God Of football

Chapter 254: Five Finals [8]

The Reale Arena was a battlefield.

Valencia had dragged themselves back from the edge of the abyss, but Real Sociedad were far from done. The game had reached a fever pitch—chaos, pure and unfiltered.

On the touchline, Rubén Baraja stood with arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the pitch, but his mind was elsewhere.

He could feel it.

Something was missing.

His team had fought like warriors, clawing their way back from the brink, but they still lacked the one spark that could tilt the game fully in their favor.

His gaze drifted toward the bench.

Toward Izan.

The boy sat still, elbows resting on his knees, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t fidgeting. He wasn’t whispering to his teammates.

He wasn’t slumped in frustration like some of the other substitutes. He was watching, almost boring holes into the pitch with his stares.

Waiting.

Baraja exhaled sharply. It wouldn’t hurt to bring him on, would it? Maybe, just maybe, Izan could conjure something from nothing.

But just as he turned toward his assistants, his eyes met another’s.

Luis Navarro.

The veteran physician, sitting just a few feet away, didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The look he gave Baraja was enough.

Not yet.

Baraja clenched his jaw. His fingers curled around the fabric of his sleeve.

Not yet he thought before he turned back to the field.

The trio of Pietro, Pepelu, and Javi Guerra now played like rabid dogs, snapping at the heels of Sociedad’s playmakers, intercepting, pressing, and driving forward whenever possible.

But Sociedad weren’t relenting.

The game had turned into a war of attrition.

Every duel, every tackle, every moment carried the weight of something decisive.

Takefusa Kubo, possessed by fury, danced through Valencia’s defense like a phantom, his touch electric, his movements unpredictable.

Oyarzabal prowled alongside him, his presence a constant threat.

On the other end, Diego López and Fran Pérez refused to sit back. They launched themselves forward at every opportunity, desperate to spark something—anything.

And then, in the 88th minute, the match tilted again.

Sociedad struck.

A cross from the right sent the players scrambling in the box.

And then—

A thunderous strike from Oyarzabal sent the ball zooming toward goal.

The net rippled.

The Reale Arena detonated.

Baraja felt his stomach drop.

The Sociedad players sprinted toward the corner flag, a mass of blue and white, fists clenched, screaming in triumph.

On the touchline, Imanol Alguacil roared, pumping his fists, his face twisted in raw exhilaration.

The Valencia bench sank.

Baraja’s hands balled into fists.

No.

No.

But then the whistle sounded.

Mikel Oryazabal who was celebrating turned to find that the linesman’s flag was up.

Offside.

The noise in the stadium was a mix of celebration cut short, frustration, and pure disbelief.

Oyarzabal froze, his arms still half-raised in celebration.

”NO!” he shouted, his voice ragged as he rushed towards the referee.

Imanol stormed down the touchline, gesturing furiously at the officials but the referee didn’t condone him and issued a yellow card.

Imani tried to ”reason” again but his assistant came and pulled him out of the way.

The Real Sociedad players all rushed towards the referee but the latter was unmoved.

The home players called for a VAR check, looking to overturn the referee’s decision. The referee under the urging of his officiating team played along.

The VAR confirmed it within seconds.

No goal.

The scoreboard still read: 3-3.

The home crowd erupted in rage, whistling and jeering, their voices a thunderous wall of discontent.

But the decision stood.

Baraja exhaled sharply.

”We got lucky,” Moreno muttered beside him.

Baraja didn’t disagree.

But luck was part of football.

With minutes left on the clock, neither side had the strength to push for more.

The battle had drained everything from them.

And when the final whistle blew, it felt almost… anti-climactic.

FULL-TIME: REAL SOCIEDAD 3-3 VALENCIA.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

The players dropped, exhaustion taking over. Some pounded the turf in frustration. Others simply lay there, staring at the sky.

The full-time whistle had blown, but the energy inside the Reale Arena still crackled like a lingering storm.

The scoreboard read 3-3, but it felt like both teams had won—and lost—at the same time.

Players from both sides lingered on the pitch, catching their breath, and exchanging exhausted handshakes, some still processing what had just transpired.

Valencia had escaped. Sociedad had faltered.

And yet, it had been a spectacle.

Izan walked onto the pitch slowly, his boots crunching against the grass, his mind replaying every moment.

He hadn’t played a single minute, but he had lived every second of it.

He had been so close to stepping on the pitch—he had felt it.

But Baraja had held back.

Not yet.

Not tonight.

And that was fine. Izan knew patience. But he also knew himself. His time would come—and when it did, he’d make sure there was no doubt.

As he moved toward the tunnel, he caught sight of Mikel Oyarzabal, standing just outside the penalty box, hands on his hips, staring at the ground.

His shirt was drenched in sweat, his expression unreadable.

Izan changed direction.

”Mikel.”

Oyarzabal lifted his head at the familiar voice, his furrowed brow relaxing slightly when he saw Izan approaching.

Despite the frustrating end to the game, a tired smile crept onto his face.

”Hombre,” Oyarzabal said, shaking his head with a chuckle. ”What are you doing here? I was expecting to see you running at me in the last ten minutes.”

Izan smirked. ”So was I.”

Oyarzabal exhaled, rubbing his forehead. ”I swear, I still don’t know how we didn’t win that.”

He glanced at the goal behind him, where Mamardashvili had made the game-changing penalty save.

His voice was laced with frustration, but there was no bitterness. Just disbelief.

Izan nodded. ”Mamardashvili is a monster.”

Oyarzabal laughed, shaking his head. ”Yeah. You don’t need to remind me.”

They stood there for a moment, letting the night settle around them. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by exhaustion.

”You played well,” Izan said.

Oyarzabal scoffed. ”Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like I should’ve done more. We all should’ve.”

He turned to Izan, his eyes narrowing slightly. ”When are you getting back in the national team?”

Izan raised an eyebrow. ”You sound like you miss me.”

Oyarzabal smirked. ”Well, you could increase our chances this summer.”

Izan shrugged. ”That’s not up to me,” Izan responded while thinking about Oryazabal’s words.

”Anyways, you should’ve scored that penalty,” Izan teased, nudging Oyarzabal’s shoulder.

Oyarzabal groaned. ”Don’t remind me.” He sighed, glancing toward the tunnel. ”Anyway, go celebrate your robbery. We’ll get you next time.”

Izan chuckled. ”We’ll see about that.”

Oyarzabal extended his hand. ”Good seeing you, hermano.”

Izan took it firmly. ”Likewise.”

...…

Inside the LaLiga TV studio, the tension was palpable. The 3-3 draw between Valencia and Real Sociedad had left the league table delicately poised, with the battle for fourth place now boiling down to two teams: Valencia and Athletic Club.

At the sleek, curved analyst desk, host Alberto Romero turned to his panel of experts, his expression animated.

”Gentlemen, after tonight’s result, Valencia remain in fourth place, but just barely. Athletic Club are right behind them, and this race for the final Champions League spot is shaping up to be an absolute thriller.”

Behind him, the screen displayed the updated league table:

4th - Valencia | 70 pts

5th - Athletic Club | 68 pts

Romero gestured toward the numbers. ”Valencia had the chance to extend their lead, but they leave San Sebastián with just a draw. Does this put more pressure on them, or do they still control their own destiny?”

Former Valencia midfielder Gaizka Mendieta exhaled. ”Alberto, the good news for Valencia is that they’re still in the driver’s seat. They didn’t lose tonight.

But the problem is… Athletic Club are relentless. A two-point lead is vital at this stage of the season but it is not all there is.”

Seated beside him, Luis García, the ex-Liverpool and Spain winger, nodded in agreement.

”Exactly. Valencia remain fourth, but the margin is razor-thin. If they slip up just once, Athletic will pounce and with two games left, this is going to the wire.”

Romero leaned forward. ”So you’re saying this race is still wide open?”

Mendieta nodded. ”Absolutely. Two points is not a cushion—it’s a warning. Athletic Club have been one of the most consistent teams this season, and Valencia need to be at their absolute best in their last two fixtures to keep their position.”

Luis García added, ”And let’s not forget—Valencia still have to play Girona before the season ends.

A team that has been overshadowed by the rise of Valencia. They currently sit sixth and should finish like that if nothing too drastic happens”

Romero smirked. ”A straight duel between two historic clubs for a Champions League spot. It doesn’t get better than this.”

Mendieta sat back. ”Valencia have the edge right now, but one bad result, and it’s gone. It’s all in their hands.”

García smiled. ”One thing’s for sure: this race isn’t over.”

The show cut to a commercial break, leaving fans eagerly awaiting the next chapter in the battle for fourth place.