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God Of football

Chapter 282: Perfect Record · Oct 10, 2026

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Chapter List (1057)

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251 Chapter 251: Five Finals. [Real Sociedad:5] 2026-10-10
252 Chapter 252: Five Finals[Oryazabal’s Challenge: 6] 2026-10-10
253 Chapter 253: Five Finals [Pandemonium:7] 2026-10-10
254 Chapter 254: Five Finals [8] 2026-10-10
255 Chapter 255: Five Finals [Last Dance:9] 2026-10-10
256 Chapter 256: Five Finals [Ghosts Of The Mestalla: 10] Golden Ticket chapter 2026-10-10
257 Chapter 257: Five Finals[Introduction] 2026-10-10
258 Chapter 258: Five Finals [ Belter Protocol] 2026-10-10
259 Chapter 259: Five Final [Curtain Closes] 2026-10-10
260 Chapter 260: Europe!!, Here Valencia Come. 2026-10-10
261 Chapter 261: The Press[Massage chair by Nameyelus] 2026-10-10
262 Chapter 262: Outside Spain. 2026-10-10
263 Chapter 263: Tokyo, Tranquillity, and Turmoil 2026-10-10
264 Chapter 264: Behind the Scenes 2026-10-10
265 Chapter 265: Second Coming at La Rojas 2026-10-10
266 Chapter 266: Feels About Right 2026-10-10
267 Chapter 267: Next Stop-Germany 2026-10-10
268 Chapter 268: Arrival and Euros Opening 2026-10-10
269 Chapter 269: Buildup. 2026-10-10
270 Chapter 270: OVR Boost 2026-10-10
271 Chapter 271: Croatia[1] 2026-10-10
272 Chapter 272 - 2 Goals in 5 minutes 2026-10-10
273 Chapter 273: Great Start 2026-10-10
274 Chapter 274: Media 2026-10-10
275 Chapter 275: First XI 2026-10-10
276 Chapter 276: La Roja’s No. 10 2026-10-10
277 Chapter 277: First blood Drawn. 2026-10-10
278 Chapter 278: Euros Chiesa 2026-10-10
279 Chapter 279: Italian Fortress 2026-10-10
280 Chapter 280: Izan, You Cheeky Boy 2026-10-10
281 Chapter 281: Spain or Milking it[Golden ticket chapter] 2026-10-10
282 Chapter 282: Perfect Record 2026-10-10
283 Chapter 283: Knockout Football. 2026-10-10
284 Chapter 284: Knockout Football [Georgia] 2026-10-10
285 Chapter 285 - 5 In 2 2026-10-10
286 Chapter 286: Clash Of The Titans 2026-10-10
287 Chapter 287: False 9 2026-10-10
288 Chapter 288: Clash Of Titans[2] 2026-10-10
289 Chapter 289: KickOff 2026-10-10
290 Chapter 290: Speed Demon 2026-10-10
291 Chapter 291: Clash Of Titans[3] 2026-10-10
292 Chapter 292: We Can Do It Too 2026-10-10
293 Chapter 293: Halftime 2026-10-10
294 Chapter 294: Down To The Wire 2026-10-10
295 Chapter 295: Heartbreak 2026-10-10
296 Chapter 296: Lifeline 2026-10-10
297 Chapter 297: Pride Of La Roja 2026-10-10
298 Chapter 298: Pending Record 2026-10-10
299 Chapter 299: Breaking Point 2026-10-10
300 Chapter 300: Out Of It 2026-10-10

Chapter 282: Perfect Record

Spain had already secured their place in the knockout rounds. After dominant wins over Croatia and Italy, they had nothing to lose against Albania.

But for Luis de la Fuente, this match wasn’t meaningless. It was a test—of depth, of mentality, of hunger.

”We don’t take our foot off the gas,” he had told his players the night before. ”Three games, three wins. That’s the standard.”

For the likes of Ferran Torres, Joselu, and Mikel Oyarzabal, it was a chance to stake their claim in the squad.

For Izan, who had exploded onto the scene with a goal and two assists against Italy, it was about keeping his momentum.

The team hotel was calm in the early morning, the quiet hum of conversations and clinking cutlery filling the dining hall.

Some players sat in small groups, sipping coffee and discussing the upcoming game.

Others scrolled through their phones, reading headlines about Spain’s dominant performances.

At one of the tables, Pedri, Rodri, and Nico Williams sat together, scanning the latest sports news.

Rodri read aloud, ”France or Germany in the quarterfinals if we go through as expected.”

Nico let out a low whistle. ”That’ll be a war.”

Pedri shook his head. ”You’re thinking too far ahead. One game at a time.”

A few tables away, Izan and Lamine Yamal sat side by side. Lamine had one AirPod in, watching his own highlights from the Italy game. Izan glanced at the screen, unimpressed.

”You watching yourself again?” he asked.

Lamine grinned. ”You say that like it’s a bad thing. Gotta analyze my work, bro.”

Izan smirked. ”You just like seeing yourself embarrass defenders.”

Across the room, Álvaro Morata nudged Ferran Torres, who was in today’s starting lineup. ”Pressure’s on you,” Morata teased. ”Better make it count.”

Ferran flashed a confident smile. ”Relax, captain. I’ll get my goal. Just sit back and enjoy.”

At 10:30 AM, the squad assembled for the pre-match meeting. De la Fuente’s voice was steady as he addressed the team.

”We know Albania will fight,” he said. ”This is their last chance, and they’ll play with everything they have.

But we control the game. We stay patient, break them down, and when we strike, we strike with precision.”

The lineup was announced:

• Goalkeeper: David Raya

• Defenders: Jesús Navas, Dani Vivian, Aymeric Laporte, Alejandro Grimaldo

• Midfielders: Mikel Merino, Martín Zubimendi, Dani Olmo

• Forwards: Ferran Torres, Joselu, Mikel Oyarzabal

Izan was on the bench, a decision he understood. At 16, managing his workload was essential.

But he was ready, knowing his moment would come.

The atmosphere inside Düsseldorf’s Merkur Spiel-Arena was electric. Spanish fans in red and yellow filled the stands, their chants loud and unwavering.

But Albania’s supporters, though smaller in number, matched them in energy.

From the first whistle, Spain took control. Their passing was crisp, their movement fluid.

Albania set up in a deep 5-4-1, remained compact, their game plan clear—frustrate Spain and hit on the counter.

Ferran Torres nearly broke through in the 7th minute, darting behind the Albanian backline, but his first touch let him down.

Moments later, Dani Olmo tried his luck from a distance, the ball whistling past the post.

Then came the breakthrough.

In the 13th minute, Dani Olmo spotted Ferran making a diagonal run. With a perfectly weighted pass, he split the Albanian defense.

Ferran took one touch to steady himself, then slotted the ball past Thomas Strakosha.

1-0 Spain.

Ferran jogged toward the corner flag, turning to Morata on the bench. ”Told you,” he mouthed with a grin.

Morata laughed, shaking his head. ”Alright, alright.”

Spain continued to dominate, but Albania had their moments. In the 34th minute, Kristjan Asllani tested David Raya with a fierce long-range shot, forcing a strong save.

By halftime, it was still 1-0. Spain controlled possession, but Albania refused to break.

...

The second half began with Spain holding onto their 1-0 lead, dictating the tempo, but Albania remained stubborn, their defensive lines refusing to break.

The Spanish passing carousel continued—short, precise, probing. But the final touch was missing.

Luis de la Fuente observed the match with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

The game needed a spark, and fresh legs to unsettle Albania’s disciplined structure.

At the 60th minute, the first change came.

”Lamine, get ready,” an assistant coach called.

Lamine Yamal stood up from the bench, stretching his legs before heading toward the touchline.

Ferran Torres, who had scored the opening goal, exchanged a firm handshake with him before walking off.

And Lamine was electric from the moment he stepped on.

His quick feet and sharp dribbles pinned Albania’s left-back deep, forcing them even further into a defensive shell.

But still, the final ball eluded Spain.

Ten minutes later, Álvaro Morata came on for Joselu, offering more fluid movement up front.

Yet Albania remained compact, frustrating Spain’s advances.

De la Fuente’s eyes then shifted toward the bench, toward the teenager who had already left his mark against Italy.

In the 84th minute, the call finally came.

”Izan, you’re in for Dani,” one of the assistants told him.

Izan, already expecting this, adjusted his shin guards, pulled up his socks, and jogged toward the coach. De la Fuente placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

”Enjoy yourself,” he said. ”Find the spaces, keep the tempo, and if you get a chance, be decisive.”

Izan gave a sharp nod and stepped onto the pitch. The Spanish fans erupted. They had seen what he could do. They wanted more.

From the moment Izan touched the ball, there was a different energy.

His first involvement was simple—dropping between the lines, playing a quick one-two with Zubimendi.

His second was a sharp turn past his marker, forcing Albania to retreat deeper.

Then, in the 89th minute, he found the pocket of space he loved.

Martín Zubimendi spotted him just outside the box and played a crisp pass into his feet.

Izan’s first touch was perfect, drawing two Albanian defenders toward him. His second was even better—a quick shift past his marker, his movement fluid, his intentions disguised until the very last moment.

Medon Berisha lunged in, desperate to stop him. But he mistimed his challenge.

There was contact. Not a heavy one, but enough.

Izan felt the clip on his boot, lost balance, and went down inside the box.

The referee didn’t hesitate—whistle to the lips, arm extended.

Penalty.

The Albanian players exploded in protest.

”No way! He dived!” one shouted, hands in the air.

Berisha, the defender responsible, pointed at Izan furiously. ”He went down too easy!”

The referee tapped his earpiece, listening to VAR. A pause. A tense wait. The stadium held its breath.

Then came the confirmation.

The penalty stood.

Morata stepped forward. The captain picked up the ball, took a deep breath, and placed it on the spot. He locked eyes with the goalkeeper, then exhaled.

One smooth run-up. A composed strike. Bottom right corner.

2-0 Spain. Game over.

Izan was still catching his breath when his teammates swarmed him.

Lamine patted his head. ”You just love making things happen, huh?”

Oyarzabal grinned. ”They’ll call you a diver now.”

Izan only shook his head. He wasn’t interested in arguments. He played football. That was all.

As the final whistle blew, Spain’s players exchanged handshakes and jerseys with their Albanian counterparts.

The group stage was complete—nine points, eight goals scored, and one goal conceded.

Spain had been the best team in Group B, but now, the real tournament was beginning.

Izan walked off the pitch with a composed expression, but inside, his mind was racing. He had played only a few minutes, yet his impact had been felt.

The mixed zone was chaotic after the game, with reporters scrambling to get their questions in. De la Fuente was the first to face

A journalist from Marca spoke first.

”Coach, another strong performance from Izan. What do you make of his impact, even in limited minutes?”

De la Fuente smiled knowingly. ”He’s special, isn’t he? Izan is a player who never hides.

He wants the ball, he wants responsibility, and today, he showed again why he’s an important part of our team.”

Another reporter followed up. ”There’s already debate about the penalty decision. Some say it was soft. What’s your take?”

The coach remained composed. ”There was contact. The referee made the call, and VAR confirmed it.

That’s football. But let’s not focus just on the penalty—look at his overall impact. He created danger, controlled the ball well, and played with confidence.”

A Cadena SER journalist then turned to the man himself.

”Izan, walk us through that penalty incident. Did you feel clear contact?”

Izan, calm as ever, replied, ”I felt it, yes. It wasn’t a huge foul, but enough to throw me off balance. I wasn’t looking for it, I was trying to go past him. The referee made the decision.”

Another journalist pressed him. ”Some Albanian players seemed frustrated after the call. Do you think it was fair?”

Izan’s answer was measured. ”Every player will have their opinion. I’m not a referee, I just play. Once the decision is made, it’s out of my hands.”

The questions kept coming.

”How do you feel about your tournament so far?”

Izan shrugged. ”I just try to help the team. We have big games ahead, so we have to keep working.”

”Do you feel you should be starting in the knockout rounds?”

Izan chuckled. ”That’s not my decision. I’ll be ready whenever I’m needed.”

With the interviews wrapped up, Izan joined his teammates as they boarded the team bus.

The knockout rounds loomed. No more safety nets. No more second chances.

As he took his seat by the window, watching the lights of Düsseldorf pass by, he felt the weight of the tournament settle on his shoulders.

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