The city of Wrocław glistened beneath the soft glow of streetlamps as the Chelsea team bus rolled slowly through narrow Polish streets. Outside, clusters of fans waved scarves and flags, their chants muffled through the glass. Inside, the players sat in silence, each man lost in his own storm of thoughts.
The final had a way of stripping away everything except nerves.
Cole Palmer sat near the front, headphones over his ears but no music playing. He wasn't listening to beats tonight. Instead, he replayed pictures in his mind: the penalty against Villarreal, the jeers in Istanbul, the late goal against Haifa. A hundred little fires that had brought them here. Tomorrow he would need to be more than Cole Palmer the rising star. Tomorrow he would need to be Cole Palmer the finisher, the one who carried the weight of Chelsea.
Across the aisle, Nicolas Jackson tapped his leg restlessly. His form had been patchy all season, every miss replayed on highlight reels, every wasted chance magnified. Now, in the biggest match of his career, doubt gnawed at him.
Sancho leaned back with his eyes closed, whispering lyrics under his breath. For him, this was more than a final. It was a chance to silence years of criticism, to rewrite his name in the story of English football. He wanted redemption, and Wrocław was his stage.
At the back, Reece James stood and tapped the roof of the bus. "Oi," he called, voice steady. The players turned. "Look around. This is us. No one else. The critics aren't here. The headlines aren't here. It's just us. Hungry lions, remember?"
A low cheer spread, a ripple of agreement. Jackson grinned nervously, Palmer finally pressed play on his headphones, and the tension eased, just a little.
When they reached the hotel, a wall of Polish Chelsea supporters greeted them, chanting in heavy accents, waving blue banners high into the night. For a moment, every player's chest swelled. They were not alone.
---
The next morning, the newspapers across Europe had their predictions ready:
Betis Have the Firepower to Punish Fragile Chelsea Defense
Maresca's Men Unproven on the Big Stage
This Is Betis' Year
In the tactical meeting room, Maresca slapped a copy of one of the papers onto the table. "Read this," he said coldly. "Let it sink in. Then use it."
His eyes swept across the room. "We are not tourists in this final. We belong here. Every pass, every tackle, every sprint tomorrow is proof of that. Remember—lions hunt."
Training that evening was fierce. Tackles flew hard, the ball snapped between boots, and the air carried the sharpness of men preparing for war. Palmer drilled free kicks into the top corner again and again, sweat glistening on his forehead. Sancho chased every loose ball as if redemption itself lay hidden in the grass. Jackson stayed behind after the whistle, striking shot after shot long after his teammates had gone inside, until his legs wobbled beneath him.
Maresca watched from the shadows, silent but proud. He could feel it now—the shift. The doubt was still there, but it had been forged into something harder. Determination.
---
That night, Wrocław Stadium was lit up for the final training session open to the public. Thousands of Betis fans packed into the stands, chanting songs that rolled like thunder over the pitch. Chelsea were booed with every touch, jeered with every pass.
Jackson flinched at first, but Reece James slapped his shoulder. "Let them sing," James said. "Tomorrow we'll shut them up."
Palmer grinned faintly. "They'll be singing our name by the end."
The boos grew louder, but Chelsea finished their drills with heads high. Every jeer was fuel, every taunt kindling for the fire that would burn tomorrow.
---
Later that evening, in the quiet of his hotel room, Palmer sat by the window, staring at the Polish night sky. His phone buzzed with messages—family, friends, reporters—but he ignored them all.
He picked up a notebook from the table, its pages filled with scribbles: game plans, patterns of play, reminders. At the top of one page, he had written in bold letters: "Write history."
He whispered it aloud. "Tomorrow, we write history."
Across the hall, Maresca stood alone in his room, staring at the whiteboard he carried everywhere. The magnets had been moved a hundred times, but the picture was always the same: Betis pressing high, Chelsea breaking through the spaces. He could see it so clearly it felt inevitable.
He whispered to himself, "Hungry lions."
And with that, he switched off the lights.
---
The night before the final was restless. Some players slept fitfully, others lay awake staring at the ceiling. Dreams of glory tangled with shadows of failure. But one truth bound them together: tomorrow, the long road would end, one way or another.
The knockouts had been ugly. The headlines had been cruel. The journey had been exhausting.
But tomorrow, in Wrocław, Chelsea had the chance to turn fire into glory.
Tomorrow, they would face Betis.
And the world would finally see if the lions had teeth.