God Of football

The stadium was trembling.

White shirts. White flags. White noise.

The English fans were already singing. They had it all. It was done for them. There was no way Spain were scoring again.

Gareth Southgate had punched the air, then turned to the bench with a clenched jaw, eyes ablaze with the hunger of unfinished business. His staff leaped onto each other.

England’s substitutes sprinted down the touchline, fists pumping, voices raw from screaming.

In the heart of it all, Kane stood with his arms wide, his name echoing across Berlin.

The king, once from north London had struck.

Spain?

Spain were staring into the abyss.

They had stopped moving.

Stopped breathing.

Rodri had his hands on his knees, head down. Pedri was frozen in place, blank eyes watching the English celebration.

Laporte stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief while Luis de la Fuente had gone completely still, his lips pressed tight.

It was over.

That’s what they were probably thinking.

But not him.

Not Izan.

He wasn’t looking at the score.

He wasn’t looking at the celebrations.

He was looking at England’s shape.

"They think it’s over."

They had dropped. They weren’t pressing anymore. They were sitting in deep, suffocating space, killing time.

"They think they’ve won."

Fine.

Then he would tear them down.

His body ached. His lungs burned.

But his mind?

Clearer than ever.

Izan turned to Rodri, his voice cutting through the noise.

"Give me the ball."

Rodri hesitated. Just for a second.

Then—

A nod.

Spain restarted play.

And Izan took flight.

⸻

87th Minute –

Rodri’s pass zipped into Izan’s feet under the urging of the small hopeful Spanish fans who still had some fight in them.

Izan took one touch to kill the momentum behind the pass before flicking it past the oncoming Declan Rice.

A body feint was next and the next English man bit.

Gallagher lunged but Izan rolled the ball under his boot, spun away, and left him scrambling.

Peter Drury: "Spain’s golden boy… refusing to bow to the inevitable!"

Jude closed in, charging with the momentum of a sex-deprived bull.

Izan, once again, dropped his shoulder—twitched left and dragged it right at the last second.

Jude shifted his weight, trying to accommodate Izan’s fluid movements but there was a limit to how flexible he could be.

Alan Smith: "Look at Izan. He’s gliding! Look at the balance, the poise, the elegance under pressure!"

The England fans booed trying to mentally encroach on Izan.

But he did not care. The other Spanish players moved into spaces to support Izan but it looked as if he was not done yet.

Kyle Walker was coming. And fast

Very Fast.

But Izan was faster.

The ball barely touched the ground as he weaved, shifted, and cut in behind—leaving blades of grass screaming beneath his feet.

Walker slid— but missed.

Izan was through.

The Spanish crowd and the bench was on its feet.

87th Minute –

A red wave surged forward.

It was coming.

And then—

A crash.

Declan Rice—who had recovered—came like a freight train, shoulder-first, straight into Izan’s ribs.

Izan’s breath ripped from his lungs. His body folded.

He hit the ground, hard.

No whistle.

The ball rolled away.

And then—

A shadow.

Kyle Walker was in his face, instantly.

"Not this time."

He loomed over Izan, chest puffed, nostrils flaring. Discover stories at Freewebnovel

Izan’s head snapped up.

A flicker of disbelief—then rage.

He shoved himself up, eyes locked onto Walker.

"That’s a foul."

Walker laughed.

"Get up, kid."

Jude Bellingham arrived, his face tight with frustration, grabbing Izan’s arm.

"Relax." he uttered but Izan yanked his arm free.

" Don’t tell me to relax Jude"

Jude stared at Izan, as if he was seeing a different entity

His blood was boiling.

Rice strolled past, not even looking at him.

"Stay down next time."

That was it.

Izan lunged forward.

Walker’s hands shot out, pushing him back.

Nico Williams was there in a flash, shoving Walker.

Bellingham grabbed Nico.

Rodri charged in, screaming at the ref.

"THAT’S A FOUL!"

The Spain bench erupted—Luis de la Fuente stormed to the touchline, face red with fury.

England’s players surrounded the scene.

Chaos.

The referee finally blew his whistle.

Not for a foul.

For control.

He pushed between Izan and Walker, arms out.

"Enough!"

Walker grinned, shaking his head.

"He’s rattled," he said to Jude while walking away.

Izan’s jaw locked.

His heart thundered.

But he wasn’t rattled.

He was ready.

Rodri pulled him aside, his voice low.

"Next time, go through them."

Izan nodded.

Eyes sharp.

Lungs burning.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Spain recovered possession.

And Izan ran, jaw locked.

His ribs burned. His lungs screamed.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop

Again.

Another attempt.

This time, Stones stepped in—but Izan flicked it over him with an audacious scoop and ran onto his own pass.

The stadium gasped.

Alan Smith: "That is outrageous! Spain’s young magician is weaving something special! But time is running out"

England were rattled.

The fourth official raised the board.

+6 MINUTES.

The English fans raised their voices in disapproval but they couldn’t change the time.

They rallied being their team, urging them to hold on. And so they did.

Izan’s legs were on fire.

But the game was still alive.

And then—

A break.

John Stones collapsed, clutching his calf.

England’s medical team rushed on.

Izan turned to the referee.

He wasn’t stopping the clock.

They were killing time.

"No. No. No."

[Focus LV 2: Activated], the sound of the system rang through his consciousness

His mind raced. Searching. Calculating.

Then he saw it.

Kyle Walker.

For a split second, he turned to the bench, exchanging words with Southgate.

A crack in focus.

A sliver of an opening.

Rodri saw him.

Izan gave the signal.

Rodri’s pass—piercing, perfect, a missile cutting through England’s midfield.

Izan turned, one touch—

A backheel flick past Jude.

The crowd gasped.

Peter Drury: "He’s playing jazz on the biggest stage of all! Spain’s young maestro… conducting his masterpiece!"

Walker recovered, sprinting across.

Izan feinted.

Walker braced for the impact—but there was no impact.

Izan had ghosted past him with a half-step, a shift of weight, a move so delicate it could only be felt, not seen.

Spain surged forward.

The world was watching.

Izan had the ball at his feet, a storm in his veins.

England’s backline tightened, but he saw it unraveling.

Kyle Walker—too deep.

John Stones—half-injured, stepped out.

A crack in the wall.

Izan’s pulse slammed against his ribs.

Now.

A delicate, teasing flick—past Stones.

He was gone.

Alan Smith: "HE’S LEFT HIM BEHIND! COULD THIS BE IT?!"

The Olympiastadion trembled.

A seismic roar rolled across Berlin.

People in plazas, in bars, in homes—every single Spaniard was on their feet.

They saw it.

Izan saw it.

Nico Williams—peeling away.

Wide open.

Peter Drury: "IZAN SEES HIM! THE SLIDE-THROUGH! THE MOMENT!"

Izan’s foot kissed the ball—a pass laced with pure magic.

The ball slipped between desperate white shirts.

A nation held its breath waiting for the decisive moment.

Nico met it—

One touch.

A heartbeat.

A shot.

A bullet.

A GOAL.

GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL, the stadium erupted, a cauldron of emotions as fans kissed, mingled with tears.

Peter Drury: "NICOOOOO WILLIAMS!!! SPAIN! HAVE! RISEN! FROM THE EDGE OF OBLIVION TO THE GATES OF GLORY!!!"

Spain erupted

Madrid erupted.

In Puerta del Sol, people threw drinks in the air, strangers embraced, screamed, and collapsed.

Children cried, fathers roared, bars shook with the sheer force of the moment.

In Valencia, fireworks split the night sky.

In Seville, church bells rang.

The entire nation—united in chaos.

Alan Smith: "WHAT A RESPONSE! SPAIN, REFUSING TO DIE! REFUSING TO FADE! AND WHO ELSE BUT IZAN?!"

On the pitch, Nico exploded.

His shirt—gone.

His scream—primal.

He sprinted towards the Spain fans, eyes wild, arms outstretched like a man possessed.

Izan dropped to his knees, fists clenched, eyes burning while Yamal crashed into him.

Rodri collapsed, hands in his hair.

The Spain bench erupted.

Luis de la Fuente—hands in his face, eyes disbelieving.

Spain’s fans?

They were in bedlam.

But England?

England were shattered.

John Stones sat motionless, staring blankly at the grass.

Declan Rice—hands on his head.

Walker—on his knees, fingers digging into the turf, his face buried in frustration.

And Jude Bellingham?

Jude stood in the middle of it all.

Hollow.

His eyes blinked in shock.

The moment—the dream—had been stolen.

Peter Drury:

"Football, at its cruelest. England, on the cusp of immortality, have been yanked back from paradise. Football is or was coming home.

They saw the sun, and they tasted the sky—but Spain, indomitable Spain, have refused to kneel.

From the depths of despair, they have willed themselves back into the light.

And now, with time slipping through trembling fingers, the story is still waiting…

for one final name to write itself in legend."

The scoreboard flashed.

ENGLAND 2 - 2 SPAIN.

The final minutes loomed.

And Izan?

He got to his feet, wiping sweat from his brow, his breathing heavy but his eyes fierce.

He turned to Yamal.

"One more."

Yamal grinned through exhaustion.

"One more."