God Of football

The halftime whistle blew beneath the heavy Geneva rain, swallowed by a roar of mixed emotion.

The Swiss players looked down as they headed towards the tunnel with the Spanish players more eager to get off.

Not because of their lead but because of how cold it was.

Morata, who had just bundled in the rebound to put Spain ahead 2–1, clapped once over his head before turning back to Yamal and Izan.

The three exchanged a few words—brief, quiet—and then vanished into the concrete mouth of the Stade de Genève.

Above, the Spanish supporters were still singing, louder now. Louder because they now lead after a terrifying start from Switzerland.

....

The whistle blew for the second half, sharp against the soft patter of rain. A final breath before the plunge.

Spain returned to the pitch with the confidence of a side who knew they had wrestled control of the match.

2–1 ahead now, Morata's goal just before the break giving them a deserved lead.

Yet the atmosphere wasn't one of relief—it was of anticipation.

They wanted more.

Luis de la Fuente didn't make changes at the break. He rarely did unless absolutely necessary.

But he gathered his players in that brief window before the restart, voice calm but resolute.

The message was clear: finish the job.

Commentary cut in, tones hushed, reverent.

"Spain were good in the first half. But you get the sense they are not really going all out. The Swiss should pray that Spain don't reach the levels they've shown or… Switzerland might not have a way back."

The game resumed at a lower rhythm—deliberate, like Spain were feeling out the shape of the Swiss changes.

A more compact block, with slight tactical tweaks. But nothing that stopped the ball from flowing.

Rodri dropped in once again, splitting the center backs.

The ball moved to Le Normand, then back again, probing.

Switzerland didn't press high anymore. They couldn't afford the gaps.

Pedri, ever the fulcrum, drifted inside, received from Cucurella, and broke the line with a disguised pass into Mikel Merino.

The latter pirouetted away from a clumsy challenge and sprayed it wide to Yamal who killed it with the inside of his foot.

And then, the rhythm quickened.

Yamal danced past his man, his boots whispering over slick grass. He hesitated just outside the box, shaped to shoot, then cut it square.

Izan met it.

A low curler—left-footed, from just outside the arc.

The Commentator rose in volume.

"Izan… curls it—OH—Sommer spills it again!"

The Swiss keeper, who had been nothing short of heroic in the first half for his team, couldn't hold onto it again.

The wet ball skidded through his gloves, a greasy blur slipping from his grasp.

It dropped dead in the six-yard box.

Morata reacted first.

He lunged, foot stretched, ready to stab it home—but so did Schär.

The Swiss defender slid across the turf like a man throwing himself in front of a train.

Contact.

Not with the ball.

With Morata.

The two crashed into each other. The ball squirted loose again, this time ricocheting off Sommer's outstretched boot and spinning clear of danger, cleared finally by Freuler.

Gasps from the crowd.

Groans and groans, followed by desperate applause.

Commentary, breathless.

"Almost a repeat of the goal Morata scored just before the halftime whistle. How has that not gone in? That's three chances in five seconds! Sommer again—brave, lucky, whatever you want to call it. But the score remains 2–1."

Morata sat on the grass for a moment, staring up at the rain.

He knew he should've scored. Knew he almost had. But there wasn't time to dwell.

Izan jogged past him and clapped him on the shoulder. "Next one," he mouthed.

And already, Luis de la Fuente was turning toward the fourth official.

Changes were coming.

The fourth official lifted the board.

Substitutions.

Álvaro Morata off—Nico Williams on.

A hug for the captain as he jogged off. Nico slapped palms with him before nodding toward Izan, who gave a small shrug and stepped into the central role. False 9 now.

Mikel Merino also made way, clapping the fans as he exited.

On came Fabián Ruiz.

And shortly after, a third: Laporte, who had been solid all game, was subbed out for the young Pau Cubarsí. A changing of the guard in real-time.

"The future of Spain taking shape right before our eyes. Cubarsí, Nico, Yamal, and Izan are all on the pitch together now. And it's still Rodri and Pedri pulling the strings."

Switzerland pushed forward in spurts, desperate now, but Spain's structure remained intact.

Ruiz slotted into midfield seamlessly. Cubarsí, still a teenager, looked composed beyond his years, intercepting two crosses with minimal fuss.

Then came the moment.

It started with a Swiss corner. Spain cleared it quickly—Ruiz lofted it high into midfield. That should've been the end of it.

But Izan had been lurking.

He pounced on the second ball, knocking it past a Swiss midfielder with a shoulder drop so subtle it looked like an afterthought.

And then—

He ran.

The Commentator looked on, his voice climbing with each stride Izan took.

"Izan… he's away. He's away here! Look at this! LOOK AT THIS!"

Three Swiss defenders stood in his path, spread across the middle third like a wall but he split them like a scalpel.

A stepover sent the first spinning the wrong way. A nutmeg took out the second.

Then the third lunged in desperation—too late.

Izan nudged the ball past him, skipped away, and was one-on-one with Yann Sommer.

The keeper charged out.

Izan never looked up.

He took one touch wide, dragging the ball past Sommer with a deft flick of his instep and that was all there was.

Open net.

And he just… passed it in.

The ball rolled past the goal line in an almost teasing scenario.

GOOOOAAAAAAALLLL

The stadium erupted as the commentary box barely kept up.

"Oh, my word. OH MY WORD. That… that is one of those goals that will make a player's career. He's still just 16, and he just danced through half a team like it was nothing"

It is still only the 75th minute. Spain 3. Switzerland 1!"

Luis de la Fuente stood clapping on the sideline, expression unreadable but his pride obvious.

The Spanish bench exploded, players lifting each other up, grins everywhere.

And Izan?

He didn't even celebrate much.

He just jogged toward the corner flag, pointed at Nico, then at Yamal, and tapped his chest.

The message was clear: this is what we do.

Still, the match continued.

There were fifteen minutes left.

Spain kept possession now with surgical patience. Switzerland tried to press high once more, but it was like chasing ghosts.

Oscar Mingueza and Yamal played a triangle near the left touchline, forcing their marker to chase shadows.

Rodri, so quiet yet so present, dictated everything, pulling Switzerland apart with simple genius.

Under the glare of floodlights and the low growl of distant thunder, the 83rd minute brought with it a moment of chaos—and clarity.

Izan was driving through the center channel again, deeper than usual, gliding between red shirts like he had rewritten gravity.

Nico had fed him the ball with a subtle flick, and Izan took it in stride, danced around a lunging Xhaka, then shifted his weight onto his left, baiting Freuler.

Too slow.

Freuler stuck a foot in.

Too late.

Izan rode the initial contact, and tried to stay upright—but a second nudge from Widmer's hip buckled his momentum.

He tumbled forward with a half-twist, palms skidding against the soaked grass as he landed.

The referee's whistle blew sharp.

Foul.

Spain had a free kick—twenty-three meters out, just left of center.

A promising distance, but far enough to make the wall meaningful and the keeper's instincts vital.

The crowd erupted in approval, sensing the shift in tension.

Izan didn't roll around theatrically. He simply sat up, wiped the rain from his jawline, and stood.

Then something shifted.

The system pulsed in his mind like a second heartbeat.

Then, quietly, without gesture—

[Pinpoint Accuracy LV 3, Activated]

Yamal approached first, holding the ball.

"You taking it?" he asked, breath visible in the rain-chilled air.

"Of course, I am," Izan said with a grin as he took the ball from Yamal.

The ball was placed.

Spain's bench rose. The red wave in the crowd found its voice.

"It's the 83rd minute. Spain are up 3–1. But this… this feels like something else. We've seen Izan score from yards out countless times but can he make this one count too? The rain, the pressure, the silence before a storm. Izan… could end it here."

He stood over the ball.

Three steps behind. One to the side.

Sommer stood tall, legs apart, gloves twitching.

The wall, four men deep, edged nervously.

And then—the whistle.

Izan exhaled, let the moment stretch long and thin, and then struck.

But he didn't blast it.

The shot was a caress. A right-footed effort with inside curl, not power.

The ball bent around the wall like it had been poured out of his boot.

Sommer saw it and dove as fast as he could.

Full extension, right hand clawing at air.

But the ball dipped late, late—just as Izan had seen it would.

It clipped the inside of the post, that kiss of inevitability, and settled into the net with a muted thud.

4–1.

The stadium didn't erupt—it boiled over.

Arms rose. Flags swung. From every corner, every soaked figure in red leaped to their feet as if that goal had unshackled something inside them.

"Would you believe it? You can't script this. You cannot script this. That… that's a masterpiece. A signature scrawled on the night in red and gold ink."

[Max: Bruh, It's scripted. Even the readers know it]

Izan stood there for a moment, just breathing.

Then Nico wrapped him in a headlock from behind.

Pedri came sprinting in, clapping him hard on the back while Yamal arrived late, pointing at the ball, then at his temple, mouthing, "How?!"

They laughed, Spain cheered. The game was dead now.

A/n: I know some of you have been saying the keeper is beefed up but that was what really happened in the game in real life.

It could have been more had it not been for the Swiss Keeper Irl.

Anyways, I'll try not to beef up the keeper too much and also as for nerfing Izan a bit, I apologise.

One reader, -xyz-, said something that made me rethink how I treat Izan.

Pele was the best in the world at 17 so why can't Izan do better. Have fun reading and I'll see you with another chapter soon.