God Of football

Two minutes.

Just two minutes.

The weight of nations, the prayers of millions, the agony of uncertainty—all squeezed into the final moments of normal time.

Spain had equalized.

Spain had refused to die.

But England?

England had their own history to make.

Fweeeeeee’

"And we’re off again. It’s still tense here at the Olympiastadion in Berlin. The crowd here is exceptional, both nations fighting for European glory."

The ball zipped through the English midfield. Jude Bellingham drove forward, his lungs burning, his mind raging.

Harry Kane, stood in-between the Spanish lines, the Wembley-born king, chasing a movement of Glory.

"He’s carried England before. Can he do it one last time?" Alan Smith’s voice came through the speakers.

Bellingham, still with the ball, feinted—past Rodri.

Then a drop of the shoulder to send him away from the outstretched leg of Fabián Ruiz who had just replaced Pedri and he was off.

He lifted his head and saw Kane peeling wide.

Bellingham didn’t hesitate. A diagonal through-ball—perfectly weighted.

Kane—on the turn— didn’t hesitate and cracked it with his right foot.

It was flying.

Flying into history.

Peter Drury: "Harry Kane! Ohhh, what a hit—"

Unai Simón dived.

A full-stretch, desperate, everything-on-the-line dive.

Fingertips.

The ball skimmed off his glove.

It was still heading in— but

PING.

THE POST.

The goal rattled.

A roar from the Spanish crowd—part relief, part disbelief.

A hand on his mouth. A scream into the night. Harry Kane collapsed to his knees.

Madrid erupted. Bars overflowed with beer and bodies. Plaza Mayor became a hurricane of tension.

Peter Drury: "England gasping for air! Inches! A breath! A kiss off the post! And Spain… still stand!"

But there was no time to breathe.

Unai Simón—thinking quicker than anyone—grabbed the ball and threw it long.

Straight to Izan.

And the stadium rose again. This time, it was the turn of the England fans to panic.

Izan controlled it—effortlessly before continuing in a turning motion, the ball still glued to his feet.

Declan Rice rushed from behind but Izan flicked it over him, the ball never touching the ground.

Then—a drop of the shoulder.

Walker lunged in.

Izan pulled back at the last second—Walker slid past him for the umpteenth time in the game.

The Manchester City Man, turned to rise but, he only saw a shadow of the former.

Izan had already taken off.

The break was on.

Nico Williams sprinted alongside him.

England’s backline scrambled, Stones, limping, Rice chasing shadows.

Peter Drury: "And now, Spain come! Like fire! Like thunder! Like a hurricane roaring through the night!"

Izan glanced up. He saw it.

The space. The opportunity.

He kept running.

Peter Drury: "One last roll of the dice! One last breath! Could this be it?"

Izan cut inside.

He ignored Nico.

He ignored everything.

Twenty-five yards out.

A moment of stillness.

A breath...

Ding, [Rocket trait: Activated]

And then—he struck it.

Pure. Sweet. Deadly. Experience new tales on Freewebnovel

A shot made for history.

It curved. It swerved. It dipped. It zoomed.

Pickford—beaten.

Berlin froze.

Madrid froze.

London Froze

Every living soul in between these two nations froze.

Alan Smith: "IZAN! FROM DISTANCE! COULD IT BE—" but

CRACK.

THE CROSSBAR.

The fantasy shattered.

The ball bounced out.

Izan fell to his knees, hands on his head.

Alan Smith: "UNBELIEVABLE. INCHES. MERE INCHES FROM GLORY."

Peter Drury: "How? How does fate play with us so cruelly? Izan, the boy who has rewritten Spain’s dreams, was half a heartbeat away from eternal legend!"

And then—

The whistle blew.

A long, sharp, final whistle.

It was over.

The match… would go to extra time.

Izan remained on his knees, staring at the crossbar like it had betrayed him.

Walker, gasping for air, punched the turf.

Bellingham, drenched in sweat, stood hands on hips, breathing like a man who had just survived a war.

Spain’s bench slumped.

England’s bench slumped.

And in Plaza Mayor, in the streets of London, in Berlin’s Olympiastadion—a collective realization settled in.

Thirty more minutes.

Peter Drury: "Ninety minutes have given us heartbreak. Ninety minutes have given us poetry. But ninety minutes are not enough."

The managers barked orders.

The subs stretched.

Water bottles were thrown, instructions shouted.

The referee checked his watch.

A deep breath.

And then—

Extra time began.

Another fight to the death.

------------‐----

Two nations. One trophy. Thirty minutes to decide it.

Every breath, every heartbeat, every touch of the ball ached with tension.

The first half of extra time began.

91’ –

The first touch of the ball was heavy. The players—drained, battered, exhausted—ran on nothing but instinct and desire.

And yet, from the whistle, England attacked.

Declan Rice, somehow still running, shoved the ball forward.

Bellingham met it.

One touch. A spin. A flick into Foden.

Alan Smith: "And England drives forward again! It’s Bellingham—it’s Foden—Spain are backpedaling!"

Foden danced past Cucurella.

Kane peeled away, once more, waiting.

Foden whipped in a cross—curling, teasing—but Simón got there first and grabbed it comfortably.

Spain survived.

The counterattack came instantly.

Rodri sent it long—Izan!

Peter Drury: "The boy wonder—Spain’s greatest hope—racing into the English half!"

Walker, lungs burning, chased.

Izan—spinning, shifting, moving.

A sudden burst of acceleration and he had left Walker for dead.

But John Stones, broken and battered, stepped in.

Izan chopped left.

Then right.

Then—a flick past him.

Izan was through.

Peter Drury: "IZAN! CAN HE FINISH IT?!"

Pickford rushed out.

Izan took the shot—low, driven, clinical—

But Pickford’s scraped the ball, sending it out for a corner

THE STADIUM GASPED.

The miss galvanized England.

Trent Alexander-Arnold, on as a fresh pair of legs surged forward.

A deep cross—Kane!

Header!

UNAI SIMÓN SAVED IT.

Tha stadium gasped.

Foden—rebound!

But Le Normand blocked it with his chest.

Bodies flew everywhere.

Berlin held its breath.

And then—a clearance!

Spain escaped again.

Peter Drury: "Neither will fall. Neither will break. This is football at its most punishing, at its most poetic."

103’ –

The clock ticked down toward halftime in extra time.

And then—

A STUNNING BURST FROM IZAN.

A one-two with Olmo—a sharp sprint past Rice and that was all Izan needed to slip past him in.

[Bro, used the remaining of Diddy’s oil]

Izan, with a soft touch, lured Walker in.

Then—a delicate drag back.

Walker lunged in earnest, trying to get the ball but fate would play tricks

IZAN WENT DOWN.

THE REF POINTED TO THE SPOT.

A PENALTY.

A roar from Spanish fans. Surely this was it now

A scream from the England players.

Alan Smith affirmed: "Oh my word! Penalty to Spain!"

Walker buried his face in his hands, almost shedding tears as Kane came to comfort him.

Bellingham, on the other hand, argued.

Rice argued.

But the decision stood.

Peter Drury: "This is it. This is the moment. Spain—on the brink of triumph. Who is the man to put them in the history books"

Dani Olmo grabbed the ball.

Izan stood still. Breathing heavy.

Olmo, a picture of confidence, set the ball down and proceeded to have a staredown with Pickford

The whistle blew.

Olmo took a deep breath.

He ran up.

He struck it—

But HIGH. OVER THE BAR.

NO.

NO.

NO.

Peter Drury: "NOOOOO! IT’S OVER THE BAR! SPAIN WERE GIVEN THE GIFT OF GLORY… AND THEY THREW IT AWAY."

The Spanish players collapsed in disbelief.

The England fans erupted.

Rice sprinted to Pickford and shoved him in celebration.

Kane clenched his fists, yelling at his teammates: "WE GO AGAIN!"

Izan—still standing—covered his mouth, his hands trembling.

The first half of extra time was over.

Both teams gathered, drained, shells of themselves.

Luis de la Fuente grabbed Olmo by the shoulders.

Izan looked up—face locked in determination.

The England players, clapping and rallying, huddled close.

Bellingham shook his head. Kane whispered something.

This wasn’t over.

One last fight remained.

The referee took a deep breath and blew his whistle.

The second half of extra time… began.

The tension was unbearable. Every pass, every tackle, every glance toward the clock felt like history balancing on a knife’s edge.

Spain still reeled from Olmo’s penalty miss. England smelled blood.

Bellingham, relentless, tore through the midfield, dragging England forward. He laid it off to Kane, who took a touch and swiveled—SHOT!

Blocked!

Le Normand flung himself in the way.

The ball spilled loose—Foden latched onto it, twisting, searching for space.

A quick shift onto his left—another shot—

Simón punched it away!

The rebound fell to Trent Alexander-Arnold. He struck it first time—

Over the bar!

Peter Drury: "They keep knocking! They keep hammering! But Spain will not break!"

Izan—silent, locked in—watched. Then, the moment arrived.

A misplaced pass from Rice. A lifeline.

Rodri intercepted and immediately turned. A single glance—

And then—Izan was gone.

The ball at his feet, Spain’s last hope, their lightning bolt in human form.

He sprinted, cutting inside as England scrambled.

One last break.

One last chance.

Izan lifted his head.

A pass? A shot?

One decision.

One strike for eternity.

A/n: The next chapter will definitely be the end of the Euros Arc. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in the next one.