The air around Wrocław Stadium buzzed with anticipation hours before kickoff. Fans in green and white flooded the streets, singing Betis songs that shook the cobblestones. Scattered patches of blue stood firm among them, Chelsea's traveling supporters raising their banners high despite being outnumbered.
But beyond the chants and colors, the world was watching through another lens—television cameras, studio lights, and pundits eager to dissect every detail.
"Chelsea are here by default," one commentator declared on Sky Sports. "Let's not dress it up. The Conference League isn't the Champions League. They haven't faced the elite."
Another chimed in, "Betis play with a fearless attack, and Chelsea's defense has been fragile. If Palmer doesn't produce, I don't see where their goals come from."
On ESPN, a Spanish analyst smiled knowingly. "Betis have spirit. Chelsea are rebuilding. The pressure will crush them. This final is ours."
Clips of the punditry filtered through social media like wildfire. In the stadium tunnels, some Chelsea players scrolled on their phones, shaking their heads.
"Look at this," Jackson muttered, shoving his screen toward Sancho. "They're saying we're tourists. Tourists! Like we don't belong."
Sancho smirked, though his eyes hardened. "Let them talk. Tourists don't bleed for ninety minutes. Tourists don't fight through Istanbul or London rain. We're not tourists—we're hunters."
But the voices lingered, echoes of doubt slipping into ears when silence fell.
---
Inside the dressing room, Maresca gathered them. The roar of fans outside rattled the walls, but his voice cut through.
"They doubt you because it's easier than believing," he said. "Pundits build careers on tearing men down. Fans mock because they fear your return. Do you hear them?"
The players exchanged glances, nodding.
"Good. Then use them. Every word, every headline, every sneer—turn it into fire. Tonight, Betis think we are weak. But lions…" He paused, eyes burning. "…lions feast on doubt."
A ripple of determination swept through the room.
---
Meanwhile, across the pitch, Betis were soaking in the atmosphere with joy. Their captain, Guido Rodríguez, told reporters, "Chelsea are a big name, but this is our moment. We came to win, not to fear." The Spanish press carried his words like a battle cry.
Chelsea's players saw the quotes pinned on the walls of their dressing room. Palmer stared at them for a long moment before muttering under his breath, "Good. They think we're small. Let's show them how big we are."
---
Hours before kickoff, pundits filled the pre‑match coverage with predictions.
"I think it'll be Betis by two goals," said one. "Chelsea haven't convinced me all season."
"I agree," another added. "Palmer can't carry them forever. If Jackson wastes chances again, they'll crumble."
Even a former Chelsea player joined in. "Look, I love the club, but this isn't the Chelsea I knew. This squad isn't ready to win on a big stage."
The clips spread quickly online. Chelsea fans pushed back, tweeting defiance, flooding hashtags with blue pride. But the narrative was set: Chelsea were underdogs, fragile and mocked.
In their hotel, the players watched some of it together. The room fell into silence as one pundit concluded: "This is Betis's time. Chelsea are finished."
Palmer switched off the TV. "Enough," he said flatly. "We'll answer them on the pitch."
---
As the sun dipped and night cloaked Wrocław, the stadium swelled with noise. Betis fans dominated the stands, waving flags, lighting flares. Chelsea's supporters, fewer but louder, sang with every ounce of defiance they could muster.
In the tunnel, players lined up. Palmer bounced lightly on his heels, eyes sharp. Jackson flexed his fingers, muttering prayers. Sancho clenched his jaw, staring straight ahead.
The voices of doubt were still there, whispering at the edges of their minds. But in that tunnel, with boots laced and shirts clinging tight, another voice rose louder—their own.
The whistle blew. The final was about to begin.
And Chelsea were ready to silence the world.