God Of football

Chapter 306: Revamped

The stadium was still trembling.

Spanish fans roared. The red tide in the stands surged with energy, a wild, euphoric chaos that rippled across the arena.

Izan’s teammates swarmed him—Pedri, Lamine, Nico, Carvajal—arms around him, voices lost in the deafening noise.

But even in the celebration, in the firestorm of emotions, Izan’s eyes flicked toward the other side of the pitch.

France.

Deschamps stood motionless. Arms crossed. Expression, unreadable. But something flickered in his eyes—a calculation, an adjustment already forming.

His players, though, were reeling.

Maignan pushed himself off the turf, his face clouded with disbelief. The knuckle shot had left him grasping at thin air.

Tchouaméni clenched his fists, muttering under his breath while Upamecano kicked the turf in frustration.

Koundé, his earlier clearance now meaningless, exhaled sharply before jogging back into position.

Then there was Mbappé.

Still. Expression blank. But his fingers curled, then uncurled. His jaw flexed. His breath slowed.

He had seen enough.

As Spain reset for the kickoff, Mbappé took a deep breath and stepped toward the center circle.

His head turned slightly—toward Griezmann, toward Tchouaméni, toward Koundé.

A silent agreement was reached between these players.

They would not sit still

—

MINUTE 42’

After the restart, France pushed forward with urgency, their passes sharp, their movements faster.

The ball zipped between Camavinga and Tchouaméni before finding Griezmann in space.

One touch, a glance up before a quick flick toward the left flank—toward the storm waiting to break loose.

Mbappé.

The stadium braced itself.

He accelerated instantly, the first touch perfect, the second carrying him past Carvajal in a flash like the latter wasn’t the one who stopped him earlier.

The Spanish fullback barely had time to react before Mbappé’s third touch sent him surging down the flank.

The cut inside was brutal.

Carvajal timed his run, and lunged— and missed.

Rodri stepped up to cover the space Caravajal had left behind but Mbappé, once again breezed past him.

The French captain’s body shifted weightlessly between challenges but none could stop him.

As Mbappé reached the edge of the box. His body tensed.

And then—

A fake shot.

Laporte bit, shifting his stance but for anyone watching, that was the wrong response.

Mbappé snapped the ball onto his right foot, carving open an angle before following through.

A release—

THUNDER.

A devastating strike tore through the air.

Unai Simón barely saw it coming.

His hands shot up—

The ball struck his gloves.

A desperate parry.

A deflection.

The ball spun out wildly—straight into the path of Griezmann.

The stadium gasped.

But before he could strike—

A blur of red.

Pedri appeared.

A lunging tackle, a flash of boots—

The ball ripped off Griezmann’s feet, rolling toward the touchline.

Griezmann stumbled, barely able to react before Pedri was back on his feet, clearing the danger.

The Spanish bench erupted.

De la Fuente clapped hard, his voice drowned in the noise.

France had come close—too close.

Spain had survived.

But Mbappé wasn’t done.

—

MINUTE 45+2’

With seconds left in the first half, France launched one final assault.

A quick, short corner.

Theo Hernández drove inside, his left foot ready.

A powerful cross, low and venomous—

Izan read it first.

He darted across the box, stretching out—

Contact.

A half-clearance.

But the ball only rolled to the edge of the area—

Where Tchouaméni was waiting.

The Real Madrid midfielder shifted his weight.

And then—

A strike.

A hammer of a shot, screaming through the air—

Straight at goal but—

BLOCKED!

Rodri threw his body in the way, the impact crashing against his ribs.

He winced, staggered—

But Spain had held firm.

The ball spilled out wide.

The referee checked his watch—

And blew the whistle.

HALFTIME.

—

”A first half that crackled with fire, with fury, with football of the highest order!”

”France struck first. Spain answered with two of the most breathtaking goals of the tournament. And yet—”

”Yet, you feel this war is far from over!”

”Kylian Mbappé has sparked to life! France have shown their fangs! But Spain have their young maestros, their fearless warriors, their belief burning ever brighter!”

”Forty-five minutes remain!”

”A final beckons!”

”Who will rise? Who will fall? Who will write their name in history?”

”We’ll find out soon enough after the halftime break.”

—

Sweat. Frustration. Unspoken anger.

The French players sat scattered—some staring at the floor, others breathing heavily, minds racing.

Maignan leaned forward, elbows on knees, shaking his head while Upamecano sat still, hands clenched together.

Griezmann ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly while conversing silently with Kante who had been left on the bench.

And Mbappé?

Silent. Gaze locked forward.

Deschamps entered.

He was calm. Too calm.

The tension in the room spiked immediately.

He walked to the center of the dressing room.

Paused.

Then—

”Qu’est-ce que je regarde?”

His voice was soft. Controlled.

”What am I looking at?”

No one answered.

Deschamps’ expression didn’t change.

”You tell me, Jules,” he said, turning to Koundé. ”Did you come here to be a spectator?”

Koundé’s jaw tightened.

”Dayot. Tchouaméni. Upamecano.”

His gaze swept across them.

”You let 16 year olds, do that to you?”

Some of the players frowned. The words they had heard, stung.

”Do you know what they’re saying out there?”

His tone sharpened.

”They’re saying we’ve lost control. That we’re letting kids walk over us.”

He turned to Mbappé.

”And you. Kylian.”

The room held its breath.

Mbappé met his stare.

”You said we’d answer.”

A pause.

”Now show me.”

Silence.

Then, a slow nod from the French captain.

Deschamps took a step back, his voice lowering.

”You think Spain is done? You think they’ve won already?”

He let the words hang.

”No.”

”They’re celebrating too soon.”

His eyes burned with cold fire.

”So, what do we do?”

A beat.

Then Mbappé spoke.

His voice was quiet. Lethal.

”We remind them. We remind them that the game isn’t done.”

—

[Opposite dressing room]

The moment the players stepped into the dressing room, the energy was still electric. Spain had flipped the game on its head, turning a 1-0 deficit into a stunning 2-1 lead. The echoes of the fans’ roars still rang in their ears.

De la Fuente stood in the middle of the room, arms folded, a fire burning in his eyes.

”This is not over.” His voice cut through the adrenaline-charged atmosphere.

The players sat down, catching their breath, but their minds were still racing.

”You’ve seen how they reacted after our second goal. France are angry. They’re wounded. And a wounded team is dangerous,” he continued, scanning their faces. ”They’re going to throw everything at us in the second half.”

He pointed at the tactical board.

”Rodri, Tchouaméni is going to press higher now, which means you’ll have to control the tempo even more. Don’t get caught in a battle of chaos. Make them chase shadows.”

Rodri nodded, wiping sweat from his brow.

”Nico, Lamine—stay wide. Pull their fullbacks apart. But when Izan drives forward, you attack the box.

I want to see runs. You saw what happened last time. We caught them open. We can do it again.”

Nico Williams, still buzzing from his goal, tapped his boots together, ready to go again.

Then, de la Fuente’s eyes landed on Izan.

The entire dressing room knew it—he was the spark, the heartbeat of Spain’s attack.

De la Fuente’s expression softened for a moment. ”Izan, they’re going to come for you. Kante, although old hasn’t come on yet and I think will for the second half.

They’ll foul you. They’ll try to shut you down. But listen—stay in the fight. Keep playing your game.”

Izan gave a short nod, his breathing still measured. He could feel it too.

The coach turned back to the group. ”You’ve fought to take control of this match. Now, don’t let go. We keep pushing. We keep believing. We kill this game before they can respond.”

A collective exhale from the team.

”Vamos.”

De La Fuente left his men to recover some more but break time was soon over.

The roar of the crowd was waiting for them. As soon as the dressing room door swung open, the sound crashed into them like a wave—thousands of Spanish voices, alive with belief.

Izan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he walked down the tunnel. The air was thick, charged with anticipation.

Nico Williams jogged beside him, muttering under his breath, hyping himself up while Lamine Yamal cracked his neck.

No one spoke, but the energy between them was electric. Focused. Determined.

Then, as they reached the mouth of the tunnel, they saw them.

The French players were looking at them like they wanted to kill. Izan smiled wryly before he met another player’s gaze.

Kante.

The short Frenchman had been put on for Camavinga who had been somewhat lackluster after his pass to start the French goal counter.

The Frenchman gave Izan the warmest smile he had ever seen in a while before turning towards the end of the tunnel.

The referee gave the signal.

The two teams stepped out together, side by side, into the deafening roar of the stadium.

Forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes to hold on. To fight. To finish what they started.

And the fans were ready.