God Of football

Chapter 190: Shadows And Spotlights[ Golden ticket chapter]

”Unbelievable! Izan has done it! What a moment of pure genius! The freekick looked like any other... but no, he’s gone for the unthinkable!

Under the wall—under the very eyes of Courtois—he’s executed a masterstroke! The defenders leapt in vain, and Courtois... he never saw it coming!

What a brilliantly calculated strike! The ball, driven low with such precision, almost seemed to defy the laws of physics as it bypassed the giant wall and found its way into the corner of the net.

Absolutely sensational! Izan! The stadium is in raptures! He has just pulled off one of the most audacious goals you’ll ever see in football!”

High up in the shadows of the Mestalla’s VIP section, Florentino Pérez sat, his sharp gaze fixed on the pitch below.

Dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit, his expression was unreadable, a man accustomed to the weight of decisions shaping destinies.

Around him, the usual murmurs and clinking glasses of the elite filled the air, but Pérez seemed impervious, absorbed entirely by the spectacle unfolding on the field.

The moment Izan struck the low-driven free-kick, threading the ball like a bullet through the smallest gap in the wall and into the bottom corner, Pérez barely moved.

His eyes narrowed slightly, his lips pressing into a faint line, betraying a flicker of intrigue.

As the crowd erupted, he leaned back in his seat, stroking his chin thoughtfully, his mind clearly working faster than the celebrations below.

Without looking away from the pitch, he spoke in a low, measured tone. ”Call Valencia’s president,” he said to his assistant, who stood nearby with a tablet in hand.

The assistant hesitated for a moment as if to confirm, but Pérez’s calm yet commanding voice left no room for doubt.

”Tell him I’d like to have a word after the match,” Pérez added, his gaze still locked on Izan, now jogging back to midfield with the poise of someone unaware he’d just sent tremors through Spanish football.

The assistant nodded, stepping aside to make the call, while Pérez remained seated, his fingers steepled.

The flickering stadium lights cast long shadows across his face, adding an air of mystery to his stoic demeanour.

To any observer, it was clear: Florentino Pérez had seen something that intrigued him, and when he moved, it was never without purpose.

...

Henri Duval, YSL’s suave marketing director, sat in his sleek office chair, the soft glow of Parisian lights spilling through the glass walls.

Despite his usual air of composure, the moment Izan’s low-driven free-kick rippled the net, Henri bolted upright, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the screen.

His polished exterior cracked for just a second as he muttered, ”Incroyable.”

Elise, his astute assistant, hurried over, tablet in hand. Her excitement mirrored the energy on the pitch.

”Henri, social metrics are skyrocketing. Izan’s association with YSL is driving insane engagement—75% higher during this match.

Our logo placement in his recent ads? Trending globally. This kid is a goldmine.”

Henri exhaled slowly, the gears in his mind turning. He adjusted his pocket square, stood, and reached for his phone, his fingers expertly navigating to a contact labelled Miranda.

The phone rang twice before Miranda picked up, her voice crisp and professional. ”Henri, I assume this isn’t a social call.”

”Bien sûr, Miranda,” Henri began smoothly, pacing by the window with deliberate strides. ”I just watched your boy pull off something extraordinary.

That goal wasn’t just skill—it was artistry. The kind that cements legends. I think we need to revisit our current arrangement.”

There was a slight pause on the line, followed by Miranda’s measured reply. ”The Euros are the focus, Henri. The campaign runs until then. What’s on your mind?”

Henri smiled to himself, savouring the opportunity. ”A three-year extension option, post-Euros. This boy isn’t just a rising star—he’s the sun, and everyone’s orbiting him.

If he continues like this, brands will clamour to sign him. YSL has the chance to lock in early and ride the wave of his inevitable global stardom.”

Miranda didn’t reply immediately, and Henri could picture her weighing her options, always calculating.

Finally, she spoke. ”Henri, you know I don’t make decisions lightly. This kind of extension would need significant adjustments—both in terms of exposure and compensation.”

Henri chuckled lightly. ”Of course, Miranda. We’ll make it worth your while—and Izan’s.

This partnership is already paying dividends, but tonight has proven it can be so much more.

He’s performing magic on the pitch, and YSL wants to ensure the world sees him draped in elegance off it.”

There was a brief silence, and then Miranda’s voice softened slightly. ”I’ll think about it, Henri. But you’d better have something compelling when we sit down to talk.”

”I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Henri replied, his tone dripping with charm. As he ended the call, he turned to Elise, a confident grin on his face.

”Prepare the revised proposal,” he said. ”This isn’t just business. It’s history in the making.”

Back on the screen, Izan’s name flashed in bold letters, the replay of his celebration igniting the room.

Henri poured himself a glass of wine, his smile lingering. The boy was extraordinary, and Henri knew YSL’s future was brighter with Izan in its orbit.

...

As the referee signalled for play to resume, Real Madrid wasted no time asserting their rights to pure fast-break football.

The ball zipped between the white shirts, moving fluidly as the team built up their attack. Vinícius Júnior, electric as ever, received the ball on the left flank.

His first touch sent Thierry Correia scrambling, and with a burst of pace, he darted toward the edge of the box.

Scanning the field, Vinícius spotted Jude Bellingham making a late run into the danger area.

With a perfectly weighted pass, Vinícius threaded the ball into Jude’s path.

The Englishman took a touch to steady himself, the defenders closing in, and unleashed a thunderous shot with his right foot.

The ball flew like a missile, smashing against the inside of the post. The sound of the impact was met with gasps from the crowd as it ricocheted across the goalmouth.

For a split second, time seemed to freeze. The ball spun dangerously in the six-yard box, but before Bellingham or another Madrid player could pounce, the opposing defender cleared it to safety with a desperate lunge.

The referee’s whistle pierced through the tension, signalling the end of an exhilarating first half. The players began to jog toward the tunnel, some exchanging words, others shaking their heads in frustration.

Jude ran his hand through his hair, a wry smile on his face as Vinícius patted him on the back, offering words of encouragement.

In the stands, fans buzzed with excitement, reliving the near-miss and discussing what the second half might hold.

Meanwhile, the coaches huddled with their staff in the dugouts, preparing adjustments for the next 45 minutes.

The halftime break promised to be brief but vital in a game poised on a knife’s edge.

.....

In the home locker room, Valencia’s players sat in high spirits but with a determined focus.

The air was thick with both sweat and the scent of victory, though their job was far from done.

Izan sitting with a towel over his head was patted on the back by some of the bench players, commending him for his dominant first-half performance.

”I would have done better” Pietro said breaking the mood. The whole locker room stared at him but the players were too happy with their lead to pay him any mind.

”Great work so far,” Ruben Baraja said after he entered the room, his voice sharp but encouraging. ”But we cannot afford to sit back.

They’ll come at us even harder in the second half.” He pointed at the board, illustrating how Real Madrid’s fullbacks were pushing up and leaving space behind.

”Keep exploiting those channels. Guerra, stay close to Bellingham. Don’t give him room to breathe.

And, Guillamón, I need quicker decisions in transition. We’ve got them on the ropes—don’t let them recover!”

The players nodded, a mix of determination and fatigue etched on their faces.

A couple of them towelled off while others sipped water or stretched, gearing up for the next 45 minutes.

In the visiting locker room, the mood was tense but resolute. Real Madrid’s players sat in a semi-circle around their head coach, Carlo Ancelotti who had a marker in hand and a fierce look in his eyes.

”This is not over,” he began, his voice firm and steady. ”We’ve controlled possession, but we’re not making it count.

Vinícius, keep driving at them. Push harder into the box. Jude, I need you to control the tempo. Find the gaps and take the shots when they come.”

He tapped the board, illustrating new passing lanes and movements for the second half.

”Rodrygo, drop deeper and pull their center-backs out of position. And keep pressing high—we can force mistakes.

As for that kid. I’ll leave him to You and Rüdiger” Ancelotti said pointing to Carvajal.

As the coach finished his instructions, the players exchanged glances, a collective fire igniting in their eyes.

Luka Modrić who was on the bench stood and clapped his hands, rallying his teammates. ”Let’s turn this around, boys. This is our game.”

The referee’s whistle echoed faintly from the tunnel, signalling the imminent start of the second half.

Both teams rose, their minds sharpened and their bodies primed, ready to write the next chapter of an enthralling contest.

A/n: So I was chilling in my Porsche[what an utter lie] but some reader named Malo71 decided to give the book 30 Golden tickets.

So here i am. It would have been a while, but I had an extra chapter so have it. Love you’ll and I’ll see you Tomorrow