God Of football

Chapter 440: Spain’s Backbone

The media session was held in one of those polished hotel conference rooms that always felt a bit too clean, like the scent of surface wipes still hung faintly in the air.

Chairs were lined in rows for the journalists, and at the front, six tables were staggered in a semicircle, each manned by a player, a name placard, and a slightly weary press officer.

A backdrop wrapped the back wall: the UEFA Nations League logo repeating alongside the red-gold crest of La Roja.

It was all very official. All very tidy.

But there was nothing tidy about the mood. Not with cameras snapping early.

Not with murmurs that built the moment they walked in.

They all wanted one player.

But professionalism meant they had to pretend otherwise.

So, they rotated.

Lamine Yamal was up first.

Just seventeen but already seasoned enough to know when the mood in a room shifts.

He wore his Spain training jacket zipped up, braids tucked neatly behind his ears, and offered a polite smile that didnʼt quite meet his eyes.

The questions started fair. Standard stuff.

”Howʼs the mood in the camp?”

”What did you take from the Serbia game?”

”Whatʼs your role heading into Switzerland?”

Then came a question that slid in too smoothly to be accidental:

”Lamine, youʼve made history at Barcelona, for Spain. Youngest this, youngest that. But it seems now the spotlightʼs shifted—do you ever feel like youʼve been... eclipsed a little by Izan?”

There was a pause.

Not long. But enough.

Lamine didnʼt blink. He leaned forward slightly, folding his arms on the table.

”Well,” he said, voice calm, ”Iʼm still thinking about switching allegiances, so maybe Iʼll find a spotlight elsewhere.”

The room chuckled, thinking he was joking.

Then they caught the way his lips twitched into a smirk.

”But seriously,” he added, gaze settling on the reporter, ”weʼre not here to outshine each other. If Izan pulls three defenders and I get space to dance, Iʼll send him a thank-you card. Heʼs one of us. This isnʼt a race.”

He leaned back again, his message delivered with just enough charm to deflect the awkwardness.

Pedri followed. Always an easy presence—relaxed posture, training top sleeves rolled up, sipping on a protein shake like heʼd just come back from the gym rather than onto a stage.

His questions came with a bit more tactical interest.

”How did the midfield adjust after the Serbia first half?”

”What does Olmoʼs arrival in the lineup do for your movement?”

Then, inevitably:

”There was a clear lift when Izan came on. Did you feel that shift in tempo?”

Pedri gave a small laugh. ”Didnʼt need to feel it. We all saw it. He opens the pitch up. Gives you these... invisible lines to pass through.

Even the defenders start playing higher because he just draws confidence out of everyone. Itʼs like—when he moves, the team breathes with him.”

Rodri was next, sleeves still damp from a cooldown shower. Neat as always, voice low and analytical.

”Izan plays like heʼs studying chess while weʼre all on checkers,” he said plainly.

”He doesnʼt just move with purpose. He moves with consequence.”

That earned a few raised eyebrows from the media. Praise from Rodri, a player in the running for the Ballon dʼOr, meant something.

Nico Williams slouched slightly in his seat, went in the opposite direction.

”Heʼs annoying,” he said with a grin. ”Like, you do this mazy little run, beat two defenders, feel good—then boom, Izan flicks the ball once and suddenly everyoneʼs replaying his move instead of yours.”

He laughed, holding up his hands.

”Nah, jokes aside—heʼs sharp. Sharp like a scalpel. Makes all of us think quicker. And thatʼs when you know someoneʼs special. They donʼt just perform. They affect.”

By now, murmurs were growing. People shifting in their seats. Cameras re-checking batteries. All waiting.

Finally, Izan was ushered in by a press officer. No entourage. No loud arrival.

He walked in quietly, a bottle of water in one hand, a navy Spain jacket zipped halfway up, curls damp from a shower.

The press leaned forward like the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

He took his seat. Adjusted his mic.

The flash of cameras almost drowned out the quiet in the room.

A journalist cleared his throat, but the first words came softly, deliberately:

”Youʼve only been with the national team for about a year now, but it feels like youʼve reshaped the dynamic. Your teammates say they move differently when youʼre on the pitch. Whatʼs that responsibility like for you?”

Izan looked up, eyes focused.

”I just try to be available,” he said.

”With the ball, or without it. Thatʼs the job, right? Footballʼs not about who shines brightest. Itʼs about who gives the team the clearest way forward. If I do that, Iʼve done my part.”

Another hand raised.

”Youʼve swapped your number—21 to 10. Thatʼs no small thing. Symbolic?”

Izan nodded slightly before answering.

”I wore 21 when I was trying to prove something,” he said.

”Now I wear 10 because I believe Iʼm ready to carry something.”

The reporters rattled down the words as they tried to capture every bit of the new star of Spanish football.

After a while, the press officer gave the time signal, but another voice broke in, eager.

”Last one—whatʼs it like being the player everyone else says they adjust to?”

Izan smiled faintly. ”Means I need to keep adjusting, too. You stop evolving, you stop leading.”

The press officer stood. Cameras clicked furiously. No follow-up was allowed.

As he stood and gave a courteous nod, the other players, scattered in the lounge beyond the backdrop, watched him go by.

It wasnʼt envy, but it wasnʼt awe, exactly too.

It was something closer to certainty.

Because when someone walks in and makes everything feel different just by being there…

You donʼt chase the spotlight.

You follow the current, and right now, they all knew who the current was.

[Sometimes, I think I should add ”Professional Glazer” to my LinkedIn profile. Izan is just sung Jinwoo at this point.]

.............

Stade de Genève – 32,000 capacity

”Bonsoir à tous, and welcome from a very wet Geneva, where tonight the UEFA Nations League continues with a vital clash between Switzerland and Spain,” the hosts of the broadcastʼs hosts came through.

”Itʼs been raining for the past hour, and while itʼs eased off slightly, the pitch is slick and the skies are still heavy. Expect drama. Expect emotion. Expect quality,” he continued as the voices in and outside the stadium bellowed.

The camera panned over the stadium, its lenses soaked with the lingering drizzle.

From above, the pitch glistened like polished emerald, rainwater catching in puddles near the touchlines and spraying beneath the boots of the early warm-up crew.

In the stands, umbrellas bloomed open like petals—red, white, and all sorts in between.

A storm had kissed Geneva. Not a howling tempest, but a slow, soaking downpour that had started just past midday and refused to move on.

It left shirts clinging to backs, flags damp and heavy, and voices hoarse from shouting over the falling water.

But it didnʼt stop anyone from coming.

Fans flocked toward the Stade de Genève with scarves wound tight and raincoats zipped to the chin, their spirits undampened.

The Swiss, naturally, arrived in droves. You couldnʼt turn a corner in the city without hearing ”Hop Suisse!” bellowing from open windows or restaurant doorways.

There were flares lit in side streets, their red smoke caught in the rainfall like ghostly warning signs.

The home support was loud. Intense. Almost territorial.

But La Rojaʼs faithful came too—and they came proud.

They waved their flags under the downpour with fierce defiance, chanting through soaked lips, clapping their hands to old flamenco rhythms, and shouting, ”¡Vamos España!” as if the volume could keep them warm.

Whole families arrived bundled under one umbrella. A group of young men, shoulders draped in the flag, danced in a huddle, unbothered by how soaked their sneakers were.

It wasnʼt just national pride.

It was belief.

The belief that this Spain—young, electric, fearless—could take control of the footballing world.

”And what a group itʼs turning out to be,” another pundit chimed in.

Just a few miles away, winding through Genevaʼs old streets slicked with rain, the Spanish team bus turned onto the final stretch toward the stadium.

Gone was the chatter from earlier in the day. Gone were the jokes about Rodriʼs matchday rituals or Yamalʼs playlist.

There was only the low thrum of the engine, the occasional creak of the bus frame, and the soft patter of rain on the windows.

Izan sat near the back, hood pulled over his head, eyes tracing raindrops racing down the glass.

He didnʼt move much—just watched.

The stadium came into view now, rising from the grey like a lit beacon, every corner of it buzzing.

Up front, Lamine Yamal leaned back with headphones on, one leg bouncing to a rhythm only he could hear.

Nico played with a stress ball while defensive leader, Le Normand was jotting something in a notebook again—maybe a prayer or maybe a reminder.

”Spainʼs young stars have been front and center this campaign,” the broadcast continued.

”Izan especially—after his game-changing cameo against Serbia—is under the spotlight again tonight. But so is Lamine Yamal. So is Nico. Pedri. Rodri. Thereʼs a spine forming here… and tonight will test just how strong it is.”

The bus slowed.

Fans pressed up against the barriers lining the road, some holding signs, others just phones. Flash after flash blinked against the windows.

A group chanted Izanʼs name before breaking into song—his name stretched into melody, ”Izaaan, Izaaaaan…” as the engine died.

Then the hiss of the door opening.

One by one, Spainʼs players stepped into the rain.

A/n; Sorry guys. This was supposed to be the last of yesterday but i had to postpone it. I have a paper at 10 so wish me luck. Have fun readin gand Iʼll see you with another after the paper.