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God Of football

Chapter 429: El Capitano [Pistacho031_3] · Oct 10, 2026

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Chapter List (1057)

Page number / 22

401 Chapter 401: A New 10 2026-10-10
402 Chapter 402: Dull Start. 2026-10-10
403 Chapter 403: 2026-10-10
404 Chapter 404: Back For More 2026-10-10
405 Chapter 405: Izan’s Footprints 2026-10-10
406 Chapter 406: New Dog In The Yard 2026-10-10
407 Chapter 407: Done And Dusted 2026-10-10
408 Chapter 408: Mornings Without Spotlight 2026-10-10
409 Chapter 409: Incoming Additions. 2026-10-10
410 Chapter 410: More To Life Than Just Football[GT - ] 2026-10-10
411 Chapter 411: To Villa Park [GT - ] 2026-10-10
412 Chapter 412: At Villa Park 2026-10-10
413 Chapter 413: One Goal Up 2026-10-10
414 Chapter 414: Villa’s 13th Man 2026-10-10
415 Chapter 415: Brewing Drama 2026-10-10
416 Chapter 416: Sending Off 2026-10-10
417 Chapter 417: One More 2026-10-10
418 Chapter 418: Talking To The Media 2026-10-10
419 Chapter 419: Post-Match[GT bonus - ] 2026-10-10
420 Chapter 420: Champions League Nights 2026-10-10
421 Chapter 421: Draw In Monaco 2026-10-10
422 Chapter 422: Date At The Mestalla[Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
423 Chapter 423: System Upgrade [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
424 Chapter 424: Off The Sheets 2026-10-10
425 Chapter 425: Spectator[Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
426 Chapter 426: International Break [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
427 Chapter 427: Mi Casa 2026-10-10
428 Chapter 428: Back In La Roja’s Camp 2026-10-10
429 Chapter 429: El Capitano [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
430 Chapter 430: More Responsibilities [ Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
431 Chapter 431: Arrival In Belgrade 2026-10-10
432 Chapter 432: Flames Of Football 2026-10-10
433 Chapter 433 - 1st Half In Belgrade [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
434 Chapter 434: Knight In The Area[Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
435 Chapter 435: Acquaintance 2026-10-10
436 Chapter 436: Geneva 2026-10-10
437 Chapter 437: Geneva [2] 2026-10-10
438 Chapter 438: Bathed By A Different GOAT. 2026-10-10
439 Chapter 439: Group Survival [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
440 Chapter 440: Spain’s Backbone 2026-10-10
441 Chapter 441: Strong Response 2026-10-10
442 Chapter 442: Old And New [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
443 Chapter 443: Lances In The Rain 2026-10-10
444 Chapter 444: Game Is Gone 2026-10-10
445 Chapter 445: Done, Not Dusted 2026-10-10
446 Chapter 446: Lively [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
447 Chapter 447: Somber Mood. 2026-10-10
448 Chapter 448: Shoot And Return [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
449 Chapter 449: London 2026-10-10
450 Chapter 450: Regular Day Job 2026-10-10

Chapter 429: El Capitano [Pistacho031_3]

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.

Luis de la Fuente was already standing, one hand resting on the edge of his desk, the other adjusting the cuff of his crisp white shirt.

The office was exactly as Izan remembered it—no frills, no clutter.

A framed tactical board leaned against one wall, and two sets of boots on the floor beneath the window.

A thick folder sat open on the desk, filled with scouting notes, match reports, and player data. It was standard, methodical. All business.

”Izan,” the manager greeted, stepping around the desk with a calm nod.

”Gaffer,” Izan replied, returning the gesture.

They shook hands firmly—nothing prolonged, nothing showy. Just a mutual grip and a brief flash of eye contact that said everything else.

”Long summer,” De la Fuente said simply.

Izan smirked. ”Didnʼt feel long enough.”

”Winning tends to make things fly by.”

The manager motioned to the chair opposite his desk. Izan sat without hesitation

”You have settled in alright?” De la Fuente asked, easing into his chair.

”Yeah I am but I just arrived so I donʼt really know yet. Just hope Breakfast tastes better.”

That earned a faint chuckle. ”You look sharper than good. Amo tells me youʼre top of the fitness charts.”

”Had a long preseason. Played catch-up after LA. System gave me some upgrades too.”

”System?” the manager asked, brow slightly raised.

Izan blinked, quick enough to cover it. ”My routine. Personal stuff. You know.”

De la Fuente nodded slowly, letting it slide without digging.

”Well, whatever youʼre doing, keep doing it. Youʼve come back leaner, and quicker. And your match rhythm with Arsenalʼs looked… refined.”

”Iʼm finding my spots better.”

”Youʼve always had that,” De la Fuente said. ”But now youʼre trusting the timing. The gameʼs slowing down for you.”

Izan didnʼt answer. He wasnʼt the type to agree with praise out loud.

The manager leaned back in his chair slightly, studying him across the desk—not with scrutiny, but with something quieter.

Curiosity, maybe. Or assessment.

”You know why I wanted to speak with you first?”

Izan tilted his head. ”Because Iʼm punctual?”

De la Fuente cracked a smile. ”Because Iʼm making you captain on the pitch if Morataʼs or Caravjalʼs not starting. And that might happen sooner than later.”

That gave Izan pause.

”Youʼre not just the poster boy anymore,” the manager continued.

”Youʼre the fulcrum. Players look at you like they used to look at Xavi or Ramos. That changes how you carry yourself. And how you speak.”

”Iʼm not much of a talker.”

”No. But when you do speak, they listen. Thatʼs the part that matters.”

Izan rested his forearms on his knees. ”Is this gonna be permanent?”

”I donʼt hand armbands out for fun, Izan. But Iʼve been watching. Last season, Euros, preseason.

The maturityʼs there. And with Pedri still building match fitness, and Gavi just returning… I need leadership from the front.”

There was a quiet beat, heavy with something that wasnʼt pressure—but maybe the beginning of something close.

”I can do it,” Izan said, finally.

”I know.”

The silence that followed wasnʼt awkward. Just settled. Comfortable.

De la Fuente flipped open a page in the folder, tapping the sheet with a capped pen.

”Weʼre running some attacking drills this afternoon, shape rotations and progression between the lines.

I want you with the first unit. Nico, Dani, Lamine—your triangle. I need it humming by Friday.”

Izan gave a sharp nod. ”Understood.”

”Good.” The manager stood again, offering his hand once more. ”Welcome back, Izan.”

This time, the shake had weight to it.

Izan stood and nodded once more before turning toward the door.

But just as he reached it, the managerʼs voice stopped him.

”And Izan?”

He glanced back.

”Youʼve already won the Euros. Youʼre not here just to relive it. Youʼre here to make sure it wasnʼt a one-off.”

Izan met his eyes. ”Then letʼs win more.”

And with that, he stepped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him—his place in the camp no longer a question, but a responsibility.

...…..

The hallway outside the managerʼs office was quiet, save for the soft hum of air conditioning and the occasional shuffle of equipment bags being rolled across the tiled floor.

Izan followed the familiar path through the training facilityʼs residential wing, his footsteps echoing against the hollow space.

Room assignments had gone up earlier that morning, and he already knew where he was headed.

Room 214.

He knocked once—more out of courtesy than necessity—then pushed the door open.

Pedri was already inside, lounging on one of the twin beds with his phone above his face and his left leg draped over a rolled-up recovery ball.

The curtains were half-drawn, letting in the midday sun without flooding the room.

”Look who it is,” Pedri said, lowering the phone but not sitting up. ”Welcome to my humble abode.”

”Our humble abode,” Izan said as he dropped a small bag on the opposite bed and toed off his sneakers.

”Good to see you, bro.”

Izan smirked and sat at the edge of his mattress, stretching his back.

”You good though?” he asked, voice a little quieter. ”De la Fuente said you were still recovering.”

Pedri rolled the recovery ball under his calf and nodded, slow and deliberate.

”Yeah. Took a knock-in training last week. Nothing major.”

”Hammy?”

”Knee. Just a knock, though. Weʼre fine. If it was serious, Barça wouldnʼt have let me come. The new Coach is just… intense.”

Izan raised an eyebrow. ”Intense how?”

”Double sessions every other day. High-intensity drills with no rest windows. And heʼs obsessed with playing a high line. Cubarsi and Inigo are not having it easy”

Pedri dropped his phone on his chest. ”Iʼm telling you, itʼs like Simeoneʼs ghost got hired at La Masia.”

”Sounds like hell.”

”It kind of is. But weʼre fitter than weʼve ever been. And if we survive till October, I think we might actually be good. Weʼve already won all our three matches.”

Izan leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched out, arms crossed behind his head.

”So youʼre telling me you came to the Spain camp for a vacation.”

”Exactly.” Pedri grinned. ”Thought Iʼd rest by chasing through rondos against you and Nico all week.”

Pedri tilted his head thoughtfully. ”Itʼs weird, yeah? Youʼve only been in this setup what… a year?”

”Barely,” Izan said. ”Feels longer though.”

”Because you act like you run the place.”

”And you donʼt?”

Pedri shrugged with a grin. ”Iʼve earned my stripes.”

”Youʼve earned a knee brace.”

Pedri rolled his eyes. ”Still more useful than you during lights-out when your alarm goes off at 6am and you sleep through it.”

Izan smirked. ”Olivia says I donʼt snore, so it balances out.”

”Oh?” Pedri raised an eyebrow. ”So weʼre quoting her now?”

”Shut up and get your knee iced.”

Pedri just laughed, letting his head sink back against the pillow.

Izan turned toward the window again, watching a few teammates jog across the courtyard below.

Same rhythm—arrival, check-ins, quiet banter before the grind.

As the two stood the, a knock sounded—three short taps, brisk and unmistakable.

”Letʼs go,” came a voice from the other side.

”Míster wants everyone downstairs.”

Pedri groaned softly. ”No rest for the chosen ones.”

Izan was already moving, tugging on his training top and sliding into his sneakers.

”Come on, old man. Iʼll carry your knee down the stairs if I have to.”

”You know I was starting for Spain before were eligible to even play first-team football?”

They snickered as they stepped into the corridor, the soft hum of conversation growing louder as more doors opened down the hall.

Players—some veterans, some new—filed out one by one, forming a steady stream toward the conference room just past the dining hall.

The hallway buzzed with a quiet energy that only international camps carried: that mix of pride, competition, and something almost reverent.

Inside, the room was already filling up. Long tables had been moved to the sides to make space for chairs in neat rows facing a small podium.

At the front stood Luis de la Fuente, calm as ever, arms folded, eyes scanning his squad like a man counting every tool in his shed before a job.

Izan and Pedri slipped into two empty seats near the middle, nodding to Nico and Yamal as they sat down. Conversations faded fast.

De la Fuente stepped forward.

”Bienvenidos,” he began, voice steady. ”Itʼs good to see so many familiar faces—and a few new ones. Thatʼs the nature of this shirt. It grows. It evolves.”

He paused just long enough for the words to settle.

”Youʼre here because of your quality. Youʼre here because of your mentality. But above all, youʼre here because youʼve earned it.

Whether youʼve lifted trophies with us already… or youʼre here to chase your first.”

Izan sat still, watching closely.

”There are expectations,” the coach continued. ”Always. We are not the underdogs anymore. We are the standard.”

A few of the veterans—Rodri, Morata—nodded faintly.

”And with that,” he said, glancing down briefly before lifting a folded paper, ”come changes. First—on the armband.”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

De la Fuente unfolded the sheet, scanning the names.

”With the natural transition of leadership, itʼs time we formalize the next cycle.

Morata will remain captain for this break. Rodri will take vice.

But moving forward—should either not be available—weʼll begin introducing others into the leadership group.”

Eyes shifted subtly.

He continued, ”Pedri will be third in line.”

There was a quiet round of acknowledgment—soft claps, shoulder taps.

Pedri, beside Izan, didnʼt say anything. Just nodded once.

De la Fuenteʼs eyes moved again, then settled—just for a second—on Izan.

”And Izan will join that group. Not for age. Not for headlines. But for consistency, mentality, and professionalism.”

That earned a few murmurs.

”That doesnʼt mean more pressure,” De la Fuente said. ”It means more trust. And trust, here, is everything.”

He stepped away from the podium.

”Now letʼs go to work.”

A/n: Damn. Iʼm tired. Anyways this is five. Have fun reading and iʼll see you soon with the next one

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