From the first whistle, the game exploded.
Betis pressed high, their green‑and‑white shirts swarming like bees. Chelsea tried to settle, but every touch was rushed, every pass hurried. The Polish crowd roared with every Betis interception, feeding the Spanish side's energy.
In the 7th minute, disaster struck. A sloppy back‑pass from Caicedo put James under pressure. Betis winger Luiz Henrique pounced, stealing the ball before crossing low. Willian José slid in, tapping it past Petrovic.
1–0 Betis. The stadium shook.
Chelsea froze. For a heartbeat, the ghosts of the season returned—the fragility, the doubt, the fear.
Maresca barked from the sideline, waving his arms. "Settle! Settle!" But the roar drowned him out.
Palmer tried to respond, drifting into the half‑spaces, demanding the ball. He skipped past two defenders in the 12th minute and curled a shot that whistled just wide. It was a warning, but Betis were unmoved.
In the 24th minute, another hammer blow. A free kick on the edge of the box. Nabil Fekir stood over it, his left foot a weapon. The ball flew like a missile, bending over the wall and into the top corner. Petrovic stretched, but it was futile.
2–0 Betis.
The Betis fans erupted, flares painting the night sky red. Chelsea's supporters sang louder in defiance, but their voices were drowned in green thunder.
On the pitch, Sancho threw his arms wide. "Wake up!" he shouted at his teammates. "We're letting them kill us!"
Palmer clenched his fists. He could feel the match slipping, the narrative writing itself—Chelsea, fragile, embarrassed in a "third‑tier" final.
And then, in the 37th minute, came the cruelest twist. Jackson finally broke through, racing onto a Sterling through‑ball. One‑on‑one with the keeper, the moment he'd prayed for. He struck hard, low…
The ball smacked the post.
The rebound bounced out, cleared by a Betis defender.
Jackson dropped to his knees, hands covering his face. The stadium jeered mercilessly.
Maresca kicked the turf on the sideline, furious. "Finish it!" he screamed.
Chelsea trudged back into shape, but their confidence was unraveling. Betis sensed blood. In the 42nd minute, another counter tore Chelsea apart. A quick one‑two sliced open the defense, and Isco slotted calmly past Petrovic.
3–0 Betis.
The whistle for halftime was met with deafening cheers from the Betis fans, and stunned silence from Chelsea's end.
The players trudged into the dressing room, sweat dripping, heads hanging. Jackson slammed his boots against the wall in frustration. "I can't—" he began, but his voice cracked.
Palmer stood, his face pale but eyes burning. "No. Don't you dare give up. It's not over."
The room fell silent.
Maresca entered, his face unreadable. He didn't shout. He didn't curse. He simply looked at them, one by one.
Then he said quietly, "Do you want the world to be right about you? Do you?"
"No," murmured Fernández.
"Louder," Maresca demanded.
"No!" several voices echoed.
"Then prove it," Maresca said. His voice rose now, sharp as steel. "Three goals can be scored. Three goals can be clawed back. But only if you fight like lions. If you bleed for each other. If you believe."
He slammed his fist against the whiteboard. "You are Chelsea. You are not finished. You rise now—or you will never rise again."
The dressing room shook with shouts, fists pounding benches. The fire returned, desperate, burning.
As they stood to return to the pitch, Palmer grabbed Jackson's arm. "Forget the miss. The next chance, you bury it. Understand?"
Jackson nodded, eyes fierce, jaw set.
The second half awaited.
And Chelsea were ready to fight.