God Of football

Chapter 233: The Calm

Morning at Paterna

The sun had barely risen over Paterna, but inside Valencia CF’s training complex, the players were already awake, dressed, and gathered in the cafeteria for their pre-match meal. It was quiet. Unusually quiet.

There was no joking, no casual conversations—just the clinking of cutlery against plates and the occasional shuffle of chairs as players adjusted their seating. The tension was palpable.

Izan sat across from Hugo Duro and Pietro, staring at his plate. He had barely touched his food, picking at his eggs absentmindedly.

Across the room, José Luis Gaya, Valencia’s captain, sipped his coffee in silence, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

The usual pre-match ritual was different today. They had been in big games before, but this? This was a final.

From the corner of the room, coach Rubén Baraja watched his players carefully. He knew what was running through their minds.

Finals weren’t just about tactics; they were about mental strength. The team that could handle the pressure better would have the edge.

Near the entrance, members of the coaching staff spoke in hushed tones.

”Bilbao is going to sit deep and counter,” one of the analysts murmured.

”They’ll try to frustrate us early,” another added. ”We need to move the ball fast and stretch them wide.”

Baraja nodded, his eyes never leaving his squad. ”We play our football. We control the tempo.”

Meanwhile, in the equipment room, the kit managers were busy preparing the players’ gear—freshly pressed jerseys, match-ready boots, socks neatly folded. Every detail had to be perfect.

The tension wasn’t fear. It was focus.

After the morning had gone by, the team finally boarded the bus that would take them to the airport. The airport was different as well.

Fans stood beside the road, waving at the bus as it passed by. Some held the banners of the club while others stood still as if saying a silent prayer.

After entering the airport, the players went through a few pre-boarding processes before they went onto the plane that would take them to Seville, where Estadio de La Cartuja awaited.

The trip in the air was supposed to be short. An hour and a quarter to be exact, but for the players, it was grueling long.

Izan sat near the window, earbuds in, eyes closed, the low hum of the engine and the occasional turbulence disturbing the peace in the plane.

Pietro, seated beside him, nudged his arm. ”Not even a little nervous?”

Izan smirked but didn’t open his eyes. ”You?”

Pietro scoffed. ”Terrified.”

That got a small chuckle from the players nearby.

From the front, Gaya turned his head toward the squad. ”Boys, just remember—when we step on that pitch, it’s still football. We’ve done this a million times.”

Hugo Duro leaned forward with a grin. ”Except this time, the whole country is watching.”

Izan finally opened his eyes. ”Then let’s give them something to talk about.”

Baraja, listening to the exchange, allowed himself a small smile. The tension was lifting—just enough.

As the plane continued its journey, players alternated between listening to music, watching old match footage, and staring out the window, lost in their thoughts.

For some, this was their first final. For others, possibly their last.

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In Seville, La Cartuja was already alive with anticipation. The Valencia faithful, dressed in their signature orange and white, filled the streets around the stadium.

Banners waved, chants echoed through the city, and the energy was contagious.

A reporter wove through the crowd, microphone in hand. ”What would it mean for Valencia to win tonight?”

A middle-aged fan, holding his young son on his shoulders, smiled. ”It would mean everything. We’ve been waiting for a night like this for too long.”

Further down the road, the Athletic Bilbao supporters had gathered in their own section, just as passionate. Their red-and-white scarves painted a sea of unwavering loyalty.

One reporter approached an elderly fan, his hands trembling slightly as he held onto his cane.

”How long have you been a Bilbao fan?”

The old man chuckled. ”My whole life. Sixty years.”

”And how special would a win be tonight?”

His voice wavered slightly, emotion creeping in. ”It would mean everything. I was a young man the last time we lifted a trophy. If we win tonight… it will be one of the greatest days of my life.”

Around him, younger fans clapped him on the back. ”Aupa Athletic!” they chanted, the passion in their voices undeniable.

The reporter smiled. ”Valencia and Athletic Bilbao, , Two teams, one trophy. One way or another, history will be made tonight.”

---

The Valencia team were ushered into the bus as soon as their flight arrived in Seville. A few Valencia faithful had also gathered at the airport to see a glimpse of the warriors that would be going to battle for the pride of the club.

Izan, as polite as ever, asked for a few minutes from Baraja to which the latter granted to interact with the fans.

As the Valencia bus made its way through the packed streets toward the stadium, the noise from the fans grew deafening. Thousands of supporters had lined the roads, chanting and waving scarves.

Inside the bus, players began their final mental preparations. Izan looked out the window, watching the sea of orange and white. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his knee.

”We’re really here,” Pietro muttered.

Izan nodded. ”Yeah.”

The bus pulled into La Cartuja, and the energy outside reached a fever pitch. Fans swarmed toward the vehicle, banging on the sides and chanting the names of their heroes.

Security personnel worked quickly, keeping the crowd at bay as the players stepped off one by one.

Izan was one of the last to exit. The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave. This was different. Bigger.

Just as they entered the stadium, another roar erupted. The Bilbao bus arrived at the same time, creating a moment of intense energy as both sets of fans clashed in chants.

The two teams crossed paths briefly in the hallway, exchanging measured glances as they were led to their respective locker room.

There was no hostility—just respect and the unspoken promise of battle.

Inside the dressing room, the players found their kits neatly arranged, their numbers glowing under the fluorescent lights.

...

As the Valencia players stepped onto the La Cartuja pitch for their warm-up, the stadium was already buzzing with energy.

The sea of orange and white on one side clashed against the red-and-white wall of Athletic Bilbao on the other. Chants, songs, and the rhythmic beating of drums filled the air.

Izan jogged onto the field, his boots sinking into the perfectly cut grass. He took in a deep breath, letting the atmosphere settle over him. This was it.

Around him, his teammates moved through their routines. Hugo Duro and Pietro exchanged short passes, their touches sharp and precise.

Gaya and the defenders worked through positioning drills, led by one of the assistant coaches barking instructions.

From the sidelines, Baraja observed everything, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

On the other half of the field, Bilbao’s players mirrored their movements. Iñaki Williams, the team’s talisman, ran quick sprints, his explosiveness on full display.

His younger brother, Nico Williams, worked through dribbling drills, his footwork mesmerizing.

Above the field, in the commentary box, the broadcast team settled in.

”Welcome to Seville, where tonight, Spanish football will witness another chapter of history unfold.

It’s Valencia versus Athletic Bilbao, two teams desperate for glory. It’s youth versus experience, speed versus resilience.”

Another commentator chimed in, his voice steady.

”And all eyes will be on one name—Izan. The 16-year-old who has taken La Liga by storm.

With 26 goals and 18 assists in all competitions, he has been the driving force behind Valencia’s resurgence.

This stats is a great player’s prime stats, but this kid is churning these numbers out even before he turns 17. This is utter madness

But can he deliver on the biggest stage of his young career?”

The camera zoomed in on Izan, who had just finished a quick stretch before juggling the ball effortlessly between his feet.

Down on the touchline, the Valencia fans erupted when he waved in their direction.

The broadcast cut to a slow-motion clip of Iñaki Williams striking a shot into the top corner during warm-ups.

”And let’s not forget Bilbao’s leader—Iñaki Williams. A warrior, a finisher, and the heartbeat of this team. If Bilbao are to win tonight, his name will surely be written in the headlines.”

The analysts debated tactics, lineups, and the psychological edge each team might have. The tension was growing by the second.

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After warm-ups, the players made their way back into their locker rooms, their jerseys now damp with sweat from the intense drills.

The energy had shifted. The casual movements from earlier had been replaced with something sharper, more focused.

Izan pulled his jersey over his head, adjusting the sleeves as he took a deep breath.

Gaya, now fully in captain mode, stood in the center of the room, waiting for everyone to settle. ”We’ve worked too hard for this moment. Let’s finish what we started.”

Hugo Duro grinned. ”We bring this trophy back home, yeah?”

A collective murmur of agreement rippled through the squad.

Then, the stadium announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers.

”Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the final of the 2024 Copa del Rey!”

Izan closed his eyes, took one last deep breath, and clenched his fists.

It was time.

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