God Of football

The descent into Geneva was smooth, the aircraft gliding like a whispered breath over the snow-kissed ridges of the Alps.

As the players peered out through the oval windows, the horizon unfolded in layers—mountains guarding the lakes, old stone towns leaning into green.

The Swiss city below looked like it belonged in a postcard, too neat, too quiet, as if unaware of the fierce contest it would soon host.

From his window seat, Izan leaned back with his headphones in, his playlist murmuring soft piano beneath the dull thrum of the engines.

Across the aisle, Nico had fallen asleep with his hoodie drawn tight over his face, while Pedri absentmindedly spun a pen between his fingers, half-watching the clouds, half-zoning out.

It was a different kind of focus now.

The landing gear extended with a low rumble, and within minutes, the aircraft touched down smoothly on the tarmac at Geneva Airport.

The cabin lights flickered on. The seatbelts clicked off one by one.

"I'm not unpacking anything fancy," Yamal mumbled to no one in particular as they collected their bags.

"Something about Swiss grass just tells me it's going to rain."

"It's not raining," Cubarsí replied dryly, already zipping up his jacket.

"It's just Switzerland. It always looks like it's about to."

By the time they stepped off the plane, the air was sharp and clean, laced with the scent of pine from the nearby forests and just the faintest trace of jet fuel.

The Spanish team bus—white with a red stripe down the side and the crest printed bold and proud—waited near the edge of the private arrivals zone, engine humming.

Luis de la Fuente was already at the front, clipboard in hand, flanked by staff coordinating bags and clearing the way.

The players filed in without much noise, still carrying the weight of travel and preparation in equal measure.

The drive to the team hotel was a short one, weaving past lakeside boulevards and cobbled alleys.

Locals lined a few street corners, holding up flags and waving phones. It wasn't overwhelming fanfare—this wasn't Madrid or Barcelona—but it was warm. Familiar faces nodded.

Even there in Switzerland, Izan saw his name etched onto signs, heard his chant hummed by a few teens outside a bakery.

"Have I really gone that far?" he muttered, thinking about how he was an unknown kid with a dream two years ago.

Their hotel was a sleek, modern structure nestled between Geneva's financial district and a calm stretch of park.

Trees lined the entrance, and the glass doors slid open with a hush as the team made their way in.

The lobby was pristine, with pale marble floors and minimalist art on the walls.

A faint instrumental soundtrack floated overhead—some kind of ambient jazz.

Izan entered last, his duffel slung over one shoulder, still half in his thoughts.

The match in Serbia had felt like the right kind of reintroduction. But Switzerland?

That was a different puzzle. More technical. More disciplined.

Luis called out instructions quickly.

Rooms are the same format—doubles. Dinner at eight. Meeting at nine. Lights out at eleven. We train early."

There were a few groans, but nothing serious. Everyone understood the rhythm now.

The elevator doors chimed open.

One by one, they stepped inside and peeled off by floor—Nico and Pedri up first, followed by Cubarsí and Yamal. Izan waited for the second lift.

When it arrived, he stepped in with Dani Olmo, and Rodri, the three of them sharing a wordless nod.

It was calm. But underneath that calm, something was brewing again. Another ninety minutes waited on the horizon.

Another battle beneath the mountains.

Switzerland would be ready. But so would Spain.

The hallway on the sixth floor was quiet, lined with soft lighting and pale wooden panels.

Izan walked beside Olmo, their rolling suitcases humming softly over the carpet. When they reached the door—Room 613—Olmo tapped the keycard, and the lock gave a gentle beep before clicking open.

The room was typical of high-end team hotels: twin beds, a sleek black TV mounted on the wall, and a small balcony that opened up to a view of the distant lake shimmering beneath the dusk.

Izan dropped his bag by the bed closest to the window and stretched, rotating his shoulders with a soft sigh.

Olmo tossed his hoodie onto the other bed and flopped back onto it, arms spread like a starfish.

"Finally," he muttered. "One day, someone's going to invent teleportation, and I'll personally invest."

Izan chuckled, slipping off his jacket and placing it neatly on the chair beside the desk.

"How are you finding it, by the way?" he asked as he glanced at the balcony.

"Barcelona."

Olmo raised a brow, half-smirking.

"Oh? Getting curious, are we?"

Izan gave him a sideways glance.

"Just asking. You never talk about it."

"Oh, now you care?" Olmo teased, folding his arms behind his head.

"What's this—testing the waters before you cross enemy lines?"

Izan rolled his eyes, amused.

"Please. You act like I've never set foot in Catalonia."

"Yeah, yeah, but that was different. That was Valencia-you. Arsenal-you is a whole other story." Olmo sat up, mock-serious.

"You come to Barça now, and suddenly it's 'Where do we put him?' I've got enough competition as it is."

"So I'm a threat?"

"You're a problem," Olmo grinned, then added with a wag of his finger, "Stay in London. Win your titles. Be the Premier League prince. Let us suffer in peace."

"Fair enough," Izan said, his voice half-lost in the cushion as he stared up at the ceiling.

The air between them settled into that comfortable quiet that only teammates or roommates forced to travel the world together knew well.

Olmo shifted his weight and leaned over the edge of the bed to rummage through his bag, pulling out a protein bar and tearing it open with a crinkle.

"You know, though… sometimes it's weird," he said, between bites. "Being there."

"Barça?"

"Yeah. Like, don't get me wrong, it's amazing. But it's… heavy. You can feel the pressure walking into the training ground, even when no one's there. Every touch, every mistake—it's like it echoes longer if that makes sense."

Izan nodded, watching the soft movement of curtains as a breeze drifted in from the open balcony door.

"It does. Valencia had that, in a smaller way. At Arsenal, it's… different. Intense, but more collective. Like everyone's carrying it together."

Olmo tossed the empty wrapper into the bin.

"That's because you're winning. Wait till it gets rocky—then you'll see what carrying alone looks like."

A vibration buzzed from the bedside table.

Izan glanced at his phone, the screen lighting up with Olivia calling. He picked it up with a small smile and swiped to answer.

"Well, well, well," Olmo said with a dramatic stretch as he stood, already moving toward the door.

"Shall I dim the lights too? Light a candle? Do you two need privacy?"

"Shut up," Izan muttered, but his grin betrayed him.

Olmo smirked as he grabbed his room key from the dresser, but just before he could escape, a pillow hurtled through the air and smacked him squarely in the back of the head.

"Oi!" he laughed, turning to retaliate—but Izan just waved him off as he leaned back into the call.

"Go to the lounge, Dani," Izan said without even looking.

"I was going anyway," Olmo called back, rubbing his head with exaggerated offense.

"Enjoy your romantic rendezvous, capitán del corazón."

The door clicked shut behind him, and the room fell quiet again, save for Olivia's voice pouring through the speaker—soft, teasing, familiar.

"So," she said, "how's Switzerland so far? Any chocolate or just tactical meetings and stretching routines?"

Izan exhaled, lying back, phone to his ear, a rare calm washing over him as the Geneva night deepened outside.

"Haven't stepped outside the room yet. We only just landed. You know how it is—De la Fuente and his 'settle in before you wander off' policy."

"Oh, right. God forbid a little fresh air ruins the game plan," she teased.

"And how's your roommate?"

"Olmo?" Izan smirked.

"He's alright. Eats too many protein bars. Makes weird jokes. Wants me to join Barça so he can complain about competition and blame me when he gets benched."

She laughed at that.

"He sounds lovely. Did you at least hit him with something for that?"

"A pillow. Straight to the head. I regret nothing."

"Good."

There was a small silence then, comfortable, but present. Izan's smile lingered, but something tickled at the back of his mind.

A sense. A shift. Something off.

He sat up slowly.

"…Hold on a sec," he murmured.

He got off the bed, the room suddenly feeling too still.

The air conditioner hummed softly in the background, the breeze barely swaying the curtains.

Outside, muted footsteps echoed from somewhere down the corridor—but not close enough.

He slid open the balcony door and stepped out.

The Geneva night was cool and clean. But nothing. No sounds. Not even Olmo's voice from down the hallway.

Weird.

Frowning, he crossed the room again and pulled open the main door, glancing toward the elevator.

Then stopped.

"…What the hell?"

A/n: Really not feeling well but let me not bore you. Have fun reading.