God Of football

Chapter 269: Buildup.

After Germany’s emphatic 5–1 victory, the Spanish national team’s lounge remained quiet, save for the soft hum of the television as the post-match analysis played.

The screen now displayed highlights—Germany’s relentless pressing, their clinical finishing, and Scotland’s failed attempts to withstand the onslaught.

Pedri sat back on the couch, his hands clasped together as he rewatched a sequence leading up to Germany’s third goal.

”They never let up,” he murmured, shaking his head. ”Even after the first two goals, they played like they needed five more.”

”They made Scotland look like they weren’t even in the same tournament,” Merino added, adjusting his posture. ”That intensity from the first whistle—that’s what makes the difference.”

IIzan, seated near the corner, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

He hadn’t spoken much throughout the match, but he had taken in every detail—the speed of Germany’s transitions.

The way they flooded the box when attacking, how their midfield controlled the game without giving Scotland a moment to breathe.

Rodri, who had been standing by the refreshment table pouring himself a glass of water, finally spoke.

”We already knew they’d come out strong, but this was something else. There’s a reason they’re considered favorites.”

The players nodded at Rodris’s words, their eyes still glued to the screen.

Morata nodded, his expression thoughtful. ”Yeah. But every tournament has surprises. We’ll see how they hold up when someone pushes back.”

The players continued watching the analysis, noting the key talking points from the commentators.

The discussion ranged from Germany’s tactical setup to whether they had peaked too early.

The idea of momentum in a tournament like this was tricky—too strong of a start could sometimes lead to a burnout before the knockout stages.

Nico Williams stretched his arms and leaned back. ”I think what stands out most is how quickly they recover the ball. Every time Scotland tried to build, they were swarmed immediately.”

”You can feel the pressure just watching it,” Pedri said. ”That’s something we have to be ready for if we face them later on.”

Izan exhaled slowly, eyes still on the screen as another replay of Germany’s crisp passing sequences played.

”It’s also about composure. Scotland panicked after the second goal. We can’t afford to let any team do that to us.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence as the highlights concluded. The discussion wasn’t just about admiration or concern—it was about understanding.

They weren’t just spectators; they were analyzing every movement, every tactical decision, every shift in momentum.

As the screen switched to previews of the next day’s matches, the tension in the air eased slightly.

The players stretched, some reaching for their phones to check messages, others discussing lighter topics now that the match had been dissected.

But even as conversations shifted, the weight of what they had just seen lingered. The tournament had already begun in full force, and their turn was coming soon.

...….

The morning sunlight seeped through the curtains of Izan’s room the next day, casting faint patterns on the walls.

The soft hum of the air conditioning filled the space as he stirred, eyes fluttering open.

His mind took a moment to adjust, still lingering in the haze between sleep and wakefulness.

Then, as the weight of where he was settled in, so did the anticipation.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand. A flood of notifications greeted him—football analysts predicting Spain’s lineup for their first match, articles about Germany’s dominant start, and UEFA’s latest poll on the tournament’s potential winner.

Who will win Euro 2024?

The options beneath were predictable:

• Germany

• France

• England

• Portugal

• Spain

• Other

Spain was holding a solid percentage in the voting, but Germany had surged after their ruthless opening performance.

Izan scrolled through a few discussions before locking his phone. He wasn’t one to get caught up in media noise. It was part of the job, but ultimately, the answers would come on the pitch.

With a stretch, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand through his hair before heading to the bathroom.

A splash of cold water on his face shook off the last remnants of sleep, and after a quick shower, he threw on his Spain training gear and left for breakfast.

...…

The cafeteria was already alive with conversation when Izan arrived. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and scrambled eggs mixed with the morning air.

Players sat in small groups, some mid-conversation, others still waking up over their plates.

On a table nearby, Nico Williams was deep in an animated debate with Ferran Torres, waving a fork in emphasis.

”Bro, you can’t tell me that Germany didn’t send a message yesterday. They’re playing like they’ve already won the thing.”

”They looked good,” Ferran admitted, stabbing at his eggs. ”But tournaments aren’t won in the first game. Let’s see how they handle a real test.”

Rodri, seated nearby, chimed in without looking up from his bowl of oats. ”They were sharp, but it’s about consistency. One big game doesn’t mean much if they can’t sustain it.”

Izan who had watched enough, grabbed a plate and went through the serving line, scooping up a balanced breakfast before settling next to Pedri, Olmo, and Lamine Yamal.

”See the predicted lineup?” Pedri asked, nodding toward Izan’s phone.

Izan gave a small shrug. ”Yeah, but it’s just guesses at this point.”

Lamine leaned in, grinning. ”You’re playing, though. No doubt about it.”

”Nothing’s official.”

Olmo, who was practically playing the same position as Izan smirked. ”Come on, you know you’re in.”

Izan didn’t argue. He had felt it, too—the trust in training, the way the coaching staff had been shaping things. But he wasn’t the type to assume anything until it was confirmed.

After a while, Luis de la Fuente entered the cafeteria moments later, exchanging nods with players as he grabbed a coffee.

The room naturally quieted slightly as his presence was felt, but the mood remained relaxed.

”Eat well,” he reminded them. ”Session starts in an hour.

By the time the players reached the pitch, the morning sun had already risen fully.

The crisp grass was damp with morning dew, and a slight breeze ran through the complex.

The energy was focused but light—this was the first full session in Germany, and while intensity was expected, the heavy tactical work would come in the next few days.

After warm-ups and rondos—where the competitive fire sparked early between defenders and attackers—the group was split for positional drills.

Izan was with the attacking midfielders, working through tight-space exercises with Pedri, Olmo, and Fabián Ruiz.

As the drill intensified, Izan’s sharpness showed. His close control in tight areas made it difficult for defenders to close him down, and his quick turns sent a few of them lunging into empty space.

One sequence saw him flick a first-touch pass into Olmo’s path before immediately spinning away from his marker, receiving the return ball, and slotting it through to a sprinting Ferran Torres.

Luis de la Fuente observed keenly, arms folded, exchanging murmurs with his assistants.

It wasn’t about domination, but Izan was making himself noticed—fluid in his movement, decisive in his passing, and rarely making the wrong choice.

To close out the session, the team was split into two sides for a small-sided scrimmage on a condensed pitch.

The ball zipped around at a high tempo, players fighting for every inch of space.

Izan’s team, which included Pedri, Morata, and Lamine, faced off against Rodri, Nico, Olmo and Ferran’s group.

From the first whistle, the intensity shot up. Rodri dictated play in midfield, breaking up attacks and feeding runners, while Nico’s speed stretched the game.

But Izan and Pedri’s link-up play was sharp, carving through pockets of space.

One moment saw Pedri slip Izan through on the left and without breaking stride, Izan feinted a shot, causing his marker to hesitate before cutting inside and laying it off for Morata—who finished first time.

1-0.

The match continued, shifting back and forth. Olmo equalized moments later with a near-post finish, but the little battle wasn’t over.

Izan wasn’t overly dominant, but his presence was felt. His ability to operate under pressure made him a reliable outlet, and whenever his team needed an escape, he was there, offering quick passes and fluid movement.

In the closing moments, with the score tied 2-2, he received the ball near the edge of the box, turned sharply away from pressure, and clipped a lofted pass to Lamine, who controlled and rifled it into the net ending the scrimmage.

As the players caught their breaths, de la Fuente clapped his hands together. ”Good work. That’s the level we need.”

The session ended with cool-down stretches and a few passing drills before the players were dismissed for recovery.

As they walked back to the facility, Pedri nudged Izan with a grin.

”You’re feeling it, huh?”

But Izan chuckled and responded with a slight smirk.

The days leading up to Spain’s first match passed quickly. Training sessions grew sharper, tactical meetings became more intense, and the squad continued to watch other teams play.

They gathered in the lounge for key matches—analyzing England’s approach, dissecting France’s defensive setup, and noting Portugal’s attacking patterns.

Each game was another layer of preparation, another glimpse into what they might face down the road.

As Spain’s matchday neared, the focus within the team sharpened. The outside noise—the lineup predictions, the polls, the hype—faded into the background.

Their moment was coming. And when it did, they would be ready.