God Of football

Chapter 273: Great Start

As the celebrations continued on the field, Spain were now two goals up, and the stadium buzzed with the intensity of what had just transpired.

Both coaches had their work cut out for them, but for now, Spain held the advantage. The battle had shifted, but the war was far from over.

...…

The Olympiastadion was alive. Spanish flags rippled in the stands, the echoes of celebration reverberating through the Berlin night.

The scoreboard read Spain 2-0 Croatia, but La Roja weren’t finished. They could smell it now—the third goal, the dagger that would all but end this contest before halftime.

Croatia looked weary. Luka Modrić, their eternal general, urged his teammates to stay sharp, but the weight of Spain’s relentless pressure was beginning to show.

Every duel, every chase, every misplaced clearance chipped away at their confidence.

Spain, in contrast, had grown bolder. Lamine Yamal, the 16-year-old sensation, had spent the last forty-five minutes tormenting Borna Sosa on the right flank.

Twisting and turning, forcing the Croatian left-back into uncomfortable, panicked lunges. He wasn’t just playing—he was dictating.

And as the clock ticked into stoppage time, Yamal’s eyes locked onto the ball at his feet once more.

Rodri, always composed, spotted Yamal in space and sent a crisp diagonal pass to him near the right wing. The ball fizzed across the grass, skipping past a lunging Perišić.

Yamal didn’t let it slow down. His first touch was a caress, soft but precise, setting him up to accelerate down the line. Sosa rushed in—again.

The Spaniard dropped his shoulder. A feint to the right, a flick to the left, and Sosa was beaten before he even realized it.

Commentator 1: ”Yamal, breathtaking again—he’s got Sosa in knots!”

A Croatian defender stepped forward to cover, but Yamal was already moving. His body shifted, his boot carved under the ball, and he whipped a perfect cross into the box.

Commentator 2: ”It’s a brilliant delivery—dangerous area—who’s there?”

For a split second, time seemed to freeze.

The Croatian defense reacted too late. A wall of red and white jerseys scrambled toward the six-yard box, but in the middle of it all, one man had timed his run to perfection.

Dani Carvajal.

The veteran right-back, known more for his defensive solidity than his goal-scoring, had drifted into the penalty area unnoticed. The ball curved toward him, teasingly just out of Livaković’s reach.

Without hesitation, Carvajal lunged forward, stretching his boot—

A delicate touch. A flick. A goal.

The ball bounced past Livaković and nestled into the net.

3-0. Spain were running riot.

The stadium exploded.

Commentator 1: ”Carvajal! Would you believe it? Dani Carvajal has his first-ever goal for Spain, and what a time to get it!”

The Spanish players swarmed him in celebration. Carvajal slid onto his knees, punching the air as his teammates mobbed him, their cheers lost in the deafening roar of the crowd.

On the touchline, Luis de la Fuente clenched his fist, a rare grin breaking his usually reserved demeanor. He turned to his staff, nodding. ”Let the others start warming up,” he muttered.

On the other side, Croatia’s bench sat in stunned silence. Dalić rubbed his face, frustration evident. His team had just been overwhelmed.

The Croatian players had barely recovered from the goal when the referee glanced at his watch. A few more seconds ticked by before—

Peeeeep!

Halftime.

Commentator 2: ”And that’s the whistle! A dominant, dominant first half from Spain. Three goals. Complete control. And Croatia—shell-shocked.”

On the Spanish bench, Izan exhaled, shaking his head. The intensity of the match had kept him locked in, his body almost leaning forward with every Spanish attack.

Oyarzabal, sitting beside him, let out a low whistle. ”This team is something else, huh?”

Izan smirked. ”Yeah. It is. It really is,” his voice going silent as he neared the latter words.

He stood, stretching his arms before jogging toward the tunnel with the rest of the squad. The Spanish players moved with energy and confidence—they knew what they had done.

Behind them, the Croatian team followed, their heads low, their shoulders sagging.

As the players disappeared into the tunnel, the scoreboard remained, glowing brightly in the Berlin night.

SPAIN 3-0 CROATIA.

A warning had been sent to the rest of Europe.

.....

England Camp – Blankenhain, Germany

In England’s training base, the players gathered in the common room, watching the Spain vs. Croatia game unfold on a massive screen.

The atmosphere had started off as relaxed, but as Spain’s dominance grew, the mood shifted.

Declan Rice leaned back on the couch, arms crossed. ”They’re making it look easy,” he muttered.

Jude Bellingham, sitting beside him, nodded slowly. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen as the Spaniards walked off the pitch at halftime, heads high. ”They’re in full control. Croatia can’t even breathe.”

Bukayo Saka exhaled. ”Three-nil in one half? That’s not normal at this level.”

Phil Foden shook his head. ”And Izan hasn’t even played yet.”

That drew a few glances. Bellingham smiled knowingly. ”Yeah, but you know how he is—he’s probably fine with it. He’s patient.” He pulled out his phone and fired off a quick message.

Not bad, bro. Guess you’re just chilling tonight?

Izan’s reply came almost instantly.

Gotta let the old guys have their fun.

Bellingham chuckled, shaking his head. ”Yeah, he’s good.”

Harry Kane, watching from the other side of the room, finally spoke. ”Spain are serious contenders.

They’ve got depth, they’ve got balance.” He turned to Rice. ”They remind me of us—solid midfield, young attackers, experienced defenders.”

Rice exhaled through his nose. ”Yeah, but they play faster. The way they rotate possession, you never know where the danger’s coming from.”

Saka crossed his arms. ”Think we’ll face them?”

Bellingham leaned forward, eyes flickering with anticipation. ”If we do, it’s gonna be a battle.

.....

The Spanish players emerged from the tunnel, their bodies loose, their expressions sharp.

The Olympiastadion still pulsed with energy, the echoes of their first-half dominance lingering in the Berlin night.

On the Croatian side, the contrast was stark. Their shoulders sagged, and their eyes carried the weight of the scoreline. But pride dictated they wouldn’t roll over. Not yet.

Spain, however, had no intention of easing up.

Luis de la Fuente stood on the touchline, hands clasped behind his back, watching as Croatia attempted to press higher up the pitch.

He turned to his assistant. ”They’ll be desperate now. More aggressive, but also more open.”

A nod.

De la Fuente shifted his gaze toward the Spanish bench. Options. So many options.

Beside him, players warmed up, stretching, jogging, shaking out their limbs.

Izan was among them.

He knew the cameras would be on him—waiting, anticipating his introduction. But he remained unfazed, eyes locked on the game, absorbing every movement.

Spain probably wouldn’t need him tonight. Not yet.

Instead, de la Fuente called for others.

Minute 60 – Substitutions

Dani Olmo. Mikel Merino. Ferran Torres.

These Fresh legs now ensured more control and more energy.

Commentator 1: ”Three changes for Spain, but notably, Izan remains on the bench. A sign that de la Fuente doesn’t want to push too far?”

Commentator 2: ”Perhaps. At 3-0, there’s no need to force the issue. But let’s not mistake this—Spain could score more if they wanted to.”

Izan simply nodded as Olmo jogged past him onto the pitch, offering a fist bump. He knew the decision wasn’t about ability or form.

It was about balance.

No overkill. No unnecessary risks. Just a clean, dominant victory to start the tournament.

Croatia fought to restore pride. They pressed harder, threw more bodies forward, and forced Unai Simón into a sharp save off a Kramarić effort.

But Spain remained unshaken.

Rodri and Fabián Ruiz dictated the tempo, slowing the game when needed, and slicing through Croatia’s lines when the opportunity arose.

Pedri, operating with the freedom of a maestro, played with a calm arrogance, his touches silken, his vision effortless.

Lamine Yamal, still brimming with confidence, teased the Croatian defenders, daring them to commit.

And the Spanish fans?

They savored every second.

The Oles began in the 75th minute. Every completed pass, a dagger to Croatia’s spirit.

On the touchline, de la Fuente crossed his arms. No frantic gestures, no barking of orders. This was Spain at its purest.

Even Izan, standing by the bench with his bib still on, couldn’t help but smirk at how comfortable it all looked.

Peeeeep!

Final whistle.

Spain 3-0 Croatia.

No late drama. No frantic defending. Just control. Total control.

The Spanish players exchanged handshakes, pats on the back, and knowing glances. They had sent a message to the rest of Europe tonight.

As they walked toward the traveling Spanish fans, applause rained down. Flags waved, and chants echoed into the night.

Izan followed behind his teammates, jogging toward the crowd, offering his own applause in return.

His time would come.

But tonight, Spain had made their statement.

And the rest of the tournament had taken notice.

A/n: Hello guys. So it’s mid-sem next week and I just wanted to say I might not be releasing as much as I would. You know what. F**k mid-sem. Let’s make Izan the GOAT. Okay maybe not literally but you get me right.