God Of football

Chapter 256: Five Finals [Ghosts Of The Mestalla: 10] Golden Ticket chapter

[LaLiga TV – Matchday Coverage]

”And so it all comes down to this—ninety minutes, one final game, and the fate of a season hanging in the balance!”

”Valencia. Athletic Bilbao. Two teams tied on points, one spot left for the Champions League.”

”The equation is simple—Valencia must win. A draw might not be enough, not with Athletic Bilbao playing against a relatively weaker side, Rayo Vallecano as compared to Valencia’s Girona but football is unpredictable since we never know what might happen at the end of the 90 minutes!”

”And the setting? The Mestalla. A cathedral of football, a fortress where dreams have lived and died. Tonight, it is a battlefield.”

...…

The city of Valencia pulsed with energy. From the beaches to the plazas, from the narrow alleyways to the grand avenues, there was only one conversation: the final game.

The streets were flooded with white and black, fans marching towards the Mestalla with banners, scarves, and the undying hope that their team—their Valencia—would rise to the occasion.

Inside the stadium, the air was thick with nervous anticipation. The chants were relentless, voices intertwining in a symphony of belief and desperation.

Smoke from flares curled into the night sky, mixing with the floodlights that bathed the pitch in an ethereal glow.

”Ninety minutes. That is all that remains. A season’s work, a thousand battles, now distilled into one final war.

The Mestalla does not whisper tonight—it roars. The ghosts of past glories, the echoes of legends, they all linger in the air, watching, waiting. Will these warriors rise, or will history cast them aside?”

...…

The Mestalla tunnel was a world of its own—a long corridor of steel and concrete where emotions crashed against each other like waves.

At one end, the Valencia players stood in silence, some bouncing on their toes, others lost in their own thoughts.

At the other end of Spain, inside the San Mamés, Athletic Bilbao stood in their own tunnel, waiting for the very same whistle.

Their battle against Rayo Vallecano would begin at the exact same second as Valencia’s.

Two teams. Two stadiums. One fight.

- - - - - - - - -

All the Valencia players standing in the tunnel had something going on for them. A reason. A reason to win.

For José Gayà, standing at the front of the Valencia lineup, it was about history. A chance to lead his boyhood club back to Europe’s elite.

For Pepelu, it was about redemption. About proving that he and his teammates were more than just a nearly-there squad.

For Baraja, standing on the touchline, arms folded, it was about everything. His coaching career. His reputation. His future.

And for Izan—still benched, well it wasn’t much but it was a chance to fulfill the wishes of the Valencia fans.

He had seen the headlines, heard the murmurs, felt the weight of the crowd’s frustration over the past two weeks.

Two games. Zero minutes. The fans wanted him. The journalists questioned Baraja’s decision.

But Izan simply waited for his time.

The referee walked onto the pitch. His whistle hovered near his lips.

”Here we go,” the commentator’s voice rang through the broadcast. ”Two teams. Two stadiums. One Champions League spot. Kickoff is just moments away!”

The Mestalla roared.

On the other side, the San Mamés shook.

A final breath. The whistle sounded spurring the game into life.

....

From the very first touch, the tension was suffocating.

Valencia, in their black and white, moved forward cautiously, trying to feel their way into the game.

Girona, already safe in the league, had nothing to lose—and that made them dangerous.

Meanwhile, hundreds of kilometers away, Athletic Bilbao surged forward at San Mamés, their intent clear. They weren’t waiting. They were attacking.

In the 3rd minute, Valencia was spurred on by individual brilliance. A long ball over the top from Javi Guerra sent Hugo Duro through on goal. The Mestalla rose to its feet. A dream start?

But it wasn’t to be after Juanpe slid in at the last moment, knocking the ball away. The chance was gone.

”Opportunity knocks, but not all doors open. The first attack, the first breath of hope—but football is cruel, and tonight, it will not be generous.” The commentator went about his Job.

At about the same time, in Bilbao, Iñaki Williams broke free on the right. With a sudden cutback, he laid off the ball but the shot from Oihan Sancet was saved!

Both games were electric. Both games were desperate and it showed and their movements.

For a few minutes, nothing extraordinary went on but in the seventh minute at the Mestalla, disaster struck.

Starting from a save after Fran Perez’s shot, Girona’s counter was quick and brutal. A simple one-two between Savinho and Tsygankov split Valencia’s backline open like paper.

A diagonal ball. A run into the box. And there was Artem Dovbyk, Girona’s talisman who had somehow sneaked in to be La Liga’s top scorer ahead lewandowski and Izan after a series of nigh unplayable performances.

The Ukrainian forward, stood still waiting to finish and he did.

The Girona man took a touch, before firing a low drive past Mamardashvili.

Goal.

0-1, Girona.

”And Mestalla falls silent! It had barely begun, and already, Valencia are staring at the abyss! Look at the faces of the Mestalla faithful, utter disappointment.”

On the other side of things, Bilbao kept pushing. A corner. A scramble in the box. And then—Gorka Guruzeta struck from close range.

Goal.

1-0, Athletic Bilbao.

Valencia were losing. Bilbao were winning.

For the first time tonight, Valencia were out of the Champions League spots according to the live standings.

”Football is time, but time is merciless. Ten minutes in, and already, the dream wavers. The Champions League slips from their fingers—but can they pull it back?

After the restart, it was all Girona. Valencia, a team that had reinstated their status as an attacking team that season were now seen defending for their lives.

For ten minutes, Valencia wobbled. Passes went astray. The crowd murmured.

Then—something shifted.

Fran Pérez picked up the ball on the right. His burst of pace took him past two defenders before he whipped in a cross.

The ball was headed for Eric Garcia, an opponent play but then, Pietro, unmarked, rose like a giant. His header was perfect—bullet-like, impossible to stop as it rustled the net.

GOAL!

1-1!

The Mestalla erupted, and the players huddled together, fists pumping. The fight wasn’t over.

”The light flickers, but it does not go out. Valencia breathes again, the battle rages on!

The scenes are exciting here but what about in San Sebastián? Take us there Juno” the commentator said handing over the baton.

.....

At the other end of Spain, Athletic Bilbao were merciless. They could smell blood, they could feel destiny calling.

Nico Williams danced down the left, a flash of red and white against the floodlit pitch. His cross was pinpoint, dipping just over the outstretched leg of the last defender.

Sancet didn’t hesitate—he cushioned it with his chest, the ball dropping perfectly for Vesga at the edge of the box.

A strike.

A roar.

Goal.

2-0, Athletic Bilbao.

San Mamés exploded. The crowd surged forward in waves, the noise crashing against the night sky.

The players huddled together, fists clenched, knowing they were almost there.

And with that goal, something shifted in the air.

Far away, in Valencia, the Mestalla felt it.

A shadow creeping in.

A truth they didn’t want to face.

They were losing the race.

The ball was lost in midfield, a moment of hesitation, a fraction of a second where doubt crept in—and Girona pounced.

Savinho broke free.

He weaved between defenders like a phantom, his feet moving too fast, too precise, too deadly. The Mestalla screamed for someone—anyone—to stop him.

Nobody did.

With a single, effortless shift of his body, he cut inside and unleashed a curling shot that bent and arced like fate itself, kissing the far post before sinking into the net.

Goal.

1-2, Girona.

And this time, there was no explosion of noise. No stunned gasps.

Only silence.

The kind of silence that doesn’t just linger—it weighs.

Valencia’s players stood frozen. Their faces were blank, but their eyes betrayed the horror that clawed at their insides.

Baraja turned away, pressing his fingers to his temple. He had seen too much football not to know what this moment meant.

The Mestalla, a place of fire, of rebellion, of impossible dreams—stood still.

Not even the angriest of fans could summon a curse. Not even the most faithful could find a prayer. Because deep down, they all knew.

This was slipping away. The Champions League dream. The miracle season. Everything.

Fweeeeee, Fweeeeeeeeeeeeee

The whistle blew, but nobody moved.

The players trudged toward the tunnel, heads lowered, bodies heavy, like condemned men walking toward their fate.

The crowd remained seated, staring blankly ahead, as if afraid that standing would make it real.

Some buried their faces in scarves.

Some whispered curses at the wind.

Some simply sat there, unmoving, as the screen above the stadium showed what they all feared most:

Athletic Bilbao 2-0 Rayo Vallecano.

They weren’t just losing.

They were losing everything.

And yet—on the bench, amid the wreckage, amid the silent surrender of an entire stadium, there was one who did not move.

Izan.

He did not slump forward like the others.

He did not rub his face in frustration.

He did not break.

Instead, he sat still. His gaze locked onto the pitch, his fingers laced together.

Because while the Mestalla whispered of doom, while the ghosts of past failures wrapped their hands around the throats of those on the field, Izan knew something they did not.

This game.

This night.

This moment.

It would come to him.