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God Of football

Chapter 297: Pride Of La Roja · 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 297: Pride Of La Roja

The ball rolled into open space, and Izan Hernández was already in full stride, chasing it down like a hunter locked onto his prey.

The German defense scrambled, white shirts surging back in desperation. But Izan was already ahead of them, already breaking through.

Ahead—only one man stood between him and history.

Antonio Rüdiger.

The last defender. The colossus. The warrior who never backed down.

Izan barely heard the roars around him, barely felt the pounding in his chest. His mind was clear. Focused.

Beat Rüdiger. Beat Neuer. Win the game.

Behind him—the storm followed.

Kimmich, Havertz, and Gündoğan as well as Sane in the lead were closing in, sprinting with everything they had left in their legs, their lungs, their hearts.

They knew. If they didn’t stop him now, it was over.

Izan kept running.

Rüdiger was ready, his wide stance cutting off the path to the goal. His arms spread, and his body tensed like a wall of muscle and steel.

The two locked eyes for a fraction of a second.

Izan moved first. A sharp feint to the right.

Rüdiger reacted—just a little and that was all Izan needed.

A swift flick of the boot sent the ball to his left, the movement lightning-fast, razor-sharp.

But Rüdiger didn’t lunge. He wasn’t an amateur. He kept his balance, his stance strong.

Izan smiled.

Good.

Another feint—this time to the left. His body shifted. His hips turned.

Rüdiger followed.

And then—

Snap.

Izan dragged the ball back with his sole, twisting in the opposite direction, his movement liquid, effortless.

Rüdiger’s balance wavered. His feet tangled.

His body tilted.

Then—

He fell.

Flat on his back. Arms flailing. Legs giving out beneath him.

Rüdiger—the unbreakable warrior, the fortress of Germany—was broken.

The Stuttgart crowd exploded.

”RÜDIGER IS ON THE FLOOR!”

Fabregas’ voice cracked. ”HE’S DOWN! IZAN HERNÁNDEZ JUST SAT DOWN AN ELITE DEFENDER!”

The German bench froze.

Nagelsmann’s eyes widened, his lips parting in shock.

On the pitch, Kimmich, Gündoğan, and Sane were still chasing—but it was too late.

Izan was gone.

And now—

It was only him and Neuer.

One-on-one.

The greatest goalkeeper of his generation against the boy who had the world at his feet.

Neuer stepped forward, arms stretched wide, his towering presence cutting down the angles.

Izan slowed. His chest rose and fell, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Neuer didn’t flinch. His icy blue eyes locked onto Izan’s every movement, waiting for him to make the first mistake.

Izan took another step.

Fifteen yards.

Neuer adjusted his stance.

Ten yards.

Neuer lunged forward.

Izan saw it. A trap. Neuer wanted him to panic. To take the shot early. To hesitate.

But Izan wasn’t a kid anymore.

[Well technically, he still is]

He was a killer.

Neuer dived—

And Izan chipped him.

Soft. Perfect. Effortless.

The ball sailed over the German’s outstretched gloves, floating like a whisper in the night.

Neuer twisted in midair, eyes following the ball, hands stretching—

Too late.

The net rippled.

And then—

Chaos.

”GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!”

The stadium detonated.

Spain 4. Germany 3, the scoreboards displayed.

Izan didn’t think. Didn’t stop.

He ran.

Past the corner flag. Past the advertising boards.

And then—

He jumped Into the crowd.

A sea of red swallowed him whole.

Fans reached for him, screaming, crying, shaking him, their hands gripping his jersey, his arms, his shoulders—pulling him into their euphoria.

His teammates weren’t far behind.

Pedri was the first to leap over the ad boards, his face a mix of disbelief and pure joy.

Lamine Yamal followed, Nico Williams right behind him. Rodri, Cucurella, and Morata stormed in, crashing into the chaos.

Bodies clashed. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Hands grabbed heads. Izan felt himself being crushed, lifted, shoved, and celebrated.

This wasn’t a goal.

This was an exorcism.

Spain had conquered Germany. In their own country. With a kid who was supposed to be too young for this moment, too inexperienced for this pressure.

And yet—

He had done it.

The boy had shattered them.

Martin Tyler was shouting into his mic, voice cracking. ”IZAN HERNÁNDEZ HAS JUST—HE HAS JUST WON THIS GAME ON HIS OWN! LOOK AT THESE SCENES! LOOK AT THE TEARS IN THE CROWD!”

On the giant screens, German fans were shown weeping.

Young boys with painted faces, their dreams crushed.

Older fans with hands on their heads, silent in disbelief.

A woman in a Germany jersey, tears streaking down her face, shaking her head slowly as if she couldn’t accept reality.

Because this was the end.

The final whistle hadn’t even blown, but they all knew.

Germany were out.

Luis de la Fuente was sprinting down the touchline, arms in the air, roaring like a man who had just witnessed the impossible.

The Spanish bench emptied. Subs, coaches, staff—everyone ran to celebrate.

And still—Izan was in the crowd.

Tangled in the arms of people who didn’t know him personally but loved him now as if he were their own.

Security guards tried to break through, but even they knew—this was his moment.

.....

Izan finally stumbled back onto the pitch, breathless, his jersey nearly torn from the wild celebrations.

His teammates were still yelling, still hugging, still trying to process what had just happened.

Germany had barely even reset when the referee put the whistle to his lips.

A sharp blast.

Game over.

Spain had done it.

The moment the whistle blew, the Spanish bench erupted again. Players stormed onto the pitch, some collapsing to the grass in pure exhaustion, others running straight to Izan.

Pedri tackled him first, shouting something he could barely understand.

Lamine Yamal grabbed his head with both hands, shaking him while laughing while Rodri pulled him into a tight hug, his voice barely audible over the deafening stadium.

On the other side, the German players stood frozen.

Havertz looked toward the referee, hands slightly raised in frustration. Kimmich let out a breath, running a hand through his hair.

Rüdiger, still wiping sweat from his forehead, turned to the officials, his expression unreadable.

The final seconds of extra time had stretched far past what was expected.

And now, the German players were quietly debating whether the referee should have blown the whistle before Izan even touched the ball.

But it was too late.

Spain were in the semifinals.

And Izan Hernández was the hero.

—

After the celebrations had settled slightly, an official guided Izan toward a small podium set up near the touchline.

The Man of the Match award was already waiting.

The trophy gleamed under the stadium lights, and as Izan stepped forward, the stadium announcer called out his name.

A fresh wave of cheers erupted from the Spanish fans still celebrating in the stands.

Izan took the trophy, his grip firm but his mind still struggling to process everything.

Then—the interview.

A journalist held up a microphone, still buzzing with excitement.

”Izan, congratulations! A last-minute goal to send Spain to the semifinals. How are you feeling right now?”

Izan exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. He was still catching his breath.

”I don’t even know what to say,” he admitted, shaking his head with a small laugh. ”It’s unbelievable. We fought so hard, and to win it like this… it’s just crazy.”

The journalist nodded eagerly. ”Walk us through that moment. You had Rüdiger in front of you, Neuer in goal, and the pressure of the entire stadium on your shoulders. What was going through your mind?”

Izan smiled slightly, replaying it in his head.

”I knew I had to keep my cool. Rüdiger is one of the best defenders in the world, so I had to be smart. I just reacted.

And then with Neuer… I saw him come out, and the chip felt like the best option.”

”Did you know it was going in the moment you hit it?”

Izan chuckled. ”I hoped so.”

The journalist grinned. ”Spain are in the semifinals now. What’s the mindset heading into the next game?”

Izan’s expression turned serious.

”We’re not done,” he said firmly. ”We came here to win the Euros. We’re going to keep fighting for it.”

Behind him, his teammates were still celebrating, and the cameras caught every moment.

Pedri and Lamine Yamal pointed at him, laughing and shouting his name. The Spanish fans were still singing.

The moment belonged to him.

————-

The press room was packed. Journalists from across Europe had filled every available seat, eager for their questions.

Luis de la Fuente sat at the table, still looking slightly overwhelmed by the match that had just unfolded.

The first few questions were expected—about Spain’s performance, about the team’s resilience.

But it didn’t take long for the conversation to shift.

A journalist leaned forward. ”Coach, can you talk about Izan Hernández’s performance tonight?”

De la Fuente smiled. ”Izan was incredible. He’s a special player, and we’re lucky to have him.

Not just because of his talent, but because of his mentality. He thrives in big moments.”

Another journalist jumped in. ”Is this the best individual performance of the tournament so far?”

De la Fuente didn’t hesitate. ”For me, it is. 2 goals and an assist against Germany for a child barely 17, yes. Yes it is”

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