The tunnel felt narrower than before.
Players walked back onto the pitch with heavier legs and sharper eyes. Sweat had already soaked through shirts that would soon be weighed down further by expectation. The scoreboard above the stand read 1–1, but nothing about the atmosphere felt balanced. It felt charged, unstable, as if one mistake could fracture everything.
Álex adjusted his captain's armband, tugging it once, twice, grounding himself. His breath was steady, but his heart worked harder now, not from panic but from comprehension. This was Atlético de Madrid. They would not fade. They would wait.
The referee blew the whistle.
The second half began not with speed, but with intent.
Atlético dropped their defensive line slightly, compressing space between midfield and defense. Valencia tried to push higher, but every forward movement felt like pressing against invisible glass. Álex sensed it immediately. Passing lanes that existed in the first half were now thinner, delayed by half a second, enough to disrupt rhythm.
He drifted deeper.
He began dictating from fifteen meters further back, receiving the ball under pressure, turning on the first touch, releasing before the trap could close. His marker followed, relentless, reading him more closely now, anticipating angles.
In the 48th minute, Valencia nearly paid for a mistake.
A loose touch in midfield was pounced on, Atlético bursting forward in numbers. Álex sprinted back instinctively, tracking a runner through the center. The final pass came, sharp and precise, but Álex slid in at the last moment, his boot deflecting the ball just wide of the post.
The crowd exhaled as one.
Álex remained on the ground for a second longer than necessary, chest heaving, grass pressed against his cheek. He pushed himself up, nodded once, and jogged back into position.
No theatrics. No appeal.
The match resumed its slow burn.
Minutes passed without shots, but the tension grew thicker. Duels became heavier. Shoulders leaned harder. Referees' warnings grew sharper. Every throw-in felt like a small battle for territory.
In the 55th minute, Álex orchestrated one of Valencia's most fluid sequences of the match.
A short pass to the right. A one-touch return. A disguised ball through the half-space that split Atlético's midfield line. Álex surged forward, exchanging a quick wall pass with the striker, breaking into the box.
For a fraction of a second, he saw the corner.
He struck low.
The keeper reacted instantly, parrying it wide with strong hands.
Álex clenched his jaw, frustration flashing briefly before disappearing. He raised his arm, encouraging teammates, forcing himself outward, projecting belief.
Atlético responded immediately.
They slowed the game.
Possession rotated backward. Center-backs exchanged passes. The crowd whistled, restless, but Atlético remained unmoved. They were draining the match, minute by minute, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Álex realized what they were doing.
They were waiting for fatigue to betray someone.
By the 65th minute, legs began to show it.
Valencia's wingers tracked back more slowly. Atlético's midfield anchor began stepping higher, pressing Álex more aggressively, nudging him off balance, whispering doubt with every nudge.
Álex adjusted again.
He stopped holding the ball.
Instead, he became movement itself. He dragged defenders away, opened corridors, created advantages without touching the ball. He gestured constantly, voice cutting through the noise, guiding teammates into spaces Atlético could not fully close.
In the 71st minute, Valencia came closest again.
A corner swung in deep. The ball ricocheted, fell to Álex at the edge of the box. He struck first time, clean and controlled.
The shot skimmed just over the bar.
Hands went to heads across the stand.
Estrella stood frozen, eyes wide, unable to scream.
Atlético sensed the shift.
They began pressing higher now, testing Valencia's resolve. A foul here. A shove there. Tactical, calculated, emotionless. The referee reached for his pocket once, twice, issuing warnings without cards.
Álex felt the weight creeping into his calves.
His status window flickered in his mind.
[Stamina: 51% → 44%]
[Decision-making: Stable.]
[Composure: High.]
He ignored the numbers.
In the 78th minute, Atlético nearly ended it.
A quick combination down the left pulled Valencia's defense out of shape. A cutback rolled into the six-yard box. A striker lunged.
The ball slammed into the post.
Time froze.
The rebound flew across goal, inches from another boot, before being cleared desperately into the stands.
The stadium exploded with sound.
Álex stood motionless for a heartbeat, absorbing how close the line had been. He turned to his teammates, clapped once, loudly, commanding attention.
"We are still here," he shouted.
Atlético reset, unfazed.
The final ten minutes loomed.
Every duel now carried the weight of consequence. Every clearance felt like survival. Valencia pushed when they could, but their movements lacked the sharpness of earlier phases. Atlético's press became suffocating, their shape flawless.
Álex dropped almost alongside his defenders now, helping circulate possession, refusing to allow panic.
In the 84th minute, he created one last moment of brilliance.
Receiving the ball under pressure, he spun away from two markers with a sharp turn, burst forward, and threaded a pass through four red-and-white shirts into the striker's path.
The striker shot.
Saved.
Again.
The keeper stayed down for a second longer this time, cradling the ball, letting the seconds bleed away. The referee warned him. The crowd roared.
Time continued its march.
In the 88th minute, Atlético earned a free kick near the corner flag. They took it short, shielding the ball, forcing Valencia to chase shadows. Álex sprinted, legs burning, closing down angles, forcing the ball backward.
When Valencia finally regained possession, the clock showed 89:10.
Álex demanded the ball.
He carried it forward, weaving through midfield, absorbing contact, refusing to release it too early. He looked up, searching for space, for opportunity, for destiny.
He found none.
Atlético's lines collapsed around him.
The ball was recycled backward.
The referee checked his watch.
+3 minutes of added time.
The crowd stood.
Valencia pushed everyone forward.
A long ball sailed into the box. Cleared.
Another cross. Headed away.
Atlético countered briefly, but Álex tracked back again, intercepting with the last of his strength.
The ball rolled out for a throw-in.
The referee glanced at his watch once more.
He raised the whistle.
Full time.
1–1.
Players bent over, hands on knees, lungs burning. Some fell to the grass entirely. Others stared into nothing, processing what ninety minutes had failed to decide.
Álex stood still.
Sweat dripped from his chin. His chest rose and fell steadily now, the calm of acceptance replacing urgency. He looked toward the stands.
His family rose together.
Carlos clapped slowly, firmly.
Abisoye closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
Estrella jumped, shouting his name until her voice cracked.
Extra time awaited.
Ninety minutes had not been enough.
And somewhere deep inside, Álex knew.
This match was never meant to end quickly.