God Of football

Chapter 266: Feels About Right

The morning air was crisp, the Madrid sky stretching in an endless blue above Las Rozas.

The players filed onto the pristine training pitch, their boots sinking into the freshly cut grass.

Conversations hummed around the group, a mix of groggy complaints and sharp-witted banter.

Izan walked out in his Spain training kit, the red and gold fabric unfamiliar on his skin. The late call-up still lingered in the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside.

He was here now. That was all that mattered.

Across the field, Pedri and Nico Williams were already passing the ball between them, their movements light and effortless.

Rodri stood nearby, quietly speaking with Morata and Cucurella, while some of the younger players stretched in small clusters.

Luis de la Fuente and his coaching staff were gathered at the touchline, their expressions serious.

This wasn’t a club session. This was the Spanish national team. Every second counted.

Izan bent down to tighten his laces. As he straightened, he caught a few glances in his direction—some curious, others unreadable.

He wasn’t just another squad member. He was the late arrival. The outsider who had forced his way into the team at the last moment.

The whistle blew sharply, cutting through the morning air.

”Alright, everyone,” one of the assistants called out. ”Let’s get moving. Warm-ups. Standard routine.”

Izan exhaled, stepping forward.

.....

The session had barely begun, yet Izan was already making it clear—he wasn’t here to blend in. He was here to dominate.

From the very first drill, the squad realized something: Izan was better than most of them if his performances for the season hadn’t made it clear.

He was fast. Not just in a straight-line sprint, where Nico Williams and Lamine Yamal had always been considered the quickest.

Not just in reaction time, where Pedri and Rodri thrived. But in everything that required speed.

The moment the acceleration drills began, it was over.

First sprint test? Izan crossed the line ahead of everyone.

Second? Same.

By the third, Nico Williams let out an exasperated laugh. ”Nah, this is crazy.”

Lamine Yamal shook his head. ”Where the hell was this speed at Valencia? I mean he was fast but not this fast”

Pedri smirked. ”Probably saving it for moments that matter.”

Even the agility ladder drills, meant to test quick footwork, turned into another Izan showcase. No wasted steps, no hesitation—just clean, sharp movements, faster than anyone expected.

By the time they hit the 5v5 rondos, it became something else.

Izan’s pressing was suffocating. His ball control was absurd. His dribbling? Near unstoppable.

At one point, he twisted past two defenders in a tight space, flicked the ball over a lunging tackle, and rolled a pass between Cucurella’s legs to set up Pedri.

De la Fuente’s assistants exchanged glances.

”Did we really almost leave him at home?” one muttered as Izan smacked the ball into the back of the net.

If there were two players who refused to let Izan just waltz through training, they were Rodri and Morata as well as the defensive head of Real Madrid, Carvajal.

Rodri, Spain’s metronome, tested one of Izan’s strengths, positioning but the former proved why he was the best defensive midfielder in the world.

When Izan pressed him, Rodri always seemed to turn into space just before the pressure arrived. When Izan thought he had the angle covered, Rodri’s awareness placed him one step ahead.

After one particular sequence where Izan lunged for an interception only for Rodri to send the ball the other way with a simple touch, the older midfielder smiled.

”You can’t outrun everything,” he said.

Izan exhaled, nodding. ”Guess I’ll have to find another way through.”

Rodri’s grin widened. ”Now you’re thinking.”

Then there was Morata.

As the team’s main striker, he was expected to some extent to shine in the shooting drills—But somehow, the veteran striker was ruthless in front of goal today.

Near post. Far post. One touch, two touches—Morata buried everything.

When Izan finally stepped up, he was sharp, but not flawless. A couple of shots hit the post and a few were also saved.

Morata patted him on the shoulder. ”Gotta respect your elders, kid.” but Izan smirked. ”Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Luis de la Fuente stood at the touchline, arms crossed. He stood watching his players seamlessly transitioning from drill to drill and one such drill had caught his eye.

Izan now found himself against Dani Carvajal.

It had started with a simple 1v1 exercise. The attacking players took turns receiving the ball on the wing, tasked with beating their defender and delivering a cross. The defenders? Their job was simple—stop them at all costs.

Carvajal was first up against Nico Williams.

Nico, ever the trickster, feinted left, pushed right, and managed to create just enough space to whip in a cross.

Not a clean win, but a win nonetheless leading to follow-up tries where Carvajal showed why he was among the best of his generation.

Then came Lamine.

Carvajal timed his lunge perfectly, stopping the young winger in his tracks although his age shined through some time.

”Clean,” Rodri murmured from the side. ”His timing is ridiculous.”

After Yamal, Izan rolled his shoulders. He was up

The ball came to him.

Carvajal was already in position, his low, aggressive stance making it clear—he wasn’t letting this kid past him.

Izan took his first touch, sharp and purposeful, dragging the ball toward the inside. Carvajal reacted instantly, stepping in to block the lane.

He wants me to go wide, Izan realized.

Instead, Izan flicked the ball back to his right, shifting gears in a burst of acceleration.

But Carvajal, quick as ever, stuck with him. The veteran full-back read the move perfectly, cutting off the angle and forcing Izan to halt his run.

Whistle.

”No breakthrough,” de la Fuente called.

Carvajal smirked. ”Gotta do better than that, Pichichi.”

Izan exhaled sharply.

Again.

This time, when the ball came, Izan didn’t hesitate.

He took one step forward—then stopped, his foot hovering just over the ball.

Carvajal flinched, expecting another burst of speed.

That was all Izan needed.

He tapped the ball through Carvajal’s legs and exploded past him, leaving the veteran full-back spinning.

Before Carvajal could recover, Izan had already curved his run and whipped in a sharp cross to the far post.

Morata rose to meet it, heading it cleanly into the net.

The watching players erupted in laughter and cheers.

Carvajal, shaking his head, jogged back into position. ”Alright,” he muttered. ”Now I’m actually going to defend.”

Izan just smiled. ”Good. I need the challenge.”

The next ball came again with Izan and Carvajal moving in sync, their duel now an unspoken game of deception and adaptation.

Izan faked inside, but Carvajal didn’t bite this time. He held his ground.

Smart.

Izan cut back, but Carvajal was already there. The full-back threw out a strong arm, making it clear that physicality was going to be a factor now.

Izan, undeterred, felt the contact and instantly reacted. Instead of trying to go past, he leaned into it—absorbing the challenge before using it against Carvajal.

With a swift spin, he rolled off the defender’s pressure and took off down the flank.

Carvajal lunged, desperate to recover but it was too late.

Izan had already sent in a dangerous low cross, forcing a scramble in the box.

Whistle.

De la Fuente clapped once. ”That’s the intensity we need.”

Carvajal, breathing hard, gave Izan a look. Then, he grinned. ”Should have come earlier Hermano.”

Izan smirked but didn’t say anything.

— — — —

By the time training neared its end, the whispers had turned into full-blown discussions among the coaching staff.

Nobody had outworked Izan.

Nobody had outrun him.

Nobody had outplayed him in almost everything—except Rodri’s positioning and Morata’s finishing.

Luis de la Fuente watched closely, his expression unreadable.

Then, he turned to his assistant.

”Call the medical team. We should have done this the moment he arrived”. The latter nodded at De La Fuente’s words before moving to the task.

—

Inside the facility, Izan was put through rapid testing. Hydration levels. Heart rate. Fatigue markers.

The results were clear: he wasn’t just fine—he was operating at peak physical condition.

The doctor frowned slightly. ”You’re sure you haven’t overtrained?”

Izan raised an eyebrow. ”I feel fine.”

”Any performance boos-” the doctor tried to say but Izan cut him off.

” Drugs. No. ”

The doctor glanced at De la Fuente but the latter just nodded. ”Good. But pace yourself. The tournament hasn’t even started.”

Izan met his gaze, expression steady. ”It has for me.”

—

After the session, the coaching staff gathered the players.

”No more scrimmages,” De la Fuente announced. ”Rest until the evening session. Then medicals tomorrow. After that, we fly to Germany in 2 days.”

The squad nodded. They knew the real work was about to begin.

As they walked off, Pedri nudged Izan. ”So? How’s it feel?”

”How does what feel?”

”To be the problem every defender in Europe has to deal with.”

Izan smirked, jokingly adjusting the collar of his training kit. ”Feels about right.”