God Of football

"GOOOOOAAAAL!"

The commentator exploded, voice caught in the roar of disbelief.

"There it is! With his first real touch! Of course, it's him! Of course, it's Izan!"

The players mobbed him. Pedri, laughing like a lunatic. Nico, throwing both arms around his neck.

Yamal with both hands on his head, yelling "No way!" before shoving him toward the crowd.

From the touchline, de la Fuente only nodded. Calm. But behind that, a glimmer.

The replays rolled. Again and again. Izan's movement.

And in the commentary box, the voice softened for just a beat.

"He wore 21 when he became a legend," he said.

"Now he wears ten—and it's like he was always meant to."

The scoreboard read:

Serbia 0 – 1 Spain.

Spain's knight had arrived.

⸻

The Serbian players barely gave themselves a second to mourn Izan's goal.

The ball was plucked out of the net, marched to the center circle, and reset with a determination only desperation could shape.

The home crowd found its voice again too—less furious now, more desperate, more hopeful.

They hadn't come to see their team roll over.

And despite Spain's rising tide, Serbia still had teeth.

From the restart, Izan drifted into position, not shackled to any fixed point on the pitch but sliding between lines like water.

His official designation from De la Fuente was "free roam"—a role built on trust, intuition, and chaos.

It suited him.

It allowed him to haunt the zones between center-backs and midfielders, to whisper into spaces where structure cracked under pressure.

He didn't press immediately though. He watched. Studied.

Let the match's pulse quicken again before he seized its rhythm.

And Spain kept the beat.

Pedri was back in control in the midfield, stringing triangles with Rodri and Dani Olmo—who had come on quietly after Fabián Ruiz was subbed off, the kind of change that didn't roar but purred with purpose.

Olmo was calm. Intelligent. And when paired with someone like Izan, the pair moved like two points of a compass drawing perfect arcs across the pitch.

The commentator echoed the shift in tone.

"Spain are growing into this second half with new legs and old intent.

Dani Olmo joins the fray, and with Izan now roaming free, there's danger every time the ball crosses into Serbia's half."

But the hosts weren't crumbling. Not yet.

On the hour mark, a quick Serbian break turned the stadium electric.

A slick one-two cut through Rodri's shadow, and suddenly Serbia's number 10 was bearing down the left channel.

Mingueza tracked back, but it was too late—the cross curled toward the back post.

Dusan Vlahovic's head rose, high, directing the ball toward the goal but,

Unai Simón saved it with a stretch that shouldn't have been human.

One swift reaction led to him showing why he was the first choice even over others like Raya.

A full dive across the frame to tip the bullet header over the bar.

The stadium groaned, half-rising to its feet before collapsing again into disbelief.

"Unai Simón—magnificent!" the commentator roared.

"That's the moment. Serbia were inches away from equalizing!"

From the touchline, De la Fuente simply nodded.

No wild gesturing. No panic. He trusted his boys—and they were beginning to repay that faith.

After the corner was dealt with, Spain regrouped.

The tempo dropped a notch. Izan moved deeper, offering himself as an outlet, dragging Serbia's midfield wider than they liked.

Yamal, meanwhile, prowled the right touchline with menace, waiting.

And then, like lightning through dry clouds—it came.

Minute 73.

A wayward Serbian clearance pinged off Cubarsí's chest and fell to Pedri, who didn't hold it long.

A glance left, a shuffle, and a neat pass into Olmo's feet and that was all.

Spain started ticking again.

Olmo twisted as he went on a prancing run, one man beaten and the next sent to the shops.

After moving away from his two chasers, he glanced up, looking for a haven to release the ball toward.

Izan had already moved.

It wasn't a sprint. It was a slither. Between defenders, across lanes of vision, peeling left into a soft channel behind the Serbian pivot.

He didn't raise a hand. Didn't shout. Just drifted into the eye of the storm.

And Olmo, reading the pattern like scripture, followed.

The ball zipped into Izan's feet, his insole, killing the ball dead just as it made contact.

With pressure closing in, he raised his head and looked for where he could do damage, and from what he saw, the right side looked more attractive.

Yamal was on his bike.

He had waited all night for this run—his patience, his youth, all forged into a split-second decision as he broke toward the blindside.

One defender tracked him. Another hesitated. It didn't matter.

Because Izan saw it.

He threaded a needle-like pass.

A pass that looked simple from the stands but only existed for a second—a seam of grass no wider than a shoe's width.

Through it, the ball whispered like silk.

Yamal's first touch was heaven.

His second—a blur of motion as he nudged it past the onrushing keeper leaving the goal wide open.

His third?

A Fake to send the defender scrambling before he finally finished it.

Bottom corner. No fuss.

2–0 Spain.

The away section detonated.

The bench leaped as one, arms to the sky.

Yamal wheeled away toward the corner flag, and Izan jogged over, the ghost of a smile curling under his breath.

He didn't need to celebrate big. He knew what he'd done.

"Beautiful. Just beautiful," the co-commentator breathed.

"That's not just talent—that's chemistry. Olmo to Izan. Izan to Yamal. Clinical, clean, devastating."

"And look at Izan's vision," the main voice added. "He didn't force it. Didn't blast it. He waited. He calculated. And that, right there, is why he's number 10 now."

The camera caught him as the players jogged back to the center.

Yellow shirt clinging to him. Number ten gleaming.

He nodded once, subtly, toward the technical area. De la Fuente met it with an approving gesture.

Back in the middle, Serbia reset again. But this time—they felt it. The weight. The quality.

The inevitability.

Spain weren't just ahead on the scoreboard now. They were ahead in spirit, in shape, in command.

But there were still a little under twenty minutes to play.

And Serbia weren't dead yet.

They threw numbers forward. Spain bent but didn't break—Rodri a shield, Le Normand barking orders.

Unai Simón remained unshaken, gloves like magnets.

Still, one got through. A wicked, dipping shot in the 75th, one that took a deflection, raising the hopes of the Serbians before killing it all the same as it flashed against the post.

Spain breathed.

And Izan? He was still floating. Still unlocking doors only he could see.

Because that was his role now—not just to score. Not just to shine. But to orchestrate. To dictate. To lead with silence and precision.

As the match edged toward its final stretch, the stadium's song shifted.

There was applause.

Even from Serbian fans.

Because you could hate a team. You could resent a goal.

But sometimes, the football was just too good not to respect.

And Izan?

He made it poetry.

After a while, the final whistle pierced the night sky like a starting pistol for relief.

Spain 2, Serbia 0. Job done.

It wasn't a battering. It wasn't even dominant in the traditional sense.

But it was comprehensive, controlled, and filled with just enough magic to matter.

On the pitch, Spain's players exchanged tired high-fives and half-smiles, huddling briefly before splitting into clusters.

Luis de la Fuente remained on the edge of his technical area, arms folded, allowing the moment to sink in.

But even amidst the formality of post-match protocol, some stories found their way through.

Near the center circle, Izan stood, sweat streaking his temples, hands on hips, watching Serbia's players collect themselves.

It had been a fierce contest. Honest. No cheap fouls. No flailing egos.

Just ninety minutes of pure, demanding football. He respected that.

From the opposite end, Serbia's goalkeeper Pedrag Rajković walked forward, gloves tucked under his arm, jersey already half-peeled from his frame.

He offered a nod, then raised his shirt with a tired grin.

Izan blinked—then laughed softly.

"Still remember me, huh?" he said as the two met.

Rajković chuckled. "How could I forget? That goal at Mestalla still haunts me."

Izan grinned. "It was a good one."

"You've got a few of those."

Their handshake turned into a quick embrace, brief but familiar.

Months ago, they'd been on opposite sides of La Liga—Valencia versus Mallorca, a cold evening thick with noise and pressure.

Rajković had been brilliant that night too, but Izan had found a way past him.

Twice.

Now here they were again, in new colors, under new lights, with a mutual respect born of shared battle.

They swapped shirts—not in the quiet corridors of the tunnel but right there, under the open sky, with cameras catching every second.

The yellow of Izan's Spain kit was folded into Rajković's hands.

In return, Izan took the Serbian keeper's deep green top, still warm, still carrying the scent of grass and effort.

A few fans in the front rows cheered at the moment.

Some booed—rivalry always lingered—but it was mostly drowned by applause.

Football was war. But it had its moments of peace, too.

And tonight, this was one of them.

A/n: 2nd and last of the previous day. Have fun reading. Also if you remember Pedrag, Shout out to you. Man always be pulling the stops when he hears Izan is playing.