God Of football

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—

......…..

[Cristiano Ronaldo Scanned Data: Prime Version]

• Name: Cristiano Ronaldo dos Santos Aveiro

• Height: 1.87m

• Weight: 85kg

• Preferred Foot: Right (but highly proficient with left)

• Position: Forward (LW, ST, RW)

• Club History: Sporting CP, Manchester United, Real Madrid, Juventus

• International Team: Portugal

• Peak Years: 2007-2018

• Total Career Goals: 800+

• Ballon d’Or Titles: 5

• Champions League Titles: 5

• Domestic League Titles: 7+

• International Trophies:

European Championship (2016), Nations League (2019)

Peak Attributes:

• Pace: 95

• Dribbling: 94

• Shooting: 97

• Passing: 87

• Physicality: 95

• Defensive Work Rate: Medium

• Attacking Work Rate: High

• Skill Moves: 5★

• Weak Foot: 5★

Staring at the screen in front of him, Izan couldn’t help but be baffled until the system spoke.

[Ronaldo’s prime statistics showcase his evolution into a complete forward, blending elite athleticism with technical mastery.

His ability to score from anywhere, dominate in aerial duels, and decide matches on his own made him one of the most feared players in history.]

[Current Version Scanned…]

• Age: 39

• Position: Forward

• Preferred Foot: Right

• Pace: 84

• Dribbling: 83

• Shooting: 92

• Passing: 80

• Physicality: 85

[Despite aging, Cristiano Ronaldo remains a lethal goalscorer. His physical attributes have declined, but his shooting, movement, and finishing instincts are still world-class.]

Izan scanned through the information, the stark contrast between Ronaldo’s prime and current form clear.

Even with time catching up, the Portuguese legend still maintained an elite level—proof of his obsession with excellence.

But Izan wasn’t here just to admire history. He was here to shape his own.

"Well at least I’m getting somewhere," Izan said before walking to the locker room.

......…..

The Spanish national team had no time to waste. De la Fuente had made the decision swiftly—no extended celebrations, no delays.

Spain was on the next flight out, heading straight for Berlin.

The players moved through the Munich airport, a sea of red training kits standing out among the bustling crowds.

Cameras flashed, and voices rose as reporters and fans swarmed the team’s path. Security kept the worst of the chaos at bay, but it was impossible to avoid entirely.

"Izan! Over here!"

"Lamine! Spain’s winning the Euros, right?"

"Pedri! Just one picture, please!"

Some fans had phones stretched high, desperate for a glimpse of their idols.

Others reached out in vain, hoping for a handshake or a signature. The atmosphere buzzed with energy—excitement, pressure, expectation.

One reporter managed to slip through the wall of security, extending his mic toward Rodri. "Rodri! Spain has been dominant so far, but what can we expect next?"

Rodri, ever composed, met the reporter’s gaze with a calm confidence. "We’ve done well. I know there is only one match between us and the trophy but to us, the real tournament starts now.

Every moment, every decision matters will matter. We’re prepared, and we’ll give everything to go all the way."

His words carried the weight of a leader, someone who had seen it all before. Izan listened, absorbing the message.

There was no room for complacency. Everything they had done so far led to this—the moment that would define them.

As they boarded the plane, the anticipation only grew. Berlin awaited. And with it, the next battle.

.........….

Spain’s flight touched down in Munich under the cover of night, but despite the late hour, the energy among the players remained high.

The moment they stepped off the plane, a quiet but palpable tension filled the air.

The team moved through the near-empty airport quickly, escorted by security. No media, no distractions—just a direct route to the hotel, where De la Fuente wasted no time in enforcing discipline.

"Straight to your rooms," the coach ordered as they entered the lobby. "No late-night nonsense. We have work to do."

No one argued. They nodded, exchanged quick goodnights, and dispersed to their respective rooms.

At least, that’s how it seemed.

Izan lay on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He should’ve been asleep. He wanted to be asleep.

But his body refused to relax. The rush of the tournament, the hype—it was impossible to shut off.

A sigh escaped his lips. Screw it.

Sliding out of bed, he moved as quietly as possible, grabbed his room key, and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway.

He had no idea what he was even looking for—maybe fresh air, maybe just movement to shake off the restlessness.

Then, just as he closed his door, another one down the hall creaked open.

Izan froze.

The figure stepping out was equally cautious, glancing left and right before moving toward the elevators.

Lamine.

Izan smirked. So he wasn’t the only one.

But before he could call out, another door opened—Pedri this time, rubbing the back of his neck as he yawned.

Then Nico Williams, who looked way too energized for someone who had supposedly been sent to bed, also stepped out.

Within seconds, it was clear.

They had all planned to sneak out.

The realization settled between them in the dim hallway before Pedri chuckled. "No way… we all had the same idea?"

Lamine crossed his arms, unimpressed. "You guys are such bad liars."

Nico grinned. "Like you weren’t sneaking out too."

Laughter broke out quietly among them as they made their way toward the lobby, pushing their luck just a little more.

The lobby, silent and empty moments ago, soon became a battleground.

At first, it was harmless—just quiet conversation, talk about the match ahead, their nerves, the weight of the occasion.

But then, someone (Izan blamed Nico) suggested a quick game of table football in the lounge area.

One game turned into two. Two turned into four.

Then someone else (definitely Lamine) found a basketball, and soon enough, they were using the lounge trash bins as makeshift hoops.

The noise level crept higher. The games got more intense.

And that’s when the veterans showed up.

Rodri, Carvajal, and Morata had also failed to sleep and, upon hearing the commotion, made their way downstairs.

Morata groaned. "You guys have no idea how to lay low, do you?"

Carvajal rubbed his temples. "If De la Fuente sees this, we’re all dead."

Rodri exhaled through his nose. "You already woke me up. Might as well let me play."

Lamine grinned. "Finally, someone with a proper mindset."

The so-called "quiet night" spiraled into chaos.

Nico Williams dribbled the ball between his feet, eyes locked on his opponent. On the other side of the makeshift court, Pedri stood in a defensive stance, arms out wide.

"Come on, then," Pedri challenged.

Nico feinted left, then bolted right, trying to get past him. But Pedri was quick, shifting his weight and cutting him off.

Their teammates watched from the side, occasionally throwing in playful taunts.

Izan leaned toward Lamine. "No way Pedri wins this."

Lamine shook his head. "You’re underestimating him."

A sudden move—Nico spun sharply, slipping past Pedri and flicking the ball toward the trash bin they had turned into a hoop. The shot arced perfectly through the air—

And bounced off the rim.

"Nooo!" Nico dropped to his knees dramatically as the others burst into laughter.

Morata shook his head. "This is what happens when you play without a proper backboard."

Rodri, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke. "I bet I can make it."

The younger players turned toward him, skeptical.

Lamine smirked. "You, Rodri? You barely shoot in real matches."

Rodri didn’t rise to the bait. He simply took the ball, lined up his shot, and—without hesitation—launched it.

The ball sailed across the room and dropped cleanly through the trash bin.

Silence.

Then, chaos.

The players erupted, shouting, laughing, clapping Rodri on the back.

"He’s been hiding his true skills!" Izan joked.

Rodri simply shrugged. "Always be prepared."

What ultimately doomed them was the burst of laughter that echoed across the lobby—loud, unfiltered, impossible to ignore.

And at that exact moment, De la Fuente arrived.

The air shifted instantly.

A sharp presence. A silence that cut through everything.

Izan, still holding a ball in his hands, locked eyes with the coach from across the room.

Time to run.

Without hesitation, he bolted, shoving Lamine and Nico ahead of him as they dashed toward the stairwell.

The younger players scattered like thieves caught in the act, slipping away into the shadows of the hotel corridors.

Left behind, Morata sighed. "Unbelievable."

Rodri turned slowly to face De la Fuente, resigned. "Before you say anything, just know… I told them this was a bad idea."

Carvajal folded his arms. "No, he didn’t."

The coach exhaled through his nose, his gaze sweeping over the mess they had made.

"You’d better hope we win," was all he said.

Then, without another word, he turned and left.