God Of football

Chapter 224: Final Act[ 2]

In the packed stands of the Mestalla, a group of Valencia fans was huddled together, their voices rising above the hum of the crowd during a brief pause in play.

Among them was a man in his late 30s, dressed in a classic orange and white Valencia scarf and a jacket that had seen many seasons of football.

His name was Mateo, a diehard supporter who had lived and breathed Valencia since childhood.

”You know,” Mateo began, leaning over to his friend Carlos, ”I can’t lie—I’m relieved we’re holding Barcelona to a draw right now.

These guys are like machines, man.” He gestured toward the pitch where Pedri and Lewandowski were orchestrating another intricate attack.

”But a win… oh, that would be something else.”

Carlos nodded, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. ”You think we’ve got it in us? I mean, that kid Izan—he’s special, no doubt—but Barcelona? They’re relentless.”

Mateo smirked, his eyes glinting mischievously. ”Oh, I’ve got faith, my friend. We’ve won against Real Madrid once and Atletico Madrid, back to back so why not add Barcelona to the mix for this season? Plus I’ve also got a little more riding on this one than usual.”

”What do you mean?” asked Diego, another of their group, who had been listening intently.

Mateo leaned in closer, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal a grand secret. ”I’ve got Valencia down for a win on my bookies,” he said with a grin.

”Not much—just enough to make things interesting. You know, keep the heart pumping a little faster.”

Carlos burst into laughter, shaking his head. ”You’re a madman, Mateo. Betting on a win against Barcelona? Brave or foolish, I can’t decide.”

”Hey, a man’s gotta dream, right?” Mateo replied, throwing his arms up in mock defense. ”Besides, look at the fight we’re putting up.

Izan’s been phenomenal since he came on, and Mark redeemed himself with that header. We’re in this!”

Diego chimed in, pointing toward the pitch. ”I’ll give you that. If anyone’s going to pull off a win tonight, it’s that kid. He’s got something about him—a spark. And if we win, drinks are on you.”

Mateo laughed, clapping Diego on the back. ”If Valencia wins tonight, I’ll buy the whole Mestalla a round!”

Their laughter was cut short as the game resumed, and their attention snapped back to the action on the field.

But as Mateo adjusted his scarf and leaned forward, he couldn’t help but dream about the possibility of walking away with both a Valencia win and a little extra in his pocket.

...

The match had reached a fever pitch as the clock ticked into the 82nd minute. Barcelona, sensing the urgency to restore their lead, ramped up their tempo.

Xavi’s tactical adjustment was clear—more men forward, quicker passing, and relentless pressure.

The ball zipped across the pitch with precision, from Frenkie de Jong to Gündoğan, out wide to Balde, then back to Pedri in the center.

Valencia, however, refused to crumble under the weight of Barcelona’s attacking brilliance.

The Mestalla roared with every block, tackle, and clearance, willing their team to hold firm.

Izan, in the heart of the midfield, was everywhere—tracking runs, intercepting passes, and organizing his teammates like a seasoned veteran.

In the 84th minute, Barcelona’s breakthrough seemed inevitable after Pedri slipped a clever ball into space for Lamine Yamal, who had positioned himself on the right wing.

Gayà, exhausted from his tireless defensive work, was a step too slow as Yamal surged past him with a burst of speed.

The young Barcelona winger cut into the box, the ball glued to his feet as he prepared to fire a cross into the danger zone.

The Mestalla collectively held its breath, the Valencia defenders scrambling to cover. Barcelona’s bench rose to their feet, anticipating the killer pass that would break the deadlock.

But just as Yamal cocked his foot to deliver, a blur of white and orange came flying in and it was from nine other than Izan.

The teenager had tracked back at a full sprint, covering the ground Gayà couldn’t, and hurled himself into a perfectly timed slide tackle.

His boot connected cleanly with the ball, sending it skidding away from Yamal’s feet and out toward the edge of the penalty area while the Barcelona winger fell to the ground.

Juan Hernan: ”Izan! What a tackle! When did he even get here”

Jorge Savina: ”What pure determination Juan! Yamal was through, and Izan came out of nowhere to save Valencia! That’s as good as a goal!”

The Barcelona bench groaned in frustration, Xavi throwing his hands up in disbelief. Meanwhile, Baraja was on the touchline, clapping ferociously. ”That’s it, Izan! That’s how you fight!”

The Mestalla erupted into chants of Izan’s name as the teenager picked himself up, dusted off his shorts, and urged his teammates to push forward.

Barcelona, now fully committed to finding a late winner, piled players into Valencia’s box. Every pass seemed laced with intent, and the Mestalla trembled with nervous anticipation.

In the 84th minute, Frenkie de Jong received the ball just outside the penalty area. With a quick turn, he lofted a high, curling cross toward the far post, where Lewandowski and the newly introduced Raphinha awaited.

The ball hung in the air, and time seemed to slow. Valencia’s defenders scrambled to position themselves, a wall of white and orange rising to meet the incoming threat.

Raphinha leaped, his header aimed back across goal, creating chaos in the six-yard box. The ball ricocheted off Correira and into the air once more, setting off a mad scramble.

As it came back down, Jules Koundé rose to meet it, his powerful header sending it toward Lewandowski, who swung his boot to take a shot.

But before the Polish striker could connect, the ball appeared to deflect off the outstretched arm of Hugo Guillamón.

Immediately, Barcelona’s players threw their hands into the air, surrounding the referee with shouts of ”¡Mano! ¡Mano!”

Raphinha was particularly vocal, gesturing wildly and pointing at Guillamón, while Xavi stormed out of his technical area, shouting at the fourth official.

Juan Hernan: ”And now the Barcelona players are screaming for a handball! Was that an arm from Guillamón?”

Jorge Savina: ”It’s bedlam in the Valencia box, Juan! The ball did seem to strike something, but was it intentional? The referee’s got a big decision to make here!”

The referee, calm amidst the chaos, immediately waved his arms, signaling for play to continue. The Mestalla erupted in a mix of cheers and jeers, Valencia fans roaring in approval while Barcelona supporters whistled furiously.

Lewandowski and Pedri continued their protests, but the referee was resolute, shaking his head as he gestured for them to get back into position. ”¡Sigan, sigan!” he shouted, urging the game to continue.

On the Valencia bench, Baraja jumped to his feet, his face flushed with tension as he shouted encouragement to his players. ”Hold the line! Focus!” Meanwhile, Xavi paced furiously, his face a mask of frustration.

In the stands, Mateo, the fan with the bookie bet, turned to his friends with a wry grin. ”I don’t see any handball there. Clean as a whistle!” he said, though his voice betrayed his nerves.

But before the fans could celebrate further, the referee halted play.

” Oh, the referee has stopped play here. We could be seeing something different here.”

The Valencia players rushed towards the referee who had his finger on his earpiece but he sent them away.

After a while, the referee took a few steps, then made the unmistakable gesture, the rectangular outline in the air.

”Oh. The referee is going to look at the VAR. This could be heartbreak for Valencia.”

As the referee reviewed the footage on the VAR monitor, the Mestalla held its collective breath.

The Valencia players stood frozen, their eyes trained on the official as he turned back toward the pitch.

The Barcelona players were already inching closer to the penalty spot, their body language confident, as if they knew the decision would go their way.

After a while the referee jogged back to the edge of the penalty area, paused for a moment, and raised his arm, pointing decisively to the spot.

Penalty for Barcelona.

The Mestalla erupted into chaos. Deafening whistles and boos rained down from the stands, the Valencia faithful furious at the decision.

Players in white and orange swarmed the referee, their protests vehement but controlled enough to avoid bookings.

Hugo Guillamón, the accused, approached with his hands clasped together, pleading his case.

”It hit my chest first!” Guillamón insisted, pointing to where the ball had grazed him before deflecting onto his arm. ”It’s not deliberate!”

The referee, however, shook his head and gestured for the players to move away. ”The decision has been made now back to your positions.”

Juan Hernan: ”And there it is—penalty for Barcelona! The referee has given it after that VAR review, and the Mestalla is absolutely furious!”

Jorge Savina: ”Oh, Juan, you can hear the whistles echoing all across Valencia! It’s harsh on Guillamón, but by the letter of the law, if the arm’s in an unnatural position, it’s a penalty. Still, you have to feel for the Valencia players here.”

On the Valencia bench, Rubén Baraja was livid, pacing back and forth as he yelled at the fourth official.

”How is that deliberate? He couldn’t have avoided it!” he shouted, his arms flailing in frustration.

Meanwhile, Xavi stood calm but resolute on the Barcelona sideline, nodding in approval at the decision.

Mateo, the fan with the bookie bet, groaned and buried his face in his hands. ”This is it. We’re done for.

I swear, the refs always favor the big clubs,” he muttered bitterly to his friends, who nodded in agreement.