God Of football

Olivia's voice came through soft and warm, a little fuzzy with distance but rich with the kind of comfort that turned hotel rooms into safe spaces.

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

Izan chuckled, tilting his head into the pillow.

"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?"

The hallway was full. Not in a scattered, teammates-lingering-around kind of way—but full.

From the gate at the far end of the corridor to nearly outside his door, the entire Spain squad stood packed together, some still in flip-flops and training shorts, some leaning on walls, arms crossed or hands in pockets, murmuring and nodding.

Nico caught sight of Izan first and grinned.

"There he is."

"Ah, he lives!" came Yamal's voice from somewhere in the crowd.

Olmo stood near the front, hands tucked into his hoodie, smirking like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"Told you he'd come out eventually."

"What… what is this?" Izan blinked.

"The Geneva Gate," Pedri said, eyes half-lidded in deadpan humor.

"A sacred pre-match ritual. One does not simply sleep while the squad stares at nothing in coordinated silence."

"We're heading out," Cubarsí added, tilting his chin.

"Night walk. You in?"

Izan just stared at them.

Then down at his socks.

Then back up again.

He sighed and muttered, "Give me two minutes."

As he shut the door to throw on some slides and a jacket, Olivia's voice piped through the phone, still on the bed.

"…What just happened?"

"I don't know," he said, laughing as he picked it up again. "Apparently I've joined a cult."

"And you didn't even get to choose the uniform," she replied, clearly amused.

"Nope. But at least I get to walk under the stars with thirty sweaty footballers."

He paused, grinning. "Jealous?"

"Painfully."

"Good."

He tossed on a windbreaker, shoved his feet into his slides, and stepped back into the corridor with his phone still in hand.

A few of the guys gave him mock applause, while Yamal offered an exaggerated bow like he'd summoned him from the shadows.

"Welcome to the brotherhood," Nico quipped as he fell into step beside Izan.

Izan just shook his head. "What is this?"

"A tradition," Pedri answered from ahead. "Unofficial. Not enforced. But after a flight, a new city, and a night game coming up, it clears the head."

"Helps the legs too," Rodri added, arms folded across his chest as they started moving as one.

"Not everything needs to be tactical."

"Still feels like a cult," Izan muttered under his breath.

"Tell that to Olmo," Dani said, glancing back.

"He's the one who started it this time."

Olmo merely shrugged from the front.

"Guilty. Thought Geneva deserved some reverence. And some fresh air."

The group exited the hotel through a quiet side door.

The city had already fallen into its usual nighttime hush—clean pavements lit by orange streetlamps, the distant shimmer of the lake, and crisp mountain air threading through the breeze.

The players broke off into smaller pockets naturally, familiar formations forming.

Yamal and Cubarsí were arm-in-arm, quietly joking. Rodri and Le Normand walked slowly, talking about their families.

Izan stuck near Olmo, who grinned like he'd been expecting him all along.

"Thought you'd skip out?" Olmo asked.

"I considered it," Izan admitted. "Then I realized it was quieter without you."

Olmo laughed. "Liar. You missed me already."

Izan just rolled his eyes, but there was a trace of a smile on it.

They walked past a small fountain where someone—probably Nico—splashed water at Yamal's shoes, sparking a small chase.

Laughter echoed faintly in the Geneva calm, a rare glimpse of joy outside the constraints of competition.

"Hey," Olmo said suddenly.

"That pass to Yamal back in Serbia… that was cold, man. Sometimes, I think you have help because you're too good for your age."

Izan glanced sideways, a bit shocked that Olmo had hit the nail on the head, but proceeded to stare at Olmo like he was the crazy one for saying such a thing.

"Yeah?"

"I know, but it's hard to explain talent like yours. Unlike Yamal, you weren't bathed by the GOAT, but you're still a whole league better. Precision like that, you could be a surgeon. But you're a menace instead." Olmo said, noticing Izan's stare.

"I aim to please, and besides, I was bathed by a different GOAT," Izan replied.

Olmo stared at Izan for a while before suddenly speaking, "Wait! So you were bathed by Ronaldo."

Izan looked at the latter's words before he suddenly burst out laughing and only controlled himself after a few moments.

"Think we'll keep this up against Switzerland?" Olmo asked, a while after Izan's laughter outburst.

"Why not?" Izan replied. "Momentum's with us."

Olmo nodded, thoughtful. "Still. We're away. They're a different beast at home. Compact midfield. Aggressive fullbacks. We'll need more than pretty football."

Izan met his gaze for a moment.

"Then we should give them more."

They stood there, together, surrounded by teammates but briefly in their little echo chamber of ambition and quiet resolve.

Somewhere behind them, Yamal yelled about his sock getting wet while Cubarsí threatened retaliation.

Nico laughed like a boy who hadn't scored the winning goal at the Euros just months ago.

And for a fleeting second, Izan closed his eyes, let the chill of the Geneva air kiss his cheeks, and breathed.

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The morning sun slipped through the gauzy curtains of the hotel dining hall, painting golden streaks across the white linen tablecloths and half-eaten toast.

Coffee machines hissed and plates clinked as the Spanish squad filtered into breakfast one by one, most still dressed in their training kits, a few rubbing the sleep from their eyes, others laughing quietly about dreams they could barely remember.

Izan had just settled into his seat beside Olmo and Yamal when Luis de la Fuente walked in—not with his usual silent nod or clipboard shuffle, but with a look in his eye that caught the attention of every player in a three-meter radius.

"Morning, everyone," he said, with that calm, teacherly voice that always felt like it could shift into a reprimand without warning.

"Hope you all slept well."

There were some murmurs of "sí míster" around the room as forks paused mid-air.

Luis gave a small smile as he served himself some fruit, then turned just slightly.

"Glad to see the team bonding continues… even at midnight walks through the city."

The silence hit like a misplaced tackle.

Chairs creaked. Heads turned. Olmo blinked over his orange juice. Nico froze mid-bite while Yamal straightened in his chair.

"…Did he just say 'midnight walks'?" Olmo whispered.

Izan covered his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

A few seats over, Fabián leaned forward, whispering, "Were we followed?"

"Caught on camera maybe?" Yamal added, sounding genuinely worried.

Rodri, sitting across from them, calmly reached for the butter and smoothed it onto his toast without even looking up.

"Well," he muttered, "we did leave the hotel like a cult. Twenty to thirty grown men sneaking out together. It'd be a miracle if we weren't caught."

More stifled chuckles followed, and Izan nearly choked on his coffee.

"Do you think he's mad?" Yamal asked, eyes wide.

"No," Nico replied dryly. "If he were mad, we'd be running laps right now."

Izan nodded. "Yeah. That was more of a dad move. He's just letting us know that he knows."

Olmo nudged him. "Still weird though. How'd he even find out?"

Izan lifted his brow with mock drama. "Maybe he was watching."

The boys around him all turned to glance across the room where De la Fuente was calmly stirring sugar into his tea, eyes scanning over the front page of a Swiss newspaper.

He looked up—just briefly—and gave a small, knowing smile in their direction.

Izan sat back, smirking. "Yup. He definitely saw us."

A ripple of laughter echoed through the room, the atmosphere lighter now. Whatever tension had crept in with the morning sun had been flicked away with that gentle prod from the boss.

And somehow, it felt like it brought them even closer—because nothing screamed "team chemistry" quite like getting caught sneaking out together by your manager… and living to tell the tale.

A/N: Okay so first of the day. Sorry for Gacha chapters. Its been a tiring week for me. Anyways, i will do well to fulfill the Gacha obligations. We are 8 out of 12 chapters so i will do my best to whip up the two today, even all of it if i get time. Alright, Have fun reading