God Of football

Before Izan could even make it to the tunnel, a tap on the shoulder stopped him.

"¡Izan! Quick word?" came the voice, firm but respectful.

One of the traveling Spanish reporters had beaten the rest to him, already live with a mic in hand and a cameraman trailing close behind.

He offered a wry smile, raking his hair back with one hand as he nodded.

"Sure."

The reporter, a young woman in a red blazer and earpiece, didn't waste time.

"2–0 tonight, Izan. First match back with the national team since the Euros, my first match wearing the number 10… and your first touch was a goal. What does this night mean to you?"

Izan exhaled slowly, eyes flickering to the stands one last time before meeting hers.

"It means a lot," he said. "Every time you wear this shirt, it should mean something. I've always believed that. The 21… it carried memories. But the 10? That's a responsibility. I wanted to honor that the right way."

"And you did," the reporter agreed, smiling.

"There were a lot of people wondering if you'd even be here, especially after the pictures with your girlfriend. What do you say to those fans now?"

He gave a short laugh, not annoyed, not defensive. Just… honest.

"I needed a breather. That's all. But I've never turned my back on Spain and never will. Not once. People were just reading too much into a few quiet days. I knew I'd be here. I wanted to be."

Behind him, some of the other players were walking off, whistling, ribbing him from a distance.

He didn't turn. He stayed grounded in the moment.

"One goal, one assist," the reporter added. "You looked… different tonight. Sharper. Did something change?"

Izan tilted his head, thoughtful for a second.

"I've been working in silence for a while now. Growing. Evolving. This version of me—he's not done yet."

Her smile grew wider. "Last question. That moment with Rajković. What's the story there?"

Izan glanced at the green shirt in his hand, still damp with effort. His fingers curled around it with surprising gentleness.

"We played each other in Spain a few months ago. It was one of those nights you don't forget. He made saves he had no business making.

I just… we shared a moment back then. Tonight, we shared another."

And with that, he offered one final nod to the camera.

"For Spain. Always."

He turned toward the tunnel, the number 10 on his back catching the stadium lights, and walked off into the bowels of the stadium—no longer the promise of a star, but the quiet storm Spain had come to count on.

The echo of his studs clicked softly against the tunnel flooring, slowing as Izan stepped past the final corridor and into the dressing room.

Empty, almost. Laughter and low chatter filled the space, but the seats weren't as crowded as before.

Damp shirts clung to locker doors, a few kitmen working quietly to pack away the evening's remnants.

The air carried the familiar cocktail of sweat, detergent, and post-match adrenaline.

Izan's eyes scanned the room.

"Where's Morata?" he asked, not loudly, but just enough to be caught by those nearby.

Rodri, already in his tracksuit and scrolling on his phone with one leg draped over the other, barely looked up.

"De la Fuente took him to the press conference."

Pedri, half-buttoned in his Spain polo, added with a grin, "Wanted the captain's word after the win. Said they'd be joining us on the bus. They'll catch up."

Izan just gave a soft nod and moved toward his spot.

His folded warm-up top had been replaced with a clean towel, his boots already swapped for slides.

Something was calming about the ritual—nothing hurried, nothing showy.

Just the silent winding down of a night well fought.

The hot water hit his skin like a second whistle—signaling not the start or the end, but the slowing heartbeat of a player leaving the battlefield behind.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged, hair wet and loose, towel around his neck.

The dressing room was nearly cleared now, a few players lingering in casual conversation near the entrance, their laughter echoing down the hallway.

"Vamos," Dani Olmo called out, shouldering his duffel bag as he walked past.

"The team bus is waiting."

Izan nodded, slung his bag over one shoulder, and followed.

..........

The team bus pulled up quietly to the front of the hotel, its headlights carving shallow beams through the calm Belgrade night.

The Serbian fans had long dispersed, and the once-buzzing lobby now stood dimly lit, hushed save for the soft hum of conversation between hotel staff awaiting their final wave of guests.

The automatic doors parted with a hiss, and the players began filing out.

Izan stepped down near the front, his duffel slung over one shoulder, the zip of his Spain tracksuit half-drawn, and the scent of shower gel still clinging to his skin.

Pedri was right behind him, yawning into his sleeve while Yamal trudged out beside Nico, their tired mumbling somewhere between banter and sleep talk.

Luis de la Fuente stood just past the hotel entrance with one of the coordinators, clipboard in hand, face calm but authoritative as ever.

"Alright, chicos," he called out as the squad began to shuffle past.

"Straight to your rooms. I want the lights out early tonight. That was a strong win, but recovery is just as important."

Some nodded; others just grunted in acknowledgment. A few high-fived the kit staff on the way in.

De la Fuente added, "We'll be flying out tomorrow evening to Geneva. Be packed and in the lobby by five. The match against Switzerland is only days away."

The next battle was already in the air.

Izan passed him with a small nod and a quiet "Buenas noches, míster," before heading toward the elevator bank.

The players scattered through the hotel like dandelion seeds on a breeze—some peeling off toward their floor early, others waiting for the lifts in comfortable silence.

The hallways grew quiet again.

One by one, the lights flicked off behind hotel room doors, leaving only the city's moonlight shimmering off the windows—Belgrade asleep, Spain recharging.

..........

The morning sun filtered gently through the tall windows of the hotel dining area, casting golden streaks across a quiet room filled with the subtle clinks of cutlery and the hum of conversation.

A few players had trickled in early—Pedri, as usual, was half-asleep with his head resting on one hand while he spooned yogurt into his mouth with the other.

Nico was perched across from him, phone in one hand, muttering under his breath at whatever fantasy football app he was refreshing.

Izan entered casually, dressed in a crisp training tee and dark joggers, his damp hair swept back lazily from a quick morning shower.

"Yo," Nico lifted his hand without looking up.

"You're late," he said as Izan grabbed a plate.

"It's not training, man."

"It's not, not training," Yamal piped up from a table nearby.

He looked far too awake for a teenager.

"Amo said we're doing a recovery session after breakfast. Indoor pool, stretching, and mobility work."

"Classic post-match," Pedri added with a yawn, finally lifting his face from his hand.

"Then we've got free time until we fly."

At the mention of the flight, a few heads turned instinctively toward the windows.

Geneva. Switzerland. The second test of the break.

Izan filled his plate with fruit and eggs and made his way to sit with the others.

The mood at breakfast was content, casual—but you could feel the undercurrent of competition humming beneath the surface.

Everyone knew what the Switzerland game could mean. Points. Momentum.

Luis de la Fuente appeared at the far end of the room just as most had finished their meals, flanked by Amo and Raúl.

He gave a small nod, drawing their attention without needing to speak up.

Players quieted as he reached the center of the room.

"Morning, all," he began, voice calm but clear. "Well played yesterday. Professional performance. Serbia didn't make it easy, but you stood up. We travel this evening at 5 p.m. sharp. The bus leaves at 4. Bags packed, tags checked. Keep your routines tight—our window to prepare for Switzerland is small."

There were nods all around, a few murmurs of acknowledgment.

He continued, "We'll keep things light today. Recovery work this morning, lunch, and then time to yourselves until departure. Rest smart. Geneva isn't a holiday."

There was a chuckle or two, but it was respectful.

As the players began to file out, Izan lingered for a second beside the window, his coffee cupped in both hands.

Below, the Belgrade streets were already stirring.

Local kids in kits ran past the hotel's front steps, and someone—he couldn't tell who—had spray-painted IZAN #10 across a bit of cardboard, now taped to the railing across the street.

He smiled at the sight and let the moment breathe before turning back to the others.

Time to get ready for Geneva.