God Of football-Chapter 277: First blood Drawn.

The bus ride was silent.

Players had their own ways of preparing. Some listened to music, headphones clamped tight.

Others stared out the window, watching the streets of Gelsenkirchen blur past.

Izan sat near the back, earbuds in, but he couldn’t really hear the music. His mind ran through different situations and different solutions.

Beside him, Lamine nudged him. "You always think too much before a game."

Izan smirked, pulling out one earbud. "And you don’t think enough."

Lamine grinned. "That’s why I’m a winger."

They both chuckled before settling into silence again.

Ahead, the Veltins-Arena loomed. The stadium’s sleek steel-and-glass structure gleamed under the afternoon sun, a fortress waiting to be conquered.

Izan clenched his jaw.

It was almost time.

The tunnel opened into the vast arena, a roaring sea of red and blue.

Spanish flags waved furiously on one side, while the Italian faithful responded with their own anthems.

After changing into their training kits, Izan stepped onto the pitch for warm-ups, taking in the electric atmosphere.

The squad split up for drills. De la Fuente and his staff orchestrated everything—one-touch rondos, short passing sequences, quick transitions.

Izan was sharp, moving between lines, scanning constantly. Every touch had a purpose. Every pass carried weight.

At one point, Lamine Yamal received a ball on the wing, jinked inside, and clipped a cross.

Izan met it first with his left foot—a driven shot into the bottom corner.

The little display caused a ripple of cheers from the Spanish fans.

Izan, jogged back to position, shaking out his arms, controlling his breathing.

Across the pitch, the Italian squad warmed up with the same intensity.

Federico Chiesa fired a shot past Donnarumma while Bastoni barked instructions.

On the other side of things, Barella moved with that sharp, aggressive energy Izan had studied.

Their eyes met for the briefest second.

No words. Just recognition.

They were going to war.

The team re-entered the dressing room. The atmosphere was calm but charged, like the quiet before a storm.

De la Fuente stood in the center. "We’ve prepared for this. You know what to do. But remember—they will test you immediately."

He looked directly at Izan. "That includes you."

Izan nodded. He already knew.

Morata stood and adjusted his armband. "First five minutes, we set the tone. We show them we’re here to win."

Rodri clapped his hands. "Vamos."

They stood, grabbing their jerseys.

This was it.

...….

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The tunnel was alive with tension.

Spain and Italy stood side by side. The energy between them was almost physical—two teams on the brink of collision.

Izan adjusted his shin guards, rolling his shoulders. Next to him, Pedri nudged him. "Nervous?"

Izan exhaled. "A little. But that just means I care."

A few paces away, Barella smirked. "Hope you’re ready, ragazzo."

Izan met his gaze calmly. "For what?"

Barella chuckled. "For 90 minutes of hell."

Izan’s smirk was brief. "We’ll see."

The referee gave the signal.

Spain’s captain, Morata, adjusted his armband. "Let’s go."

Izan stepped forward, heart pounding.

The stadium erupted and Europe watched as Spain and Italy set onto the pitch.

"The stage is set. Gelsenkirchen, the Veltins-Arena, a battleground for two European giants. Spain. Italy. A place in the knockout rounds at stake."

"Good evening, wherever you’re watching from. This is the match we’ve all been waiting for.

A classic rivalry in European football, renewed under the bright lights of Euro 2024."

"Spain, under Luis de la Fuente, have dazzled in possession, blending their trademark control with a new cutting edge. And leading that evolution?

The 16-year-old sensation, Izan. The youngest-ever Pichichi winner, a playmaker with ice in his veins, a player the world is watching."

"And on the other side, Italy—the reigning champions. A team built on resilience, tactical discipline, and a midfield trio that knows how to suffocate opponents.

Luciano Spalletti’s men may not have the flair of past Italian sides, but they have something just as dangerous—relentless determination."

"And here they come, stepping onto the pitch. Alvaro Morata, Spain’s captain, leading his team out.

Across from him, Gianluigi Donnarumma, a towering presence in Italy’s goal."

"Listen to that atmosphere! Spanish fans, red and gold, filling one-half of the stands. The other? A sea of blue. Italian voices ringing loud, their anthem belted with passion."

"The handshakes, the coin toss—formality before the storm. Players take their positions. The referee checks his watch."

"And here we go! Spain versus Italy. A battle of styles, a battle of giants. Who will take control?"

And as the referee’s whistle blew, Izan’s moment in the spotlight began.

The opening whistle barely had time to echo before the intensity set in.

Italy pressed high, their midfield line squeezing forward, denying Spain any comfort on the ball.

Izan didn’t need long to realize the game would be played on a razor’s edge.

And Barella wasted no time making his presence felt.

The first time Izan received the ball, it was with his back to goal. A standard check-in, simple enough—until Barella arrived.

Hard.

A shove into the back and a quick swipe at his ankle.

Izan stumbled but kept possession, immediately shifting it wide to Cucurella before the whistle finally blew.

Foul.

The referee pointed to the spot and gave Barella a sharp look, one that said: I see what you’re doing.

But Barella didn’t stop.

Minutes later, Izan turned away from Jorginho, ready to burst forward—only for Barella to slide in recklessly, catching his shin in the process.

This time, the referee was quicker.

A sharp whistle. A warning.

Spain’s players circled around, voices raised as they felt that the challenge should have been punished.

"Barella’s been told already—one more like that, and he’s in the book," the commentator warned.

Izan didn’t flinch. He simply picked himself up, dusted off his shorts, and adjusted his socks.

If Barella wanted to fight, fine.

He just had to make sure Barella spent the next 45 minutes chasing ghosts.

Spain adjusted. Rodri and Pedri started dictating the tempo, stretching Italy from side to side, forcing them to break their defensive shape.

But Izan?

He dictated the moments.

A deft first touch under pressure before sending in a disguised pass that broke two lines. Followed by a sudden change of pace that left Jorginho standing still.

Now, Spain played through him.

In the 18th minute, Izan picked the ball up near the center circle, twisting away from Cristante before slipping a perfectly timed pass behind Italy’s backline.

Morata was through.

One-on-one with Donnarumma.

The Spanish man hesitated. A second too long causing Donnarumma to pull out a spectacular save.

"Morataaaaa. Oh, he has to bury that! What a pass from Izan, but the finish is lacking!"

Morata turned to apologize but Izan waved it off, exhaled before jogging back into position.

Five minutes later, another opportunity. This time, Lamine Yamal skipped past his marker, cut inside, and rolled a perfect ball across the box.

Morata went again but his first-time shot went straight at Donnarumma.

"Morata, no! That’s another wasted chance. Izan and Yamal are carving through Italy, but the finishing touch is missing! Seems like he didn’t bring his shooting boots today"

Izan clenched his jaw. The frustration threatened to creep in, but he forced it down. The patterns were there. The execution would come.

Then, in the 29th minute, it happened.

Izan collected the ball at the edge of the box, Barella pressing tight behind.

One touch to settle. The second? A sharp flick through Barella’s legs.

Gasps from the crowd rang through the stadium

Izan didn’t stop. A drop of the shoulder took him past Jorginho, and suddenly, the space opened up.

A pass to Pedri, quick and precise.

Pedri controlled, took one step, and slotted it past Donnarumma.

"GOOOOOOAAAALLL"

The Spanish bench erupted.

Izan turned, pumping his fist, only to see the assistant referee’s flag raised.

Offside.

"What the heck. How was that offside" Morata asked but the referee shunned him.

The Spanish players thought they were being treated unfairly and were disappointed as VAR confirmed it moments later.

"Spain thought they had the breakthrough, but Pedri was just off! It stays 0-0!"

Izan exhaled, hands on his hips.

Close.

Too close.

The disallowed goal only fueled Spain’s aggression.

Italy responded by tightening their shape, sitting deeper, forcing Spain to break them down piece by piece.

That’s when Izan decided to change the equation.

Just before halftime, in the 43rd minute, he received the ball inside his half.

Barella lunged hands first but Izan danced past him.

The Italian manager called for someone to step up and Jorginho did, cutting off the inside lane.

Izan however didn’t hesitate, rolling the ball through Jorginho’s legs.

The crowd erupted.

Cristante was next. A physical, clumsy presence, throwing his weight forward but again Izan spun away with a drag-back, his acceleration sudden and devastating.

Now, space.

Now, danger.

He sprinted forward, defenders scrambling, lungs burning.

Chiesa chased but couldn’t catch him.

Bastoni lunged, but Izan was already past him, a slight feint sending the center-back the wrong way.

The box opened up.

Pedri arrived and Izan saw him.

A perfectly weighted pass, delicate yet sharp was sent into the box.

Pedri met it in stride—

Side-footed, pass the outstretched hand of Donnarumma.

Bottom corner.

GOOOOOOOOAL!

The stadium exploded.

Pedri sprinted toward the corner flag, Izan right behind him.

Rodri arrived, slapping his back. The Spanish bench spilled out in celebration.

"A moment of magic from Izan! He tore Italy apart, and Pedri applies the finishing touch! Spain lead 1-0!"

Izan took a breath, steadying himself as his teammates mobbed him.

He glanced toward the scoreboard.

44 minutes played.

They had the lead.

But this war was far from over.