The chill in Eindhoven sneaked in softly, the kind that seeped into your bones instead of just nipping at your skin. Under the bright lights of the Philips Stadion, the red-and-white stands buzzed with energy, flags fluttering in the breeze as PSV Eindhoven geared up to defend their spot at the top of the group.
For CD Tenerife, this wasn't just another European match; it felt weightier than that. The group table loomed heavily in Laurence Gonzales' mind as he lingered near the touchline, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets.
PSV was leading with eight points, while Tenerife trailed just one behind. Twente was lurking, close enough to capitalize on any mistake. Nothing felt secure.
Meanwhile, Neymar watched from home, his thigh wrapped (training knock) and his patience wearing thin. It was clear even before the match began that his absence was felt. Tenerife seemed different without him—less explosive, less unpredictable, and more reliant on structure than on creativity.
PSV wasted no time in reminding them of their surroundings. The opening moments were sharp and focused, the Dutch side pressing forward in well-coordinated waves.
Kevin Strootman stepped up to disrupt Casemiro's passing lanes, while Georginio Wijnaldum smartly drifted between Kikoto and Luna, always available and always looking to move forward. Ola Toivonen floated just behind the Tenerife midfield, constantly turning and scanning the field, forcing Tenerife into decisions they'd rather avoid.
Laurence watched the scene unfold, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The formation was holding firm, but just barely. The back three shuffled side to side, with Koulibaly stepping out when needed, De Vrij staying compact, and Luna constantly communicating. Cancelo and Grimaldo were relentless on the flanks, tracking runners and looking to provide an outlet whenever possession changed hands.
PSV's first real chance came early enough to feel almost inevitable. Mertens sped down the left, gliding past Cancelo with a burst of speed, and sent a cross that curved dangerously toward the near post.
Lens met it perfectly, his header driven low and hard. Aragoneses reacted on instinct, flinging himself across the goal and just managing to tip the ball over with his fingertips. The roar from the home crowd paused for a split second before erupting again, even louder this time.
Laurence clapped once, sharply. He understood that saves like that only bought time, nothing more.
Tenerife gradually found their rhythm. Casemiro adjusted his positioning, dropping deeper and giving Kikoto more freedom to move the ball sideways instead of just forward. It wasn't the most expansive football, but it helped stop the bleeding. Quaresma started to drift inside, pulling Hutchinson with him and creating small pockets of space for Grimaldo to exploit.
Their first opportunity came out of nowhere. A diagonal switch from De Vrij caught PSV off guard for a moment. Grimaldo cushioned the ball forward to Quaresma, who took on his defender with a clever drop of the shoulder and sent a curling cross toward the penalty spot.
Bony rose well, his header powerful and clean, but the post intervened with a dull thud. Griezmann reacted quickly, but his follow-up was blocked by a scrambling defender.
The first half was a real tug-of-war, swinging between pressure and resistance. PSV kept pushing forward, with Strootman taking shots from distance and Wijnaldum managing to slip past Kikoto more than once.
One of those long-range attempts even rattled the crossbar, the sound echoing through the stadium like a warning bell. Tenerife tried to respond with quick counters, Griezmann dropping back to carry the ball upfield, Bony holding it up under pressure, and Quaresma looking to draw fouls and slow things down.
When halftime rolled around, the dressing room was surprisingly quiet. Laurence didn't need to raise his voice, the boys already knew what to do.
They were spending too much time defending, reacting instead of taking charge. He urged them to be patient with the ball, to push the wingbacks higher when the opportunity arose, and to trust the system instead of fearing its collapse.
The message was straightforward: if they kept playing as if their only goal was to escape, that's all they'd achieve.
As the second half kicked off, the intensity remained high, but the cold felt sharper now as fatigue set in and decisions became sluggish. PSV stayed aggressive, believing that their relentless pressure would eventually crack Tenerife.
But Tenerife was adapting, making subtle adjustments. Casemiro started to intercept rather than just tackle. Kikoto began to turn away from pressure instead of making risky first-time passes. De Vrij stepped up more confidently, cutting off passing lanes before they could even form.
Just after the hour mark, a chance opened up. A long clearance fell perfectly to Griezmann, who spun away from his defender and slid a beautifully weighted pass into Bony's path.
The striker charged into the box and struck low with his left foot. Isaksson reacted quickly, parrying the shot wide. Bony slammed the turf in frustration as PSV cleared the danger.
Moments later, Tenerife found themselves on the brink of disaster. Cancelo was caught too high up the pitch, and Mertens once again exploited the space down the flank. Koulibaly quickly shifted wide to cover, but the cross came in fast and low.
Lens arrived unmarked, stretching out to make contact. Aragoneses was quick to react, pulling off another sharp save, this time smothering the ball at close range. Laurence turned away for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief, before refocusing on the action unfolding on the pitch.
As the match progressed, the physicality ramped up. Challenges grew more intense, and players leaned in with just a bit more force. Quaresma was sent tumbling near the touchline, looking at the referee in disbelief when no foul was called.
Kikoto took a late tackle from Strootman and stayed down longer than necessary, not really hurt but definitely annoyed.
Laurence kept his thoughts to himself. He had learned that lesson well.
With just fifteen minutes left, Tenerife had their best chance to snatch victory. Griezmann slipped into space between the lines, drawing two defenders with him, and deftly flicked the ball around the corner.
Quaresma picked it up in stride, outmaneuvered Manolev with a quick change of direction, and sent a low cross toward the near post. Bony slid in, stretching every muscle to make contact.
The ball rolled just wide.
The bench froze, hands on heads, mouths agape in silence. Laurence stared at the spot where the ball had crossed the line, as if he could will it back into play.
The final substitutions were made with caution. Joel came on for Griezmann, bringing fresh legs but not necessarily creativity. Tenerife dropped a few yards deeper, choosing to manage the remaining minutes rather than risk everything for a goal. PSV pressed on, but without a sense of urgency.
The match slowed down, interrupted by fouls and throw-ins, the clock ticking away with a quiet, relentless cruelty.
When the whistle finally blew, the reaction was subdued. Applause from the home crowd, respectful but restrained. Relief among Tenerife's players, mixed with regret.
Laurence shook hands with Fred Rutten, exchanged a few polite words, then turned toward the tunnel. He felt the weight of the draw immediately. Every point mattered now. Every mistake echoed louder.