Full-time: Rayo Vallecano 1-2 Valencia.
Izan exhaled in relief. His phone exploded with messages.
Sosa (10:30 PM): "We did it. Four more finals left."
Izan (10:31 PM): "Huge win. Proud of you guys."
Then came another updateâ
Athletic Bilbao had drawn their game.
Valencia had gained crucial ground in the top-four race.
Komi hugged Izanâs shoulder. "That was intense. Your team plays with my heart."
Hori grinned. "Next game, youâre making popcorn."
Izan just smiled. This was football. The highs, the lowsâthe never-ending battle.
And Valencia were one step closer to their dream.
....
The final whistle echoed through the Estadio Vallecas, signaling the end of a brutal contest. Valenciaâs players dropped to the turf, exhausted but victorious.
Rayo Vallecano had pushed them to their limits, but GuillamĂłnâs stunning free-kick had sealed a crucial 2-1 win.
As the players exchanged handshakes and jerseys, Giorgi Mamardashvili clapped his gloves together, celebrating another night of heroics between the posts.
Baraja, still catching his breath after sprinting down the touchline in celebration, embraced his coaching staff before he walked towards the opponent manager to shake hands.
In the stands, the traveling Valencia fans sang into the Madrid night, their voices hoarse but defiant.
In his living room, Izan leaned back into the couch, exhaling as his phone vibrated in his palm.
Sosa (10:30 PM): "We did it. Three more finals left."
Izan (10:31 PM): "Huge win. Proud of you guys."
His eyes flickered to the screen, where a breaking news alert appeared.
ATHLETIC BILBAO DRAW IN SAN SEBASTIĂN â VALENCIA GAINS CRUCIAL ADVANTAGE IN TOP-FOUR RACE.
Izan sat up straight. That was massive. This wasnât just about three pointsâit was a power shift in the Champions League battle.
Beside him, Hori tossed a piece of popcorn into her mouth. "So⊠what now?"
Komi, still holding onto Izanâs shoulder, smiled. "Now, we keep winning."
Izan nodded, but his mind was already racing ahead.
...
The Valencia dressing room was a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. Some players were still sprawled on the benches, catching their breath.
Others were buzzing, checking their phones, refreshing the league table.
Baraja stepped in, clapping his hands once. Silence fell.
"Well done," he said, scanning the room. "We showed grit. We showed heart. But this is just 2 out of 5. We have to hold on until the end."
He turned to Mamardashvili, who was unlacing his gloves. "Giorgi, those saves kept us alive. Thatâs what a big-game goalkeeper does."
Mamardashvili simply nodded humility in his expression. Baraja stared at the goalkeeper, for a while, thinking of what would be happening.
Then, Baraja pointed at GuillamĂłn, who was still beaming. "And that free kick? Madre mĂaâif I didnât know better, Iâd think you were practicing with Izan."
Laughter rippled through the room.
"But listen," Baraja continued, his tone sharpening. "Enjoy this tonight. But tomorrow? We move. This league wonât wait for us. And if we want that Champions League spot, we have to take it."
The players nodded. They understood.
Outside the stadium, the team bus waited, engines humming. Valenciaâs players moved through the mixed zone, stopping briefly for reporters.
Gaya, still drenched in sweat, spoke into the microphones.
"This was a tough game. Rayo never made it easy, but we stayed patient, and we took our chances. We know whatâs at stake. We know what weâre fighting for."
Sosa on the other walked towards the bus, his phone in hand. As he walked away, his phone buzzed again. A message from Izan.
Izan (10:45 PM): "Youâre getting better at those through balls. But youâre still not beating me in FC."
Sosa smirked, typing back.
Sosa (10:46 PM): "Just hurry and get back already. Iâm feeling suffocated on the pitch."
As the team bus rolled out of Vallecas and into the Madrid night, Valencia CF had taken another step toward their dream.
But there were still three battles left.
And every moment would count.
The team bus rumbled through the streets of Madrid, bound for the airport. Players leaned against their seats, some watching highlights on their phones, others lost in thought.
Sosa sat beside Mamardashvili, headphones on but not playing music. His fingers tapped against his kneeâresidual energy from the match still coursed through him.
Across the aisle, GuillamĂłn scrolled through social media. His free-kick had gone viral. Valencia fans were flooding his mentions.
@ValenciaForever: GUILLAMĂN MASTERCLASS. TAKE A BOW, SIR.
@LaLigaXtra: When Valencia needed a hero, Hugo GuillamĂłn delivered. What a hit.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Izanâs still the set-piece guy, though."
Diego LĂłpez, sitting next to him, smirked. "Tonight, it was you."
Further back, Baraja was speaking quietly with his assistant coach, pointing at a tablet. Already reviewing footage. Already preparing for the next battle.
Back in Valencia, Izan should have been asleep. His ankle still needed time. His body needed rest.
But he couldnât turn his mind off.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The match played in his head like a film reelâSosaâs through ball, Fran PĂ©rezâs finish, the chaos after Vallecanoâs equalizer, GuillamĂłnâs moment of brilliance.
Taking his phone, Izan checked to see any activity in the group but it was silent. Thinking about how tired his mates might be, Izan just typed "Goodnight guys" before putting his phones down.
.....
The sun hung low over Valenciaâs training complex the next day but the place was quiet.
The players had the day off save for the recovery sessions in the afternoon but not everywhere was quiet.
Inside the physio room, Izan worked through his rehab routine, guided by the clubâs medical staff.
Resistance bands. Light jogging. Balance work.
Komi had called earlier, reminding him to be patient. Hori had sent him a clip of GuillamĂłnâs goal with a simple caption:
"That couldâve been you."
He smirked.
Couldâve been. Would be soon.
As he wrapped up his session, he heard voices from the hallwayâhis teammates arriving for their recovery session.
Izan wiped the sweat from his forehead as he stepped out of the physio room.
His ankle still wasnât perfect, but today had been a good session. No sharp pain, no discomfortâjust steady progress.
As he walked toward the recovery area, he could already hear his teammatesâ voices. Laughter, light banterâthe kind of energy that came after a hard-fought victory.
The room was filled with players in club-issued training gear, sprawled across massage tables, foam rolling, or sitting in ice baths.
Pietro was, as always, causing chaos.
"Look at me," Pietro announced dramatically, balancing on one leg while attempting to stretch the other. "I am the most flexible player in Valencia!"
Before anyone could react, he lost his balance and crashed onto the mat. The room erupted in laughter.
Gaya, still sore from the game, shook his head. "Pietro, if you get injured doing recovery, Iâm not defending you."
Sosa smirked. "You werenât going to defend him on the pitch either."
Pietro shot him an exaggerated look of betrayal. "Wow. Et tu, Sosa?"
Izan chuckled as he grabbed a foam roller and sat next to Fran PĂ©rez, who was stretching his hamstrings. "So, did you guys sleep at all, or were you up watching your own highlights?"
The players all turned to Izan who was now sitting beside Fran Perez.
Fran grinned. "I forgot you were still in recovery. Anyway, I tried sleeping, but my phone wouldnât stop buzzing. Apparently, Iâm the next big thing now."
Guerra, lying face-up on the mat, smirked. "Enjoy it while it lasts. One bad game, and theyâll be calling you a fraud."
GuillamĂłn, who was checking his phone, lifted an eyebrow. "Speaking of frauds, who saw the tweet calling me âValenciaâs David Beckhamâ?"
The entire room groaned.
"Here we go," Diego LĂłpez muttered.
"You score one free kick, and suddenly, youâre Beckham?" Gaya teased.
Izan smirked. "You hit a great one, Hugo. But I would do better."
Authorsâ blog[Yeah no shit. I gave you a system]
GuillamĂłn scoffed. "Letâs see. Who scored a free kick last night? And who was sitting on his couch?"
Pietro, still on the floor, gasped theatrically. "Ohhh, he got you there, Izan!"
Izan shook his head, rolling his ankle carefully. "Enjoy it while you can. Iâm back soon."
Sosa, sitting in an ice bath, turned to him. "How soon?"
Izan sighed. "Not sure. Maybe a week. Maybe two."
The room quieted slightly. They all knew how much Izan wanted to be back, especially with three crucial games left.
Fran nudged his shoulder. "Take your time. We need you at your best."
Pietro, in a rare moment of wisdom, nodded. "Yeah, man. Plus, we need someone to carry us in FC. Sosa and I are suffering without you."
Sosa glared. "Donât include me in your suffering. I carry myself just fine."
Laughter broke the brief tension.
Diego LĂłpez stood up, shaking out his legs. "Anyway, we all know the real test is coming. Three games left. Every point matters."
Gaya nodded. "And weâre going to need every single one of us."