God Of football

Chapter 509: The Izan Effect.

The Estadio Enrique Roca de Murcia was buzzing by the time the buses began to roll in.

Security was tighter than usual, with cameras already stationed outside the main entrance, with reporters jostling for position.

The Danish squad had arrived earlier with little fanfare, slipping into the stadium through the side tunnel with only a few nods from media personnel.

But it was the Spanish bus everyone had been waiting for.

And when it finally pulled up, the atmosphere shifted.

Phones went up, microphones extended like spears.

The Spanish national team began stepping down one by one—Pedri, Olmo, Lamine, Cubarsí, Nico—all greeted by camera flashes and hurried murmurs from the press.

But when Izan finally stepped down, hoodie half up and travel bag slung over one shoulder, the quiet murmur turned to chaos.

”There he is!”

”¡Izan, dónde estuviste durante la concentración?”

(”Izan, where were you during the training camp?”)

”Is it true you were injured and hiding it from the staff?”

”Are you retiring early?!”

That last question cut through the air like a punchline nobody was ready for, and that made Izan stop mid-step, slowly turning his head toward the cluster of reporters with a raised brow, as if double-checking that he’d heard it right.

A few of the other players around him—Baena, who had just stepped off behind him, and Cubarsí ahead—both turned too, matching his expression with bemused disbelief.

”¿Retirándome?” Izan muttered under his breath with a half-laugh, looking at Lamine, who blinked as if the question itself had offended him.

The reporter didn’t back down, stepping forward slightly.

”There were rumours, you weren’t at Las Rozas, there was no photo, no mention... isn’t that usually the case with long-term injuries? Or did Arsenal not accept the request for you to be let go for the international break?”

Izan didn’t answer.

He just glanced briefly at the man, then turned to Lamine and said low enough for the cameras to miss: ”I leave for a few days, and this is the type of news they start spinning. Spanish reporters have gotten scary.”

Lamine laughed through his nose and gave him a small nudge forward.

”Welcome back, crack.”

The security detail closed the gap then, ushering them through the media wall and into the stadium as questions continued to fly unanswered behind them.

More camera flashes, more speculation—but Izan was already disappearing down the player tunnel.

..........

It wasn’t loud but the murmur of over 30,000 fans had swelled inside the Estadio Enrique Roca de Murcia, a low thunder rolling through the stadium as the teams began to walk out onto the pitch.

Spain in their deep red kits with golden accents, Denmark in stark white trimmed with red.

Flags rippled in the breeze, camera flashes sparking like lightning from below the stands.

The broadcast switched to a wide-angle shot, capturing both sides lined up as the anthems faded and the last of the formalities were completed.

The commentators took over, their voices calm, steady, guiding the moment.

”Well, here we go then,” one of them began, Spanish lilt underlining his cadence.

”Spain versus Denmark in what should be an interesting evening here in Murcia.”

”Absolutely,” the second voice chimed in.

”And just to go over the lineups—Luis de la Fuente has opted for something familiar in midfield tonight: Pedri and Zubimendi starting alongside Nico Williams on the wing, with Lamine Yamal operating slightly more centrally. Gavi is still out, so there’s been some reshuffling.”

”And notably,” the first commentator added, lowering his voice slightly, ”no Izan in the starting eleven. That had tongues wagging ever since the team sheet came out about an hour ago.”

”Yes, and it’s not without explanation,” the second replied.

”Of course, Izan only rejoined the camp late—just yesterday, in fact and from what we’ve seen and heard, he hasn’t trained much with the team this break, and given the expectations around his name now, you can understand why throwing him straight into the starting lineup might not be the wisest move.”

”Might’ve sent the wrong message too—appearance-wise, I mean—for the rest of the squad. And to be fair to the coaching staff, managing his minutes tonight, especially after whatever kept him away from camp, is probably smart.”

”Exactly. From what we gather, he’s on the bench. So if it’s in the cards, if the moment calls for it, we might see him out there tonight.”

The camera panned across to the Spanish bench where Izan sat, arms folded, watching the pitch with a neutral expression.

He leaned slightly forward as the official glanced at his watch.

The whistle pierced through the hum of anticipation, and the match at the Estadio Enrique Roca de Murcia was underway.

Spain took control early.

Their movements were fluid, sharp interchanges in midfield, feet barely lingering on the ball.

Zubimendi, stepping into the hole Rodri had left behind, played like a man with something to prove.

He read Denmark’s passing channels with a cold precision, breaking their tempo before it ever found rhythm.

Just ahead of him, Olmo drifted between the lines, twisting away from markers with a subtle grace that made it look like he was in on a secret nobody else knew.

But Denmark didn’t roll over.

Where Spain relied on touch and tempo, the Danes struck with directness and structure.

Every time Nico or Lamine tried to break on the flanks, they were met by quick doubles.

On the other end, the Danish front line pressed aggressively, testing Le Normand’s composure and Cubarsí’s timing.

The young centre-back—cool but calculating—made one crucial block midway through the first half, sliding across to intercept a sharp low cross that would’ve found its mark if he’d hesitated even half a second longer.

The stands responded to the tension.

There was no lull in noise, only the rising and falling waves of voices riding each pass and break.

The match moved with a pulse.

Then came the commentators, filling in the breath between the runs.

”Spain are holding their own,” one said, voice smooth but tinged with familiarity.

”But even so, don’t you get the feeling something’s... different?”

”You mean Izan, right?”

”Exactly. For someone who hasn’t been with the senior team that long, it’s strange seeing them without him. There’s a certain... gravity he brings.”

”That or we’ve all just forgotten how good Olmo actually is,” the other quipped, chuckling.

”And that’s the Izan effect—he walks in, and the rest of them start fading in the rearview.”

The camera cut to the bench. Izan sat there, legs stretched out, subtly bouncing his foot.

His arms were folded, expression neutral, but even from a distance, he didn’t quite blend in.

He wasn’t trying to draw attention, but somehow, it came to him anyway—eyes from the stands, from the sidelines, from the screen.

A magnet without trying to be.

”Still,” the first commentator added, ”Spain are doing just fine. Zubimendi has handled that pivot role like he’s been waiting for this day. Rodri’s boots aren’t easy to fill, but he’s worn them like a second skin.”

The camera lingered a moment longer, catching the faint exchange of words between Izan and Ferran Torres beside him.

Nothing audible.

Just the look of a player keeping loose, staying alert.

Back on the pitch, Spain grew into the game more confidently and their efforts paid off in the 39th minute when their breakthrough came.

It started from the back, as it often did.

Le Normand passed into Zubimendi, who took one glance up and threaded a line-breaker through Denmark’s staggered midfield.

Olmo let it run past him into Lamine Yamal’s stride, who then drove at the full-back, dipped his shoulder, and whipped a shot past the keeper with the outside of his left foot.

The stadium erupted, but the celebration was measured.

The Spanish players gathered around Lamine, arms around shoulders, tapping chests—but there was no overreaction.

It wasn’t arrogance, just the quiet confidence of players who knew this was part of the job.

As halftime approached, Denmark pushed for a reply, but Spain managed the closing minutes with composure.

Cubarsí picked off a lofted through ball with a chest control that deflated the moment entirely, and moments later, the whistle sounded.

1–0 to Spain.

And behind the players jogging toward the tunnel, Izan rose from the bench and followed them, not hurried, not casual.

Just present. Watching. Waiting.

..........

[Spain’s Locker room]

”Yo, bro. Did you see my goal. Tell me you watched the original and not the replay because that would be Petty” Lamine fired right as Izan stepped in to the room.

Izan just smiled and the latter and said he saw it. Before the could continue, Luis De La Fuente entered and said a few words.

Not too much, though, as it was mostly about regaining possession after losing it.

He finished quickly, leaving almost 10 minutes of the 15 to his players to do what they wanted.

He called Pablo Amo to the side, saying a few quick words to the Assistant before popping out of the room with a few minutes left for the start of the second half.

A/N: Sorry for the late release. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the Golden Chapter and the bonus Chapter for the Dragon gift. As always, thanks for the gifts and thanks for reading.