him on the forehead.
"Ow—mister!"
"There," Laurence said with a smirk. "That's your punishment for being foolish."
De Vrij chuckled, rubbing the spot. "Fair enough."
Laurence allowed a small smile. Then, softer, he added, "We're going to compete. We're going to fight. But we do it with football, not with rage."
De Vrij nodded. "I understand."
As the defender packed his bag to leave, Laurence sat on a bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty gym. The distant echoes of the stadium still rang faintly—shouting, whistles, the rattling energy of conflict.
He knew tonight would not be forgotten easily. By the club, by the league, by the players who looked to him for guidance.
And beneath it all, a thought lingered—quiet, persistent, uneasy:
I can't become someone they fear instead of follow.