God Of football

Chapter 294: Down To The Wire

The referee’s whistle shrieked through the Stuttgart Arena, signaling the start of the second half.

The tension was almost palpable, hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Germany took possession right away, but something was… off.

Instead of immediately pressing forward, they slowed the tempo, calmly exchanging passes at the back.

Rüdiger to Kroos.

Kroos to Kimmich.

Kimmich to Tah.

The ball pinged between the German defenders and midfielders with surgical precision, yet their movement was restrained—deliberate.

Spain, eager and hungry, advanced, tightening their shape as they pressed forward.

Rodri gestured for his teammates to step up. De la Fuente, watching from the sidelines, narrowed his eyes.

This wasn’t normal.

Germany weren’t just holding the ball to keep possession.

They were baiting.

Nagelsmann, standing near the technical area, remained still, his expression unreadable.

His team wasn’t attacking, nor were they pushing Spain back. Instead, they were waiting.

And Spain took the bait.

Rodri stepped higher than he should have and Pedri followed. Olmo pushed closer to Izan, and Nico Williams and Lamine Yamal positioned themselves on the wings, ready to spring forward the moment the ball was lost.

De la Fuente, stood still, arms folded and exhaled sharply.

”This isn’t good,” he muttered.

He turned to his assistant. ”They’re drawing us in,” he said.

But before he could signal for the midfield to hold their line—

—Kroos struck.

A single moment.

One devastating pass.

A sharp, piercing through ball, perfectly timed and threaded between the lines, slicing through Spain’s entire midfield like a scalpel.

Pedri’s heart sank as he turned his head, eyes widening.

Rodri had been a step too high.

And now—

The floodgates had been breached.

The second Kroos’ pass broke the midfield barrier, and the entire tempo of the game flipped in an instant.

Boom.

Germany exploded forward.

Wirtz—already anticipating the move—darted into the open space, his first touch clean, his second touch pushing the ball into full sprint.

Spain were scrambling.

Le Normand and Laporte turned, immediately backpedaling.

Rodri, realizing the trap had been sprung, lunged in desperation, but Wirtz was already gone, ghosting past his outstretched boot.

Martin Tyler:

”There it is! Germany waited, waited— and then they have struck like lightning!”

The Spanish fans sucked in a collective breath as they saw the danger unfold.

From the touchline, De la Fuente’s voice rang out. ”TRACK BACK! NOW!” but his instruction was drowned out in the Stuttgart noise.

Now Germany had the numbers.

Wirtz surged forward, the ball glued to his feet.

Izan, still high up the pitch, turned and sprinted back as fast as he could, but he was too far to affect the play.

Then—another killer pass.

Wirtz slid the ball out to Musiala on the left.

The Bayern Munich star took off, his acceleration electric. Lamine Yamal desperately chased, but Musiala had a step on him.

The stadium roared as Germany flooded the final third.

Laporte stepped up—Musiala feinted right then cut left!

Laporte hesitated for half a second—too late!

Musiala burst past him and entered the box.

Spain’s defense was stretched to its limit, the backline pulled apart like a fraying rope.

And then came the final act.

The cutback.

Musiala, instead of shooting, fired a pass across the face of the goal, fizzing through the box like a bullet.

Every Spanish defender’s head snapped to the ball.

Unai Simón dived forward, his gloves reaching—

But it never reached him.

Because waiting, completely unmarked at the far post—

Kai Havertz.

Martin Tyler:

”Oh no—NO—HAVERTZ!”

With the calmness of a veteran, Havertz met the ball with the inside of his boot.

A controlled finish.

No power, just precision.

The ball rolled smoothly into the open net.

”GOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLL,” rang out through the stadium as the German fans celebrated their lead.

A sea of white shirts surged into celebration as Havertz wheeled away, pumping his fists, his teammates mobbing him in triumph.

Martin Tyler:

”PERFECTION! That is how you execute a counterattack! And now Germany lead again tonight. Germany’s patience pays off! They lure Spain in, and with three passes, they rip them apart! It’s 2-1!”

Behind the goal, German fans exploded with joy. Flags waved, fists pumped, and voices filled the air with deafening chants.

On the Spanish bench, faces fell.

De la Fuente clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists.

Rodri, panting, slammed his hands onto his knees, staring at the ground.

Laporte threw his arms up in frustration.

Izan had arrived at the box, too late, just in time to see the ball hit the net. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

A cold, bitter realization settled over Spain.

They had been trapped.

And now—

They had to respond.

As the Germans finished celebrating, Spain gathered at the center circle, hands on hips, heads slightly bowed.

Pedri looked at Izan, his expression unreadable.

Rodri turned to the team. ”Heads up. We go again.”

De la Fuente barked instructions from the sidelines, urging his team to reset.

Germany had landed a heavy punch.

But the fight wasn’t over.

Not yet.

The referee blew his whistle.

Spain took the kickoff—

And immediately surged forward.

A storm was brewing.

And the Spanish players were right in the thick of it.

...…..

Spain surged forward like a wave, crashing against Germany’s defensive wall with unrelenting force.

The urgency in their play was electric—fast, intricate passing sequences and fearless dribbles.

Every touch carried weight, every run filled with desperation. They needed an equalizer.

Martin Tyler:

”You can feel the tension inside the Stuttgart Arena! Spain refuses to go down without a fight!”

Pedri, in midfield, threaded a piercing pass between the lines. His ball found Olmo, who spun away from his marker, took a sharp touch, and fired toward goal but-

”Olmo—OH! Deflected!”

The ball took a wicked bounce off Rüdiger’s outstretched boot and looped agonizingly over the crossbar.

A groan rippled through the Spanish supporters. They were knocking at the door, but Germany refused to open it.

Izan jogged to take the corner, wiping sweat from his brow. He raised his hand, signaling a planned routine. He whipped in a vicious in-swinger—

Rodri leaped!

”Rodri—!”Martin Tyler roared,

But Neuer, reacted instantly, his reflexes cat-like, slapping the ball away before it could nestle in the top corner.

The rebound fell to Nico Williams at the edge of the box and without hesitation, he struck it on the volley—

The shot screamed toward the bottom corner—

”This must be it”. The commentator roared,

But the ball smacked off the woodwork and spun away to safety.

Nico dropped to his knees in disbelief. On the Spanish bench, De la Fuente ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

It was happening again—chance after chance, but no breakthrough.

Germany could feel the pressure mounting. Nagelsmann waved his hands frantically, urging his side to stay compact, to hold on. But Spain was relentless.

After a few moments, another Spanish attack came.

Pedri, shifting the tempo with a disguised turn, slipped the ball to Izan on the right. The latter cut inside, weaving between two defenders before curling a cross to the far post—

Lamine Yamal darted in—and met it with his head but Joshua Kimmich threw himself at the ball, blocking it just inches before it could cross the goal line.

A collective gasp rang out through the stadium, mainly in the Spanish section but eh German fans sighed, relieved that they had been let off.

De la Fuente slammed his hands together on the touchline. He turned and glanced at his bench before looking at his assistants.

”Tell Morata to warm up,” he told his assistants as the match restarted.

Izan sprinted to the corner flag once more. But this time, he wasn’t looking at the chaos inside the box. His eyes flickered toward the edge of the area.

He saw him.

Dani Carvajal, standing just outside the penalty arc, completely unmarked.

A silent understanding passed between them.

Izan’s delivery wasn’t the usual lofted cross into the penalty area. Instead, he curled it away from goal, dropping it perfectly onto Carvajal’s path.

Martin Tyler:

”This is different—oh, what’s this? It’s fallen for Carvajal!”

One touch to settle.

One heartbeat.

Then—BANG.

Carvajal unleashed a thunderous volley. The ball rocketed through the air under the hopeful gazes of both sides, each with a prayer.

The ball zoomed towards goal, slicing past the bodies in the box, before smashing into the back of the net.

Neuer didn’t even move.

The Spanish fans couldn’t believe their eyes and were caught in a momentary lapse before they roared in pure ecstasy.

Martin Tyler:

”OH, THAT IS SPECTACULAR! DANI CARVAJAL! OUT OF NOWHERE! CAPTAIN FANTASTIC. FOOTBALL AT ITS FINEST.”

Bedlam.

Carvajal tore away, fists clenched, screaming toward the Spanish fans. Izan sprinted after him, grabbing him by the shoulders, and shaking him in sheer exhilaration while the other players caught up.

De la Fuente punched the air in celebration, the Spanish bench erupting.

Germany looked stunned. Their trap, their calculated defense—it had finally cracked.

Rodri ran up to Carvajal, ruffling his hair while Pedri stood beside them, grinning and shaking his head in disbelief.

Spain had done it.

”It had to be something special to beat Neuer tonight—and my word, that was SPECIAL! IT IS ALL LEVEL HERE IN THE STUTTGART ARENA. 79 MINUTES PLAYED, SPAIN 2, GERMANY 2,”.