God Of football

Chapter 127: A Week Of Dedication

It was a chilly Thursday morning in Valencia, the sun barely rising as Izan laced up his boots at the training ground.

He had been told to rest the previous day after returning from Paris on Tuesday so he couldn’t join the training even if he wanted to.

Although he could not join, that didn’t mean he couldn’t train. Following a new set of training instructions introduced by the system, Izan pushed himself to the limit, using a conditioning fluid when he was tired.

After Izan finished lazing up his boots, he joined the rest of the players on the pitch.

The training pitch buzzed with energy as the Valencia squad warmed up under the morning sun. Izan stepped onto the grass, greeted by playful jeers from his teammates.

Seeing their gazes, especially Pietro’s, Izan couldn’t help but shake his head. ”This guy just can’t control himself,” he said as he walked towards them.

”Ah, the mighty Kopa runner-up!” Pietro called out dramatically, dropping to one knee in mock reverence. ”What an honour to share the pitch with such greatness!”

Izan shook his head at his correct premonition, a grin breaking across his face. ”Runner-up? I didn’t even make the top three! And here I thought you’d be proud of me, Pietro.”

Luis jogged over, wagging a finger. ”You’ve got to win something before we’re proud, Izan. No trophies, no special treatment.”

”That’s rich coming from someone who’s never even been nominated,” Izan shot back, prompting laughter from the group.

Luis acted hurt, after Izan’s piercing words. ”

Cenk, ever the stoic defender, joined the fray, crossing his arms with a smirk. ”Let’s be real, Izan. They probably took one look at your first touch last week and decided to give the trophy to someone else.”

Izan feigned an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest. ”Et tu, Cenk? I thought we were a team!”

”No Izan, we’ve broken up ever since you nutmegged me last training. Now shoo, runner-up ”.

Cenks words prompted laughter from the rest of his teammates. Ruben Baraja who had just entered the pitch with his assistant, smiled at his team’s unity.

”Okay, let’s get the drill underway,”, he said, looking at the person in charge of that.

The teasing continued as they began their drills, the lighthearted atmosphere a stark contrast to the one Izan had faced in Paris.

Even the drill coach chimed in during a water break, patting Izan on the back. ”Don’t worry, kid. Messi didn’t win his first Ballon d’Or at 15 either.”

Despite the banter, there was a palpable undercurrent of respect. The fact that Izan, at such a young age, had been shortlisted for the Kopa Trophy was an accomplishment none of them took lightly.

Pietro and Sosa caught up with him after the drills ended with the latter slinging an arm around his shoulder.

”Listen, Izan,” Sosa said, his tone unusually serious. ”Jokes aside, you’ve done something incredible. The trophy doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re out here, working hard, proving you belong.”

Izan nodded, grateful for the words. ”Thanks, Pietro. But next year…”

”You’ll win it,” Pietro finished with a wink. ”No more, no, what about you? You are still 20. You can also win it, or that’s not part of your big plans”.

Pietro’s face faltered as he looked at Izan. ”Of course, Pietroninho doesn’t care about stuff like awards. All I want is to play good football and marry Ava”.

Izan and Sosa, who were a bit ahead of Pietro, stood still after hearing his words. ”This guy isn’t serious,” Sosa said.

”But it’s a good aim though”, Izan added after Pietro caught up.

As the team headed off the training pitch, Izan felt a renewed sense of purpose. The Kopa Trophy might have slipped through his fingers, but with his teammates pushing him, the future felt brighter than ever.

The day’s training continued with another set of drills, this time a bit more targeted at the players of various departments of the team.

Izan joined his teammates on the field, his eyes scanning across the field as he did so.

With cones and markers laid out for a complex rondo drill, Izan stepped into the circle but he didn’t stay inside for long.

The ball zipped between players, and Izan’s sharp movements were a testament to his determination.

Jose Luis Gaya, smirked as he tried to nutmeg Izan, but Izan flicked the ball away with an ease that drew laughs and applause from the group. ”Not today, Luis,” Izan said with a grin, his confidence infectious.

As training progressed, the coach emphasized positioning and pressing. Izan, usually deployed as forward, was tasked with dropping deeper to receive the ball and dictate play.

The role wasn’t much of a challenge for Izan who had been training with the systems instructions.

After about 30 minutes, the intensity of the training had ramped up. The team simulated game scenarios, splitting into two squads for an intra-squad match.

Izan found himself up against Valencia’s towering centre-back, Cenk, whose physicality tested him at every turn.

Yet, Izan thrived on the challenge. He used his agility and quick thinking to evade Cenk, his performance so sharp that the coach interrupted the game to praise him.

”Izan, that’s how you unsettle defenders!” the coach shouted, clapping enthusiastically. The other players on the side rolled their eyes at Ruben Baraja glazing over Izan’s every move.

After the small-sided match, Izan and his teammates stretched on mats in the gym, the atmosphere more relaxed. They exchanged banter about their favourite players.

”Who are you most excited to face on Sunday?” asked Gaya. Izan thought for a moment. ”Camavinga,” he replied. ”He’s fast and smart. If I can get past him, I can confirm something .”

The room fell silent for a moment as they processed the enormity of the challenge ahead. Then Gaya broke the tension with a laugh. ”Better him than Modrić, man. That guy’s magic.”

After the recovery session, Izan headed towards Ruben Baraja’s office. He had been told by Assistant Coach Moreno that the head coach needed him after he was done.

’Knock knock knock’, Izan tapped as a voice came from the room telling him to enter.

Izan stepped into Ruben Baraja’s office, the faint scent of leather and polish mingling with the hum of quiet authority.

The Valencia manager, seated behind his desk, looked up with a warm yet measured smile, gesturing for Izan to take a seat.

Izan followed and took a seat in front of the manager.

”First of all, Izan, congratulations,” Baraja began, his voice calm and steady. ”To be recognized among the best young players in the world at your age is extraordinary. You’ve made history, not just for yourself, but for this club.”

”Thank you, coach,” Izan replied, his tone modest yet tinged with a hint of self-doubt. ”But 4th place… it feels like I came up short.”

Baraja leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Izan’s with a determined intensity. ”Short? Not at all. 4th means you’re on the cusp of greatness. Use this as fuel. You’ve already shown the world what you’re capable of; now, prove there’s no ceiling to your talent.”

The room fell silent for a moment before Baraja shifted the conversation. ”Speaking of proving yourself, we need to talk about Real Madrid. They’re a different beast, and I need you at your best. How’s the ankle? Any lingering pain?”

Izan shook his head. ”It’s fine. I’ve been following the physio’s plan to the letter.” He had sustained a slight bruise on his ankle in training the day before leaving for Paris.

”Good,” Baraja said, leaning back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. ”This game is a test—not just of skill, but of resilience. Madrid will push you to your limits, and I trust you’ll rise above it. Remember, trophies come and go, but what defines a player is their response to challenges like this.”

Izan nodded, his resolve hardening. ”I won’t let you down.” Coach Baraja smiled at Izan’s confidence. ”Okay then I won’t hold you up anymore. See you tomorrow”.

Izan nodded at Baraja’s words before leaving the room. Baraja’s gaze lingered behind the former’s back as he left the room with Baraja seemingly in thought.

He shook his head before remembering the meeting that had occurred between him and the club.

....

Izan pushed open the door to his home, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The familiar aroma of Komi’s cooking wafted from the kitchen, a comforting blend of spices and warmth that welcomed him in.

He kicked off his cleats by the door, carefully avoiding the pair of sandals that belonged to his little sister, Hori.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, Izan dropped his bag in his room and headed straight for the bathroom.

The cold water of the shower hit his skin, washing away the exhaustion of the day’s training. He stood under the stream for a moment, letting his muscles relax and his mind drift to the intense drills and scrimmages.

A slight smile crept onto his face as he replayed his best moves from the session.

Once he was fresh and relaxed, he wrapped a towel around himself and padded back to his room to throw on a simple t-shirt and shorts.

The sound of Hori’s laughter downstairs made him quicken his pace. He knew she’d have a million questions about his day—she always did.

Descending the stairs, Izan caught sight of his mother setting plates on the table, her hands moving with practised ease. Hori was already seated, swinging her legs under the table as she beamed at him.

”How was training, Izan?” Komi asked, glancing up with a smile.

”Tough, but good,” Izan replied, pulling out a chair. His stomach growled in anticipation as Komi set a steaming bowl of stew in front of him.

”Well then, Itadakima-” Hori tried to say but Izan shoved her head slightly. ”What was that for” she said with a pout.

Komi looked at her daughter’s face and smiled. ”When in Rome, do what the Romans do,” Izan said before picking up his cutlery.

”Entonces vamos a comer [let’s eat]” Izan said in Spanish. Komi laughed at his words before the family of 3 dug into their meals.

A/n: Sorry for the late update guys. Anyways have fun with this one and I’ll see you with another. Yesterday was my birthday BTW, that was why I couldn’t update early today since I don’t have a stockpile. Love y’all