God Of football

The ball bent around the wall like it had been poured out of Izan's 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, and Spain cheered. The game was dead now.

The huddle broke. The scoreboard now read Spain 4, Switzerland 1, and with less than seven minutes remaining, the game had become something else.

Switzerland looked heavy. Their legs, their faces, even their captain's body language—it all sagged under the weight of inevitability.

Spain moved the ball now with confidence, yes, but also with joy. Their short passes were samba, and their triangles were elegant.

Unai Simón barely touched the ball. Cubarsí sprayed two gorgeous diagonals. Ruiz offered calm, collected control.

Yamal taunted his marker with every drag-back and cut-in.

And Izan?

He floated.

No longer limited by the wing, he popped up between the lines like a shadow—untrackable, unknowable.

There were no more goals.

But the match didn't need one.

Because when the referee finally raised the whistle to his lips and blew for full time, it was clear:

4–1 was enough.

A night that began in nerves had ended in spectacle.

A revelation.

"A generation takes the stage. And one name… keeps ringing louder time and time again.

Pele, Maradona, Messi and Ronaldo. Well, it's Izan now and I think he's no fluke. If you didn't know, know it because he is here to stay."

As the teams exchanged handshakes and Switzerland trudged off, heads bowed, the Spanish players stayed on the pitch for a few more beats.

They clapped the fans.

Izan and Pedri swapped words, laughing quietly.

Then the cameras found the scoreboard one last time.

Spain 4 – Switzerland 1.

It was done

....

The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, but its presence still lingered in the air—a cold dampness that clung to the windows and turned the early light grey.

Inside the team hotel, the silence was thick.

The hallways, usually humming with footsteps and staff chatter, felt muted now.

Doors stayed closed longer. Some players hadn't stirred at all.

And the ones who did?

They moved slowly.

Yamal shuffled into the breakfast lounge wrapped in two layers, a hoodie pulled over his head.

He sniffled once, then winced, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I can't feel my throat," he muttered to no one in particular, taking a seat with a sigh as if he'd played 120 minutes.

Cubarsí joined him seconds later, his eyes red-rimmed, and a tissue in one hand.

"You too? You didn't even come on until the 60th." Yamal said before sneezing again.

The La Masia-bred center-back nodded, sniffed, then said nothing.

He was trying to hold it together.

It wasn't just soreness. There was a fatigue that ran deeper—rainsoaked muscles, a chilled core, and that strange post-match ache that came not from one blow but from the accumulation of hundreds.

Slides in puddles, tackles through cold, headers under downpour.

Pedri showed up next, groaning as he lowered himself into a seat.

His curls were still wet from a shower that had clearly done little to revive him.

"Tell me again why we played in that weather?"

Yamal answered with a cough and a shrug.

Further across the lounge, Merino stirred his tea like a man unraveling the secrets of the universe.

His expression was blank with his eyes half-lidded.

Even Rodri looked subdued when he eventually arrived, wearing a scarf indoors and walking like his joints had aged a decade overnight.

He gave a slow nod to those already seated, then collapsed into a chair like gravity was winning.

"Morning," he said, though it sounded more like a groan.

But not everyone had wilted in the wake of the storm.

Izan strolled in last.

Dry.

Composed.

Glowing, even.

He wore a long-sleeved athletic shirt and track pants, his hair swept back like he'd stepped out of a commercial instead of a match.

Not a trace of sickness. Not a visible ache. If anything, he looked refreshed.

Cucurella noticed it first and narrowed his eyes.

"You are not human."

Izan grinned as he poured himself a drink. "I slept well."

Cucurella scoffed. "We played on a slip-and-slide and you slept well?"

Yamal glared at him through watery eyes. "He didn't even break a sweat."

"Because he did all his damage in thirty minutes," Olmo muttered. "Then just floated around for the rest."

That got a few tired laughs.

"Mom and Dad really did a good job," Nico added, walking in next and immediately sneezing into his elbow.

"You too?" Pedri asked.

"Shut up," Nico groaned, reaching for an orange juice.

De la Fuente entered not long after, his coat draped over his arm, a mug in hand.

His presence brought a quiet across the room—not the kind born of tension, but the kind that followed respect.

And familiarity. This was their last morning together before club life resumed. But none of that was said aloud.

The coach took a slow look around the lounge, noting the congestion, the hunched postures, and the glassy eyes.

"Looks like the rain got a few of you," he said, tone gentle.

More groans.

Rodri raised his hand halfway, like a tired schoolboy. "Requesting immunity for training tomorrow."

De la Fuente smiled faintly. "You'll have to take that up with your club managers."

Then he looked at each of them, pausing slightly on Yamal, on Pedri, on Izan.

"You gave me everything," he said. "Both games. You should be proud of that."

His voice didn't rise. It didn't have to.

The sincerity was sharp enough.

"Injury-free. Two good results. That's all a coach can ask for. Now you return to your clubs—recover, compete, and keep your rhythm. We'll see each other again soon enough."

There was a beat of silence.

Then someone clapped.

Cucurella, probably. Or Carvajal. The others followed—not loudly, but with real energy.

The kind that said: Yeah. That was a good camp.

De la Fuente gave a small bow of the head, then excused himself, leaving them to their breakfast.

Later that morning, the lounge buzzed with more life—laughter mixed with sniffles, teasing paired with hot lemon tea.

Someone had brought down a speaker.

Pedri started an argument about whose goal was better—Izan's solo run or Morata's rebound. Yamal as usual made a case for the assist, naturally.

And through it all, Izan sat by the window again—the same spot he'd taken before the Switzerland match.

The room was quiet, the soft murmur of packing and zippers in the background.

Most of the players were moving slowly, still shaking off the toll of the rain-soaked game.

Merino walked over with a coffee cup in hand, steam curling from the lid.

He leaned lightly against the wall beside him.

"You heading straight back to London?" he asked.

Izan glanced at him, then shook his head. "Nah. Got some things to sort out in Spain first."

Merino nodded knowingly. "Right. Family?"

"Yeah. That, and a few arrangements."

A beat passed. Merino took a sip, then raised an eyebrow with a faint smirk.

"Olivia?"

Izan didn't answer—just smiled. Merino chuckled and pushed off the wall.

"Safe trip, Romeo," Merino said as he peeled off from the window conversation, nodding a quick goodbye as he joined the group heading out—Raya, Laporte, Rodri, and a few others who played outside of Spain.

Most of them had their travel bags already packed with calls coming in from team staff awaiting their arrival at various airports.

It was a quiet sort of rush, everyone sliding back into their regular rhythms.

Izan wasn't part of that group.

He lingered just a moment, then walked in the opposite direction, joining the ones who would return to Spain.

The bigger bunch, speaking in softer tones, half-laughing at shared plans or the idea of a few calm days before diving back into La Liga chaos.

He'd spend that time tying up loose ends.

Olivia was already getting her things in order and after that, they'd leave for London together.

Just enough time to breathe, reset, and step into what came next—with a little more quiet than he'd had all week.

A/n: Thanks for your patience. I'm finally free and have a whole month to myself so we get in schedule tomorrow. And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about the ticket chapters and the gacha chapters. They'll come. Have fun reading and bye. Also don't forget to check out the new novel.