God Of football

Chapter 255: Five Finals [Last Dance:9]

”And that’s it! Full-time at Balaídos, and Valencia drop points yet again! A two-all draw against Celta Vigo, and it’s another frustrating night for Los Che!”

”That’s two draws in a row, two opportunities wasted. Baraja’s men had the lead, but they just couldn’t hold onto it!”

”And the story remains the same—no Izan once again despite being cleared to play. Two matches, zero minutes. The fans have been patient, but how long can that last?”

”Well, patience is a luxury Valencia can’t afford right now, because with this result, the fight for fourth place is going to the final matchday.

Valencia are still clinging onto fourth, but only just. They sit level on points with Athletic Bilbao—both at 71—but they only stay ahead on head-to-head advantage.”

”And what does that mean? It means next week, at the Mestalla, against Girona, Valencia will have to do what they haven’t done in their last three games: WIN.”

”Make no mistake, this is it. One final battle for a place in next season’s Champions League. One final test to prove they belong among Europe’s elite.”

”Valencia’s fate is still in their hands. But the question is—do they have the strength left to take it?”

[A few hours ago]

The Balaídos was alive with noise, the chants of the home fans mixing with the echoes of the traveling Valencian faithful. The tension hung thick in the air, the stakes undeniable.

Valencia had arrived knowing the importance of three points. They needed a statement. Instead, they found themselves in yet another battle.

From the first whistle, Celta Vigo pressed aggressively. Valencia, sluggish from their previous disappointments, struggled to find their rhythm.

The opening exchanges were a chaotic blur—misplaced passes, hurried clearances, and a sense of unease that spread through the squad like a virus.

Then, in the 14th minute, disaster struck.

Gabri Veiga received the ball just outside the penalty area, turned sharply, and unleashed a strike that swerved viciously in the air.

The Valencia defense threw bodies into the but that action didn’t amount to anything and also seemed to cause more harm as it blocked Marmadashvilli’s vision.

Mamardashvili reacted late—too late. The ball nestled into the top corner.

1-0, Celta Vigo.

The Balaídos erupted as the Vigo fans celebrated. Valencia, on the other hand, stood frozen. The early setback was a punch to the gut.

On the touchline, Baraja barked orders, urging his men forward. Slowly, Valencia settled, regaining some control.

Pepelu and Javi Guerra began to dictate the tempo, looking for openings, probing Celta’s defense.

And then, in the 32nd minute, the breakthrough came.

Fran Pérez darted down the right flank, twisting his marker inside out before whipping in a cross. Diego López met it at the near post, a glancing header that flew past Iván Villar.

1-1.

The celebration was quick and determined. Valencia had their response.

The game grew scrappier as halftime approached, both teams battling for control. Celta remained a threat, with Iago Aspas orchestrating their attacks, but Valencia held firm.

....

When the second half resumed, the intensity only grew. The visitors looked sharper, hungrier. And in the 58th minute, their persistence paid off.

Javi Guerra, ever the midfield engine, slipped a perfectly weighted pass into the box. Hugo Duro latched onto it, took a touch, and rifled his shot into the net.

1-2.

Valencia had turned the game on its head. The away end exploded with noise, banners waving, voices roaring. The players huddled together, knowing how much this meant.

But just like before—just like the last few matches—they couldn’t hold onto it.

With fifteen minutes left, Celta pushed forward in desperation. A hopeful cross from the left seemed harmless, but confusion in Valencia’s defense led to a weak clearance.

The ball fell to Jørgen Strand Larsen, who wasted no time in firing a low shot past Mamardashvili.

2-2.

The away stand was filled with groans. The Balaídos roared.

Baraja turned away in frustration, running a hand through his hair. Another lead squandered.

And through it all, Izan remained on the bench.

His fingers dug into his palms as he sat there, looking slightly unbothered. Two matches now.

Two games where he had watched his team struggle, knowing he could make a difference but never getting the chance.

He didn’t move though and neither did he complain.

After the leveler, Valencia tried wholeheartedly to take the lead, with one of their corners even leading to a goal-line clearance by Iago Aspas but that was all there was.

The final whistle arrived like a dull blade to the heart.

Celta Vigo 2, Valencia CF 2.

After the match had ended, the Valencia players walked toward the traveling fans, arms raised in apology.

But the response wasn’t anger—it was disappointment. A deep, weary disappointment that settled like a heavy fog.

The murmurs in the stands spoke volumes.

”This isn’t good enough.”

”Two matches, two wasted chances.”

”Why isn’t Izan playing? What is Baraja waiting for?”

The whispers had been growing louder over the past week. Now, they were becoming demands.

Baraja, for his part, maintained his composure in the post-match press conference.

”We are still in fourth place. Our destiny is in our hands.”

But the unease was spreading. The pressure was mounting.

And in the shadows, Izan remained silent.

Waiting.

...…..

The team bus cut through the quiet streets of Valencia, the night outside an endless blur of dimly lit buildings and deserted intersections. Inside, silence reigned.

No music. No idle chatter. Just the occasional sigh of frustration and the low hum of the engine beneath them. The draw against Celta Vigo still clung to the players like an unshakable weight.

Izan sat by the window, his elbow propped against the glass, fingers resting idly against his temple. His expression was unreadable.

Detached. His gaze drifted over the cityscape, watching as each streetlight flickered past. He didn’t tap his foot anxiously like some of his teammates.

He didn’t glare at the floor, drowning in regret. He was just… there. Watching. Thinking.

At the front of the bus, Rubén Baraja sat stiffly, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

He barely moved, barely blinked. He looked like a man lost in the depths of his own thoughts. The weight of Valencia’s season pressed down on his shoulders like a silent storm.

When the bus pulled up to the team hotel, the players filed out one by one, their movements slow, their heads slightly lowered. There was no murmured conversation, no exchanges of encouragement—only exhaustion.

Izan descended the steps at his own pace, unhurried, shoulders loose. But just as he reached the pavement, a voice called out behind him.

”Izan.”

He stopped and turned to see Assistant Coach Moreno standing a few feet away. The older man had his arms crossed, his brows drawn slightly together.

His voice was calm, and measured, but there was something beneath it—something heavier than frustration, quieter than anger.

Izan studied him for a moment before stepping closer.

”You look like you want to say something,” Izan remarked, his tone light, but his eyes sharp.

Moreno exhaled, shaking his head slightly. ”You’re not worried?”

Izan let out a slow breath, tilting his head slightly. ”We’re still fourth.”

”That’s not what I meant,” Moreno said, lowering his voice.

Izan glanced toward the entrance, where Baraja had just disappeared inside. He knew exactly what Moreno meant.

”The pressure is getting to him. Do you think he’s afraid?” Izan asked, his voice carrying no judgment—just curiosity.

Moreno was silent for a moment before answering. ”That I can not say. But I think he’s at least scared of what happens if he hesitates again.”

Izan shifted slightly, his gaze dropping for just a second before he looked back up. His voice was quieter when he spoke again.

”He’ll figure it out.”

Moreno studied him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. ”I’m glad you gave Valencia a chance.”

Izan smiled slightly at Moreno’s words but didn’t say anything.

A comfortable silence stretched between them before Moreno sighed, shaking his head. ”Keep your boots tight. That’s all I’ll say.”

Izan’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes flickered with something unreadable. He didn’t need to ask what that meant.

With a small nod, he turned and started toward the hotel, his movements as unbothered as ever.

Far behind them, in the shadows of the parking lot, Baraja stood with his arms folded, watching the exchange from a distance.

His jaw was tense. His eyes unreadable.

Then, with a slow inhale, he turned and disappeared into the hotel.

.....

[Laliga Tv]

”And so, here we are. The final matchday of the season and everything is still up for grabs!”

”Valencia and Athletic Bilbao both sit on 71 points. The only thing keeping Valencia in fourth place? Their superior head-to-head record.”

”And let’s be clear—this is an all-or-nothing scenario. Valencia CANNOT afford to drop points. A win against Girona at the Mestalla guarantees them Champions League football.

But if they slip? If they draw or lose? Then it all depends on what Bilbao do against Rayo Vallecano.”

”The pressure doesn’t get bigger than this. One last match. One last fight. Ninety minutes to decide whether Valencia returns to Europe’s elite—or if they throw it all away.”

”And one more thing—will Baraja finally call upon Izan? Will the young star be given the chance to make the difference?”

”The Mestalla will be a fortress on the final day. The fans will demand victory. The players will feel every ounce of pressure.”

”This is it. The biggest game of Valencia’s season.”

”One match. One destiny. The Champions League awaits—but only for those who dare to seize it.”