God Of football

Chapter 257: Five Finals[Introduction]

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.

[The Dressing Room – Halftime]

The air inside the Valencia dressing room was suffocating. Not with heat, not with sweat, but with something worse—defeat.

Some players slumped on the benches, heads buried in their hands. Others sat motionless, eyes staring at the floor as if searching for answers in the cracks. Nobody spoke. Not even a murmur.

The scoreboard outside told the truth they couldn’t escape: 1-2, Girona.

And worse, across the country, 2-0, Athletic Bilbao.

Valencia were losing the battle. The Champions League dream was evaporating.

Then—Baraja stepped forward.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He let them sit in their misery, let the silence weigh on them like chains. Then, he took a deep breath and spoke.

”I want you all to listen to me. And listen well.”

His voice was low but firm. A voice honed through years of battles, a voice that once roared as a player, now demanding the same fight from his men.

”Look at yourselves. Look at the way you’re sitting, the way you’re acting. Like we’ve already lost. Like the game is over, but let me tell you something—it’s not over. It’s far from over.”

He took a step closer, his gaze sweeping across every face in the room.

”Do you think this is how we end our season? Do you think this is how we let this story be written? That after everything we’ve been through, we roll over and let Girona and Bilbao decide our fate?”

Nobody answered. Some lifted their heads; some clenched their fists.

Baraja nodded. Good. They were listening.

”I want you to remember who you are. I want you to remember what you’ve built this season. A team that fights. A team that never gives up.

A team that refuses to be broken. I mean, what haven’t we faced?

We are Copa del Rey champions, for crying out loud. We have performed a double peat over Atletico and won against Madrid and Barca, but tonight you are not playing like that team ”

He pointed at Gayà.

”You. How many years have you worn this badge? How many times have you seen us counted out only to fight back?”

Gayà, jaw clenched, nodded.

Baraja’s eyes moved to Pepelu.

”You came here to prove yourself. This is your moment to do it.”

Then to the rest of them.

”All of you. You are playing for the fans outside, for the thousands in the stands who believe in you, even now. For this badge. This club. For the history of Mestalla!”

His voice rose, fierce and unwavering.

”The first half is over. It’s done. But the second half is still to be written. And let me tell you something, boys—you are the ones who will write it. Nobody else.”

His eyes locked onto each of them, his voice sharp as a blade.

”If you are going to lose, fine. But you are going to lose fighting. You are going to make Girona regret every single second they spend on that pitch.

You are going to make them bleed for this win. You are going to leave them gasping for breath, praying for that final whistle.

And if you do that—if you give everything—you might just find that football has one last twist waiting for you.”

Silence.

Then, a shift. A flicker in their eyes. A spark that had been missing.

Baraja nodded, satisfied. He exhaled, taking a final look around before stepping toward the door.

Just before he left, he glanced back. His gaze lingered on one person.

Izan.

The boy sat still, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those crystal lenses told a different story.

Baraja said nothing. He only nodded. Then, he left, shutting the door behind him.

The players sat for a moment, breathing it in. Then, one by one, they stood.

The second half awaited.

...

The Mestalla, though wounded, was still standing.

The Valencia players emerged from the tunnel, no longer looking like men condemned to fate but men who were about to defy it.

After settling into their positions, the whistle sounded

And the game reignited.

The first five minutes were a storm.

Valencia pressed higher, harder. The ball moved with more urgency and more aggression. There was a bite to their play, a desperation that forced Girona onto the back foot.

In the 48th minute, Fran Perez proved why he was a threat. A surging run down the right ended in a low-driven cross to the near post after he escaped from his marker.

Bodies were being thrown around, but Hugo Duro lunged and met the ball first time with a flick of his boot, but his shot was saved comfortably by the goalkeeper.

The Mestalla groaned in agony at the chance but started clapping after Hugo Duro got up. Their team had come out of the second half firing, so they needed to be supportive to encourage them.

After Valencia’s threatening plays, Girona retreated to their half, hell-bent on ending the game like this despite it being only the 53rd minute.

And that was never a good idea. Javi Guerra, spotting a run from Pietro, sent the ball toward the latter.

The ball faltered a bit on its way towards Pietro, who had to cope with the now loose ball at the edge of the box.

But he was not the only one fighting for the ball. Eric Garcia was, too, and not wanting to make a waste of the chance, he struck it with venom.

Deflected! The ball looped toward the goal, past the outstretched arm of the goalkeeper before It clipped the post and bounced out.

”OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” the fans groaned at the missed chance.

Another chance. Another heartbreak, but Valencia were relentless, throwing everything at Girona. It was all going fine for Valencia until that decided to happen.

In the 56th minute, a misplaced pass in midfield caused a sudden break. Girona had numbers, too many to track.

Savinho, who now had the ball, drove at the heart of Valencia before a sudden through ball sliced past the defense and sent Tsygankov through on goal.

Mamardashvili rushed out, but the Girona man was ice-cold.

A delicate chip.

The ball floated through the air, slow, merciless, inevitable, before It dropped into the net.

1-3. Girona.

Silence.

The dream was slipping away.

The fans could feel it. Some clutched their heads, others simply closed their eyes, refusing to believe.

And then—movement on the Valencia bench.

Baraja turned.

His voice was calm but firm.

”Izan. Warm up.”

A ripple of reaction spread through the stands.

Some still believed.

Others shook their heads.

”Too late.”

”I love Izan, but this is hard to do.”

”Not even Izan can save this.”

But Izan?

He didn’t care.

He stood, stretched, and then began to jog down the touchline.

As he warmed up, the Mestalla, for the first time in a long time, watched him.

Some were hopeful.

Some had given up.

But all of them knew one thing.

If there was even the faintest ember of a miracle left tonight—

It had to come from him.

And so, in the 64th minute, the moment arrived.

Baraja called him over.

One last instruction. One last nod.

And then—Izan stood at the edge of the pitch, waiting for the fourth official to raise the board.

The number went up.

#25 – Fran Pérez OFF

#21 – Izan ON

A murmur in the crowd. A flicker of curiosity.

As he stepped onto the pitch, the camera caught his face.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Just fire.

He turned to the ball, his eyes scanning the field.

And as the game resumed, one thought burned in his mind.

This game belongs to me.

A/n: Wow. It’s been a while. Hope you guys are having fun while reading. So the end it her season approaches and Im excited to bring the Euro chapters. Keep on supporting the book with your Power stones, Golden tickets and Gifts as usual. Love you all and stick around. Byees