God Of football

Izan lifted his gaze to the stands, to the sea of red and yellow. The Spanish fans roared, chanting his name, Yamal’s, Rodri’s—every hero on that battlefield tonight.

The final whistle had been blown, but the reality was still sinking in.

Spain were in the Euro 2024 final.

The players embraced, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Rodri clapped Izan on the back, grinning. "One more game."

Izan exhaled. "One more."

The cameras caught every moment—Yamal and Nico Williams laughing as they waved at the Spanish supporters, Morata embracing Unai Simón, Cucurella still wide-eyed from the madness.

Luis de la Fuente, always composed, let himself smile. He shook hands with Didier Deschamps before heading to his players, ruffling Yamal’s hair before embracing Izan.

"You were brilliant tonight," the coach said. "Every single one of you."

Izan gave a small nod, still catching his breath. His mind briefly flickered back to the stands—to Olivia, to the surprise he hadn’t expected.

But there was no time to dwell on it.

Because the media storm had already begun.

Elena Bohen’s voice still buzzed in the background as Spain’s players made their way to the cameras.

And Morata was first.

"You’ve captained Spain to a Euro final—what does this moment mean to you?" a journalist asked.

Morata, sweat still dripping from his hair, took a deep breath. "It’s incredible. We’ve worked so hard for this. But we know—it’s not finished yet."

Next was Yamal.

"Lamine—16 years old and scoring in a Euro semi-final! What’s running through your mind?"

Yamal, grinning, rubbed the back of his head. "I just saw the space and went for it. I didn’t even think—it just happened."

He turned to Izan, smirking. "And Izan gave me the perfect pass, so I had no choice but to score."

The camera turned to Izan now.

"Izan," the journalist began, "another huge performance from you—your 7th goal of the tournament as well as your 5th assist, and yet again, your presence was decisive.

You are now just two goals shy of equaling Platini’s record and you have also joined the greats in record, scoring a brace in both quarter-final and semi-finals of the euros. What’s your reaction to this win? And how are you feeling"

Izan exhaled, wiping his face with his sleeve before speaking. "It was a battle. France are an incredible team.

But we showed our character." He glanced toward the stands for a moment, as if still taking it all in.

"And now, we have one more step. Also as you said, a brace so I’m feeling excited. As for the record, I’m not that focused on it but it would be nice to break it. "

The questions kept coming.

The energy was electric.

Spain were in the final.

The Spanish players were still on the pitch, soaking in the moment. Some had started to wind down, speaking to family and waving to the fans.

Others, like Nico Williams and Lamine Yamal, were still buzzing, playing around with a ball near the touchline.

Izan stood by the technical area. His phone vibrated in his hand. He ignored it at first, but then noticed something—he wasn’t the only one.

One by one, players started looking at their phones. Across the pitch, Dani Olmo was scrolling, his face lighting up with realization. Rodri glanced at his screen, then looked up, eyebrows raised.

Then, from the far side, Ferran Torres shouted:

"England won!"

The news spread like wildfire.

Izan unlocked his phone.

England 2-1 Netherlands.

A last-minute goal from Ollie Watkins.

As if on cue, the notifications poured in.

BBC Sport: "ENGLAND THROUGH! It’s coming home? Southgate’s men book a place in the final against Spain."

Sky Sports: "Spain vs. England: A Final for the Ages."

Marca: "Spain awaits England in Berlin—can La Roja lift another European title?"

The Athletic: "Izan, Yamal, Pedri vs. Bellingham, Kane, Foden—A Clash of Styles Awaits."

Phones were passed around. Izan could hear murmurs from his teammates as they read the headlines.

Nico Williams jogged over and leaned over Izan’s shoulder, grinning. "Bro, the English fans already think they’ve won."

Izan smirked. "Let them."

Pedri, a few feet away, chuckled as he scrolled through his messages.

"Bellingham’s gonna text me any second now."

As if on cue, his phone buzzed.

Izan’s did too.

Jude Bellingham: Final’s gonna be fun. See you in Berlin.

Izan stared at the message for a second before typing back.

Izan: Looking forward to it. Just don’t expect it to be easy.

He locked his phone and exhaled, looking around at his teammates.

They had come so far. One more game. One last battle.

.........

Izan finally stepped off the pitch, the stadium still noisy.

The chants of the Spanish fans echoed behind him, still reverberating through the stadium like an aftershock of the battle they had just won.

He had done it—they had done it. Spain were in the final.

The tunnel was crowded with staff, players, and officials, but a familiar presence made his steps slow.

Komi. Hori. Olivia.

His mother was the first to reach him, her expression caught somewhere between pride and exasperation.

"You scared me with that collision in the first half," she said, referencing the moment Upamecano had barreled into him.

Izan chuckled, rubbing his neck. "I’m fine, Mom. Didn’t even feel it."

Komi gave him a look. "Oh, please."

Before he could reply, Hori crashed into him with full force, nearly knocking him back.

"You were insane!" she squealed into his chest. "That assist to Yamal, the press, the dribbles, the way you cookedTheo—" She pulled back, eyes shining with excitement. "Finalist. My brother is a finalist."

Izan let out a breath, still not fully believing it himself. "Not done yet."

A new voice cut in, smooth and teasing.

"Not done yet, he says. As if he didn’t just send Spain to the Euro final."

Izan turned to see Miranda leaning against a barrier, arms crossed, an amused smirk on her face.

She was dressed as sharply as ever, her manager persona fully intact even in the chaos of post-match celebrations.

"Nice work, starboy," she said. "Your stock just skyrocketed. Hope you’re ready for a million new brand deals."

Izan rolled his eyes. "We’ll talk about that later."

"Of course." Miranda winked. "Go enjoy your moment. You earned it."

Then, finally—Olivia.

She had been standing just a few steps behind, watching, waiting. When he met her gaze, she didn’t say anything at first.

Just smiled. It was soft and warm—one of those smiles that made everything else quiet down for a moment.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Izan stiffened slightly. "Liv—I’m sweaty."

"I don’t care."

She hugged him tighter. He exhaled, sinking into it, the weight of the night finally settling in.

It was the biggest game of his life so far, and she was here, holding onto him like it was the only thing that mattered.

[Hope Ya’ll find your significant others. ]

Then—

"Alright, that’s enough."

Hori wedged herself between them, prying Olivia away. "Izan is my brother first."

Olivia groaned. "Hori."

"Nope." Hori latched onto Izan’s arm possessively. "We’re celebrating together."

Izan, amused, let her drag him a few steps before turning back to Olivia. "I’ll see you later?"

She huffed but smiled. "You better."

Miranda, who had been watching the exchange like a spectator at a comedy show, shook her head.

"Hori, you’re dangerously close to starting a rivalry."

Hori grinned. "I fear no one."

After spending a few more minutes with his family, Izan finally excused himself, making his way back toward the locker room.

His body ached, but the pain was dull, overshadowed by the thrill of what had just happened.

The stadium corridors were buzzing—staff, media personnel, officials, all caught in their own whirlwind of post-match duties.

He was almost at the room when he nearly walked into someone.

"Nice goal by the way" the person spoke. Izan turned to look at the person well and it was no ordinary human.

Cristiano Ronaldo.

Izan stopped abruptly.

Ronaldo, now dressed in a sleek black outfit, effortlessly exuded that aura of untouchable confidence.

His Portugal had fallen to France in the quarterfinals, yet he was still here, watching, observing.

And now, he was looking at Izan.

Izan, who had faced defenders with no fear. Izan, who had just played the biggest match of his career. Izan, who—right now—felt like a starstruck kid.

Ronaldo gave him a small, knowing smirk. "Good game."

Izan blinked. "Uh—" He caught himself, straightening his posture. "Thank you. That means a lot."

Ronaldo’s smirk widened like he had seen that reaction a thousand times before. "Final’s next. Big moment. You ready for it?"

Izan swallowed, forcing himself to push through the daze. "Yeah. I think so."

Ronaldo tilted his head. "Think so?"

Izan exhaled, steadying himself. "I know so."

Ronaldo’s eyes gleamed with approval. "Good." He took a step past Izan, then paused, as if debating something.

When he turned back, his expression had sharpened. "One last thing."

Izan felt his heart rate pick up. "Yeah?"

Ronaldo held his gaze. "Work a bit more on your leg strength. Talent is nothing without hard work."

Izan absorbed the words, nodding. "I will."

Ronaldo gave him one last look before turning away, and disappearing down the hallway.

Izan exhaled, still trying to process what had just happened.

Then, almost instinctively, he activated the system in his mind.

Scan player: Cristiano Ronaldo.

The interface responded instantly.

Izan glanced at the results—then froze.

His eyes widened.

What the—

......…..