Chapter 237: Halftime[ Golden ticket Chapter]

Izan wiped the sweat from his brow as he glanced toward the scoreboard. One-nil.

They had the lead, but the game felt anything but safe. The disallowed goal had left a bitter taste, but there was no time to dwell.

Bilbao were growing into the game, and Valencia couldn’t afford to drop their intensity.

From the touchline, Baraja cupped his hands around his mouth. "Keep moving! Be sharp!" His voice barely cut through the roar of the crowd, but Izan understood the message.

Bilbao were beginning to probe more dangerously. Their full-backs pushed higher, their midfielders zipped passes between the lines.

Every clearance Valencia made was met with another wave of pressure. They had to do something fast or they would lose the lead they had worked so hard for.

Then came the moment.

Javi Guerra, always a step ahead in midfield, won a loose ball near the halfway line. Before Dani García could react, Guerra had already played the pass.

Izan felt it before he saw it—the weight of the ball was perfect, leading him into space.

He let it roll across his body, taking his first touch with his left foot before accelerating. Dani Vivian gave chase, but Izan could hear his footsteps growing fainter.

He was now, One-on-one with the keeper. Izan contemplated his options, thinking.

"Should he chip or should he go for power"

He glanced up and spotted Simón shifting his weight. The far corner was open.

With a quick step to set himself, Izan shot, the ball curling away from the goalkeeper—

The ball skidded past Simón’s fingertips, but instead of rustling the net, it kissed the outside of the post and went wide.

Izan froze. For a second, he swore he had scored.

He exhaled sharply and shook his head. From the bench, Baraja clapped, urging him on.

"Next one! Keep going!"

"Seems even Izan has moments like these where the ball doesn’t quite match his shot."

Unai Simón, meanwhile, stayed seated for a moment, catching his breath. He had been beaten—only the goalpost had spared him.

With the pressure slightly shifted, Valencia tried to take control of the game but the basque side would not allow that.

Valencia barely had time to reset before Bilbao hit back.

Muniain, sharp as ever, found Nico Williams in space. The younger Williams brother had been quiet so far, but Izan knew better than to assume he’d stay that way.

Thierry Correia tried to step in, but Nico had already tapped the ball past him, knocking it forward with the outside of his boot.

The acceleration was frightening—Correia barely had time to react before Nico was gone.

The entire Valencia defense retreated.

Nico slowed slightly, baiting Mark into committing, then chopped inside at full speed.

It was seamless, effortless as Mark’s lunge missed by half an inch.

Coming up against Cenk Ozkacar, the shot came instantly—no wind-up, no hesitation.

A thunderous right-footed strike toward the top corner. Cent tried putting his body in the way but the ball missed.

Faced with such a shot, Mamardashvili didn’t think—he just moved.

His right hand shot up, his fingertips brushing the ball, just enough to send it over the crossbar.

A collective gasp rippled through the stadium before the Bilbao fans erupted in frustration.

Nico put his hands on his head. "No puede ser…" (No way…)

Mamardashvili sat up, chest heaving. The Georgian was calm, always calm, but even he took an extra second before getting to his feet.

On the touchline, Valverde let out a slow breath, his arms crossed. "He’s too quick for them," he murmured to his assistant.

The corner from Nico’s shot amounted to nothing much after Marmadashvilli smothered the ball from the set piece.

Valencia felt the momentum shift. Bilbao pressed harder, forcing long clearances, making every second on the ball a battle.

Pietro was in the thick of it, his jersey tugged, his ankles clipped, yet he never stopped. Every time he won the ball, he was hit late. Dani García made sure of it.

At one point, Pietro shoved the Bilbao midfielder after a particularly nasty challenge. "Try that again," he muttered, his breath heavy.

Dani García just smiled. "I will."

The referee blew the whistle, giving Bilbao a soft free kick.

Seeing the way things were going, Gaya jogged over to Pietro to try and calm things down. "Relax, chico. They want you to react."

Pietro exhaled, nodding. He knew better. But the war in midfield wasn’t over yet.

Then Izan had the ball again.

Gayà found him in space, and he wasted no time turning into his defender. The touch was tight, and controlled, the kind only a special kind of player could execute at full speed.

Berchiche stepped forward but Izan read him.

The first movement—a slight shift of his body—made it look like he was cutting inside. Berchiche bit the bait.

Then came the real move—a quick tap with the inside of his foot, shifting the ball to his left, skipping past the defender in one smooth motion.

Izan lifted his head.

Simón was off his line, anticipating the strike. Izan saw the gap at the near post and went for it—

[Curler LV 2]

But Simón was ready.

A full-stretch dive, fingertips to the ball, sending it spinning away from the goal.

"That trait of his is awfully ridiculous !" Izan said, staring at the goalkeeper, who had just pulled off his second ridiculous save of the night.

Simón sat up and smirked. "Not today, kid."

Izan didn’t react. He just jogged back, shaking his head.

With the game entering the late stages of the first half, Athletic Bilbao mounted one last attack.

Nico Williams, relentless as ever, refused to let the half end quietly. He drove down the left, his speed unchanged despite forty-five minutes of exhausting play.

Mark had learned from earlier. He didn’t lunge this time. He stayed patient, waiting, reading Nico’s movements.

Nico feinted left, then right. Mark however didn’t flinch.

Frustrated, Nico tried to cut inside, but Mark was there. A perfectly timed step. A clean tackle.

The ball spilled loose, and before Bilbao could react, Correia cleared it long.

" Seems like Valencia will go into the break on a one-goal lead," one of the commentators said after the referee checked his watch.

Fweeeeeeeeee, Fweeeeeee.

After the referee’s whistle sounded, the players on the pitch all turned to the tunnel.

One goal separated them, but it didn’t feel like enough.

Izan caught Nico Williams’ eye as they neared the tunnel.

The Bilbao winger gave him a knowing smirk. "Close one, huh?"

Izan exhaled. "Yeah."

Nico chuckled. "Next half’s gonna be different though ."

Izan smiled, he didn’t doubt it.

...…..

Halftime – Inside the Dressing Rooms

Izan slumped onto the bench, his jersey clinging to his skin, soaked with sweat. His breathing was steady, but his body told a different story.

The pace of the game was brutal—every sprint, every touch had been contested like life depended on it.

Across the room, Hugo Duro leaned back against the wall, his head resting against his hands.

Javi Guerra sat on the floor, stretching his legs, while Mark rubbed his knee, where a fresh bruise had formed from an earlier collision.

Baraja stood in front of them, arms crossed, his face unreadable. He waited a moment before speaking.

"We’re leading, but we’re not in control," he said, his voice measured. "They’re finding space. They’re testing our fullbacks. And they’re coming for us even harder in the second half."

Gaya, the captain, nodded. "They’re pushing their wingers inside more. Nico’s looking for that cut-in shot, and Muniain keeps floating between our lines."

Baraja turned to Mamardashvili. "That save was huge. We need more of that."

The Georgian nodded, still sipping his water.

Baraja exhaled. "This is a final. It won’t be pretty. They want to drag us into a fight. Let them get frustrated, not us."

His eyes scanned the room before landing on Izan. "And you…"

Izan, still catching his breath, sat up straighter.

"You’ve been brilliant. But they’re targeting you."

"I know," Izan muttered, his fingers grazing his left ankle. A dull pain pulsed through it from Dani Vivian’s late challenge earlier. Nothing serious, but enough to bother him.

Baraja studied him for a second. "Are you good?"

Izan nodded without hesitation. "Yeah."

The coach held his gaze a moment longer before shifting his attention. "Good. Because we’ll need you again."

But Izan wasn’t listening anymore. The ankle was throbbing more than he expected. Quietly, he stood and slipped toward the back of the dressing room, heading for the bathroom.

The fluorescent light buzzed as Izan stepped inside. His reflection in the mirror showed the sweat still dripping from his forehead, his face flushed from exertion.

Ignoring the fatigue, Izan called out to the system, the ethereal screen materializing in front of him. Pressing the small icon that looked like a shack, Izan entered the system inventory and took out one conditioning and recovery fluids.

He drank the two simultaneously, instantly getting assaulted with a wave of energy, his ankle getting better. Slowly, but eventually.

The door creaked open. Pietro peeked in. "Hey, you alright?"

Izan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah."

Pietro smirked. "You better be. We’re not done yet."

Izan let out a small chuckle. "No, we’re not."

The two bumped fists before heading back out.

[Athletic Bilbao Dressing Room]

On the other side of the stadium, the atmosphere was tense.

Ernesto Valverde stood near the tactics board, hands on his hips, his expression a mix of frustration and expectation.

"We’re playing well," he started. "But we’re losing."

The words stung.

Dani Vivian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Nico Williams wiped his face with a towel, his mind still replaying the chance Mamardashvili had saved.

Valverde continued. "We know their weakness. We’ve seen it. Their fullbacks struggle when we overload them. We’ve pinned them back. Now we finish the job."

Muniain leaned forward. "And Izan?"

Valverde’s expression darkened slightly. "He’s a problem. But we’ve already gotten to him once." His eyes flicked toward Dani Vivian, who nodded. "Let him know we’re there. But be smart about it."

Dani García smirked. "Oh, he knows we’re there."

Nico Williams spoke up. "They’re quick in transition. We have to track back faster, or we’ll keep getting caught."

Valverde nodded. "Yes. But more importantly, we take our chances. We’re not here to play—we’re here to win."

There was silence. Then Muniain clapped his hands together.

"Alright then," he muttered. "Let’s take the damn trophy."