Laurence had made up his mind.
He waved sharply at the bench, summoning Joel back. The winger slowed his pace, instantly grasping the situation. He had poured his heart and soul into the past few weeks, but this match had escalated beyond what sheer effort could mend.
Laurence then pointed decisively at Griezmann.
"Get warmed up. Now."
The Frenchman was already on his feet, jogging along the sideline with quick, light strides before the command even fully registered. He wasn't coming on to play it safe or drift wide. Laurence had something much more targeted in mind.
On the field, Tenerife kept pressing, but the structure was beginning to show signs of strain again.
Then, in the 75th minute, everything changed.
A loose ball bounced awkwardly in Benfica's box. Natalio sprinted after it without a second thought, just as he had all night. He reached it first, trying to position himself between the defender and the ball.
Garay came in late, misjudging the timing, and his trailing leg caught Natalio's ankle.
The contact was unmistakable. The whistle blew immediately.
For a brief moment, the stadium reacted—but the noise quickly faded.
Natalio remained on the ground.
He stayed down, gripping his ankle, his face contorted in genuine pain. It wasn't an act; it was real suffering.
Natalio hadn't dived.
The medical team rushed onto the field, and the players stepped back to give them room. Griezmann halted his warm-up, watching intently. Neymar stood close by, hands on his hips, eyes locked on his teammate.
A minute ticked by.
Then the stretcher arrived.
The stadium rose in a show of respect. Applause filled the air as Natalio was carried off, his arm shielding his face.
Laurence let out a slow breath before turning around. "Antoine," he called out, already gesturing toward the pitch.
Griezmann gave a quick nod and stepped onto the field.
But he wasn't stepping in as a striker.
Instead, he slipped into the space behind Neymar and Bony, who had moved closer together in the center.
Neymar took control of the ball, setting it down with care. He took a few steps back and paused, waiting.
Artur shifted on his line, trying to read Neymar's intentions and throw him off his game.
Then the whistle blew.
Neymar struck the ball low and hard into the corner. Artur didn't stand a chance.
4–3 for the night. 5–4 on aggregate.
The stadium erupted with energy once more.
On the field, the tension was palpable.
Casemiro snapped at Kanté after a missed press, while Griezmann threw his arms up in frustration after making a run that went unnoticed. Neymar, feeling the weight of the moment, reacted to a foul that wasn't called—kicking the ball away after the whistle blew.
A yellow card was issued in the 80th minute.
Laurence turned slightly toward Victor, whispering, "They're rushing it."
Victor nodded in agreement. "Too much emotion."
They both understood the implications.
Benfica, to their credit, recognized it too.
They slowed the game down, taking their time on restarts, drawing fouls in midfield, and breaking Tenerife's rhythm whenever they could. Not in an obvious way—just enough to throw them off balance.
And it worked.
Tenerife kept pushing, but their spacing became chaotic. Runs started to overlap instead of working in harmony. The urgency was clouding their decision-making.
Laurence shouted to Neymar to calm down.
But Neymar didn't glance back.
From the stands, Mauro could see the stark difference. This wasn't the Tenerife that had dominated matches earlier in the tournament. This was a team that was reacting, not leading.
Yet, the situation remained straightforward.
One goal.
That was all they needed.
Benfica surged forward, and in an unexpected twist, Neymar sprinted all the way back into his own box to lend a hand on defense. It wasn't exactly his usual gig, but the situation called for it.
As he attempted to clear the ball, his touch was just a bit off. It deflected out for a corner kick.
The Benfica players quickly advanced.
Gaitán took charge of the corner. His delivery curled toward the far post, dipping just in time into a crowded box.
Koulibaly was the first to rise, managing a partial header.
The ball fell awkwardly.
Luna tried to control it, but it bounced off his chest under pressure, and he volleyed it toward the halfway line.
Then it landed right in front of Bony. He noticed the goalkeeper was way off his line.
With instinct kicking in, he struck the ball.
The shot sailed over the bodies in front of him and found the net before Artur could get back in position.
4–4 on the night. 5–5 on aggregate.
The stadium erupted once more.
Antoinne gave Bony a hearty clap on the back, still reeling from that goal from the halfway line.
But reality set in as Benfica still held the away goal advantage. A draw meant they would be out.
The noise dimmed slightly, replaced by a collective sense of urgency.
With just four minutes left, they needed one more goal.
Laurence paused for a moment, processing everything. Then he turned sharply to Victor.
"Push them," he said, his voice low but filled with urgency. "Everything forward."
Victor immediately stepped to the edge of the technical area, shouting out instructions.
The message spread like wildfire across the pitch.
No holding back now.
The final minutes felt like they were dragging on forever.
Every second seemed to stretch out.
Benfica was doing their best to press forward, trying to regain control and avoid being pinned back. Their manager, Jorge Jesus, was fired up, shouting out instructions and demanding that his players stay focused.
Tenerife kept pushing.
At 90+5, Benfica earned a corner kick.
The whole stadium seemed to hold its breath. This could be the moment.
Gaitán stepped up to take the corner once more.
He delivered a high, precise ball aimed right at the cluster of players in the center.
Luna spotted it early. He took a step forward and launched himself into the air.
He soared above everyone else and connected with the ball cleanly, sending it out of the box with power.
The clearance didn't go far, but Kanté was quick to react.
The ball bounced awkwardly, but he adjusted in an instant, bringing it under control with a calm touch.
He didn't glance sideways; his eyes were fixed ahead. He had already spotted the run.
Neymar was on the move.
Kanté played the pass right into the open space.
Neymar sprinted onto it.
The crowd erupted, rising as one.
He pushed the ball ahead, picking up speed. Luisão turned and chased him down, using his strength to close the gap, but Neymar had already created some distance.
One touch, then another. And just like that, he was through.
Artur rushed off his line, trying to narrow the angle.
Time seemed to slow down.
Neymar adjusted his stride.
His first touch took him slightly around the keeper, creating a narrow opening.
There wasn't much room, but it was just enough for Neymar. Instead of striking the ball hard, he opted for a delicate lift.
A soft chip.
The ball sailed over Artur's reach.
For a brief moment, it felt like time stood still.
Then, it fell.
Right into the net.
5–4 for the night. 6–5 on aggregate.
The crowd went wild.
Neymar froze for a heartbeat, watching the ball settle, as if he needed to make sure it was real. He was itching to take off his shirt, but the fans reminded him he was already on a yellow card.
Then his teammates rushed to him.
On the sidelines, Laurence didn't move at first.
But then his legs buckled, and he sank to his knees—overwhelmed by a sudden wave of exhaustion.
All the tension that had built up during the match—pressure, frustration, control, and the loss of it—crashed down in that one electrifying moment.
They had done it.