The score was level, but the game was anything but balanced.
Real Sociedad had their tails up. The equalizer had been gasoline poured onto a roaring fire, and now they pressed forward with unrelenting aggression.
Valencia, however, refused to fold. Their defense bent but did not break. Their midfield fought for every blade of grass. Their forwards lurked, waiting for their own chance to strike.
The next goal felt inevitable.
The only question was—who would get it first?
The atmosphere inside the Reale Arena was suffocating.
On the touchline, Imanol Alguacil paced like a man possessed. His shouts echoed over the roaring crowd, his hands slicing through the air as he urged his team to keep pressing.
On the opposite sideline, Rubén Baraja stood stone-faced, arms crossed, unreadable. But the way his fingers dug into his biceps? That betrayed the storm beneath.
Every duel, every tackle, every misplaced pass sent waves of emotion through both benches.
