God Of football

Chapter 285 - 5 In 2

As Spain pressed forward, the game began to take on a back-and-forth quality.

A sequence of rapid exchanges saw Dani and Pedri linking up to break through a momentary gap in the opposition’s defense.

A well-timed cross from Lamine met Nico’s path, forcing a scramble among the Georgian defenders.

The ball ricocheted off a body, landing at the feet of Rodri, who attempted a low drive toward goal in the same manner he had when he scored in the first half.

Giorgi Marmadashvilli was alert and managed to nudge the shot away, maintaining the balance for a brief spell.

The Spanish fans groaned at the save but they knew, something was edging close and in the 55th minute, Spain’s patience paid off.

Fabian Ruiz, now pushing higher up the pitch, found himself in space just outside the box as Lamine Yamal dragged defenders wide before slipping a pass back inside.

Ruiz took one touch to steady himself, then unleashed a left-footed strike that curled past Mamardashvili’s desperate reach and into the far corner.

”GOOOOOAAAAALLL!! FABIAN RUIZ MAKES IT 2-1!” The commentator roared in delight.

The Spanish bench erupted, and the fans behind the goal burst into celebration, red and yellow flags waving in furious unison.

Ruiz sprinted toward the corner flag, sliding on his knees as his teammates swarmed him.

Behind them, the Georgian players stood frozen. The cracks in their defense had finally split open.

Spain smelled blood. Georgia’s midfield, which had battled so fiercely in the first half, looked spent.

After the restart, the Spanish midfield trio of Rodri, Pedri, and Fabian Ruiz dictated every move, carving open spaces between the lines.

Dani Olmo, playing as the link between midfield and attack, had been finding more pockets of space, drifting between the defenders, and in the 65th minute, he made Georgia pay.

Pedri, always scanning, spotted the Leipzig midfielder peeling off his marker. A delicate, disguised pass split the defense, and Olmo darted onto it with perfect timing.

A touch to shift the ball out of his feet, a glance up—then a crisp, controlled finish into the bottom right corner.

”GOOOOAAALLL! DANI OLMO! SPAIN ARE PULLING AWAY NOW!”

The Spanish players surrounded Olmo in celebration, while Georgia’s shoulders slumped.

Their fight was fading. Spain could sense it.

On the bench, Izan, now stood clapping after Dani Olmo scored.

Luis de la Fuente turned, scanning the substitutes, then nodded.

”Izan, get ready.”

Nico Williams had signaled to the bench moments earlier, feeling the effects of his relentless running and the coaching staff had agreed that Izan was the right man to finish the job.

The young Spaniard peeled off his tracksuit, his mind already visualizing what was to come.

De la Fuente walked over, gripping his shoulder.

”Take the left wing. Use your pace to keep them pinned back. Attack with purpose, but be disciplined. If there’s a chance to kill the game, take it.”

Izan nodded, absorbing the words, then jogged over to the fourth official. The board went up:

N. Williams 11 OFF, Izan Hernandez 21 ON.

As he stepped onto the pitch, the Spanish fans roared in approval. A ripple of applause turned into a chorus of cheers and just like that, the game was now his to control.

From the moment Izan received his first pass, the difference was clear. Georgia, exhausted and mentally drained, now had to deal with fresh legs—legs that carried a devastating mix of pace and deadly precision.

He wasted no time testing his marker, driving down the left before cutting inside and forcing a hurried clearance.

It was all Izan a few minutes after he came on and then came his first major contribution.

A well-worked move saw Pedri and Fabian Ruiz work the ball to Izan near the edge of the box.

The teenager, eyes locked on the defense, darted inside before dinking a delicate pass over the fullback to Carvajal.

The Real Madrid fullback, let the ball lead him slightly before crossing the ball into the box.

The Georgian players scrambled and forced a clearance but the danger was still not over.

Dani Olmo, who was now in the false-9 role met the ball with a powerful first-time strike but it was pushed just wide.

The warning was there but it didn’t look like Georgia had paid heed.

Minutes later, Izan earned a corner, forcing Kverkvelia to put the ball behind after another aggressive run.

He jogged to take it himself, placing the ball carefully before scanning the penalty area.

[Pinpoint Accuracy: Engaged]

[Maestro trait: Active]

The delivery was perfect.

The whole stadium watched as a whipped ball, dipping viciously, evaded the first defender and found Robin Le Normand surging toward the back post.

The Atletico Madrid man lunged and met the ball with a firm header and Marmadashvilli could only watch as his net rippled.

”GOOOOOAAAAALLLLL! LE NORMAND REDEEMS HIMSELF! SPAIN HIT FOUR! What a delivery for Izan. 3 assists in two games. What a ball”

Izan clenched his fists in triumph as his teammates mobbed Le Normand.

The final minutes played out with Spain in total control. The passing was crisp, the movement fluid.

The game had turned into a showcase, and the Spanish players reveled in it.

In the 88th minute, a flowing move saw Ferran Torres cut inside from the right and unleash a thunderous strike toward the top corner.

Mamardashvili, Georgia’s best player on the night, produced yet another stunning save, getting a strong palm to the shot.

But the ball spilled loose.

And there was Izan.

Sharp, instinctive, ruthless.

A quick step forward, a composed finish into the empty net.

”GOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLL! IZAN GETS HIS GOAL! What is up with this boy? This phenomenon. That’s 5 goal contributions in 1 full game and 30 minutes.”

The Spanish fans erupted, the bench rising to applaud the young forward.

Izan barely celebrated, just a grin as he jogged back, surrounded by teammates ruffling his hair.

Georgia had nothing to play for again so it was all Spain until the final whistle blew.

Spain’s players raised their arms in triumph.

A 5-1 demolition, a ruthless second-half display, and a warning to the rest of the tournament.

The cameras focused on Izan as he exchanged words with Pedri, the two laughing as they walked toward the Spanish fans.

After applauding, the echoes of their fans’ cheers trailed behind them as they entered the tunnel, a mix of sweat and satisfaction clinging to their jerseys.

Izan wiped his face with the back of his wrist, his heartbeat steady but his body still buzzing with adrenaline.

He had played just over 30 minutes, but his impact had been undeniable. As he stepped into the brightly lit locker room, a mixture of laughter, pats on the back, and shouts of excitement filled the air.

”¡Vaya paliza les hemos dado!” (We destroyed them!) Dani Olmo grinned as he plopped onto the bench, stretching his legs out.

Rodri, always composed, simply nodded as he unwrapped the tape around his ankles. ”They gave us a tough first half, but we wore them down.”

Pedri, still catching his breath, turned to Izan with a smirk. ”And this guy just keeps making things happen. What’s that now? Five goal contributions already?”

Izan only shrugged, unlacing his boots. ”It helps when you’re playing with guys who make the right runs.”

The room erupted in amused shouts.

”Humilde, eh?” Ferran Torres teased.

Fabian Ruiz tossed a towel over to Izan. ”Just say you’re the best already.”

Izan caught the towel with a grin but said nothing, reaching for his water bottle.

Across the room, Lamine Yamal and Nico Williams sat side by side, scrolling through their phones, checking reactions online.

”Everyone’s talking about how dangerous we are on the wings,” Nico said, showing his screen to Lamine. ”They think defenders are going to have nightmares about us.”

Lamine laughed. ”Good. Let them.”

The energy was high, but Luis de la Fuente and his staff knew they couldn’t linger too long.

There was another reason they were moving quickly—Spain’s potential quarterfinal opponents were playing next.

Germany vs. Denmark

”Alright, chicos, get changed,” de la Fuente instructed, stepping into the middle of the locker room.

”We’ll watch the second half together. That’s who we’re playing next.”

A wave of excitement spread through the team. This was the match everyone had been waiting for.

Izan pulled off his jersey, dropping it into the laundry bin before grabbing a fresh training top from his locker.

Around him, the rest of the team did the same, the room filled with the sound of jerseys being tugged over heads and shin pads hitting the floor.

Some players opted for ice baths or massages, but most simply wanted to get comfortable and watch the game.

Le Normand, still fresh from his goal, ran a towel through his damp hair. ”So who do we want? Germany or Denmark ?”

”Is that even a question? No offence but, Denmark ,” Rodri said without hesitation. ”Not that I don’t trust us but why take the hard way when there is an easier option.”

” Well it’s Germany for me. Why choose Denmark when we can go on a terrifying Euros run.” Lamine Yamal said with a grin, causing de la Fuente who stood at the gate to laugh.

Izan pulling on a hoodie, listened to the debate as they headed toward the lounge. Whoever it was, he was ready.