God Of football-Chapter 289: KickOff

The pre-match warm-up was a necessary ritual, a moment to shake off any lingering tension and let muscle memory take over.

The ball moved between players in short, crisp exchanges, loosening their touches, and sharpening their instincts.

Izan controlled a pass from Pedri, rolling it forward with the inside of his boot before flicking it back with ease.

Across the pitch, Germany’s players were going through their own drills, but the energy was different.

As the Spanish players rotated through their warm-up routines, Izan glanced up and caught Jamal Musiala and Florian Wirtz heading his way.

Musiala, a familiar presence flashed a grin as he approached. Wirtz, more reserved, trailed a step behind.

Pedri and Lamine Yamal noticed the approach, slowed their movements, and formed a loose circle.

"Hey," Musiala greeted, his German accent softened by years in England. "Figured we’d come over before the game starts and we’re not allowed to be friendly anymore."

Izan smirked, shifting the ball under his foot. "Friendly? I thought you were already plotting how to kick me off the pitch."

Musiala chuckled. "You’re the one playing false nine. We should be worried about you."

Wirtz, standing beside him, nodded slightly before glancing at Yamal. "You guys have been killing it this tournament."

Yamal, who had his hands on his hips, gave a lazy shrug. "We’re just getting started."

The confidence in his voice was unmistakable.

Wirtz looked at Izan then, expression more serious. "Honestly, your season was unreal. First season in La Liga and you win the Pichichi? Top assister too?"

Pedri chimed in with a smirk. "And don’t forget, youngest ever Pichichi."

Musiala nodded, amused. "Izan’s going to have his record book soon."

Izan shook his head. "You’re talking like you don’t have your ridiculous stats, Jamal. You’ve been carrying Bayern all season. I feel really sorry for Harry though. Wirtz’s team spoiled the party"

Wirtz grinned, but Musiala turned his attention back to Izan. "And now the Copa Trophy. Everyone knows you’re the frontrunner."

The award—the one given to the best young player in the world—had been a major point of discussion in recent weeks.

Izan had finished fourth the previous year, with Jude Bellingham taking the trophy. But this time?

After his La Liga dominance and his performances in the Euros, the general consensus was that it was his to lose.

Izan shrugged. "We’ll see."

Musiala raised a brow. "Come on, you know you’ve got it this year."

Updat𝓮d from freewēbnoveℓ.com.

Pedri smirked, nudging Izan’s shoulder. "He’s being humble. If he doesn’t win it, we will riot"

"Then hopefully Lamine wins next year. Probably in a universe without this guy" Pedri said pointing at Izan," You might have won" he ended while gesturing towards Yamal.

Yamal laughed. "Tell me about it"

Wirtz smiled slightly but didn’t press further. Instead, he glanced toward the stadium, where the atmosphere was swelling.

"Well, either way, I have a feeling this isn’t the last time we’ll all be playing against each other."

Izan met his gaze, recognizing the quiet determination in it.

"No," he agreed. "It’s not."

Musiala clapped him on the shoulder lightly before stepping back. "Alright, we should probably stop acting like we’re not about to try and knock each other out of the tournament."

Izan smirked. "Too late."

Musiala laughed, turning back toward his side. "See you on the pitch, then."

Wirtz gave a small nod before following him.

As they walked away, Pedri exhaled. "Musiala and Wirtz together are dangerous."

Yamal smirked. "Yeah, but so are we."

Izan didn’t say anything. He just looked out at the stadium, feeling the moment settle into place.

The warm-up was nearly over.

Soon, everything would begin.

......

The air in the Spanish dressing room carried a charged stillness, the kind that settled just before the storm.

Players moved with precision—no wasted movements, no unnecessary chatter.

Izan took his seat beside Pedri, untying his training boots with steady hands. Across the room, Dani Olmo adjusted his shin pads, while Rodri sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed, mentally locked in.

Lamine Yamal muttered something under his breath as he swapped his warm-up top for the match jersey, his expression unreadable.

Cucurella, ever restless, bounced his knee as he taped up his socks.

Luis de la Fuente stood near the tactics board, making small final adjustments with his assistants.

He wasn’t one for long speeches right before a match. The messages had already been drilled in. Now, it was about execution.

Izan slipped on his jersey, feeling the familiar weight of the Spanish crest over his heart.

The number 21 didn’t reflect the role he had to play— False nine.

He had already visualized the movements, the link-ups, the spaces he’d need to exploit. Now, it was time to bring them to life.

A single knock on the door.

"Five minutes."

The room moved in sync—shin pads strapped, boots laced, last-minute stretches.

Some players tapped their thighs, others muttered to themselves. Izan simply flexed his fingers, letting the moment settle in his bones.

Rodri was the first to stand, setting the unspoken cue. One by one, they followed, adjusting their sleeves, cracking their necks, shaking out their limbs.

With a deep breath, Izan rose.

It was time.

....

The tunnel leading to the pitch looked like a world of its own—dimly lit, cool despite the heat outside, and thick with unspoken tension.

Spain stood in one line, Germany in another.

Carvajal stood at the front, the armband snug around his bicep. Rodrigo beside him, jaw set, eyes ahead.

Behind them, Pedri and Olmo stretched their calves, while Izan found his place between Nico Williams and Lamine Yamal.

Across the way, Germany’s players mirrored their focus. Joshua Kimmich, their captain, stood tall, exchanging quiet words with Antonio Rüdiger.

Musiala rolled his shoulders. Wirtz adjusted his gloves. Manuel Neuer, ever the veteran, exuded a calm authority.

Izan met Musiala’s gaze briefly. No words. Just an understanding.

This was it.

A FIFA official gave the signal.

"Let’s go."

With a deep breath, Rodri took the first step forward. The rest followed.

The roar hit them instantly.

"And here they come!"

Martin Tyler’s voice soared above the stadium’s fevered roar.

"The players are stepping onto the pitch, and listen to that noise! Spain in their iconic red and blue, Germany in their classic white and black. The anticipation in Stuttgart is off the charts."

Cesc Fàbregas, seated beside him, nodded.

"This is what the Euros are about, Martin. Two giants of the game, a spot in the semifinals at stake. The tension is almost suffocating."

The camera zoomed in on Rodri and Kimmich as they shook hands at the center circle, their expressions firm.

Referee Anthony Taylor stood between them, delivering his final words. The assistants checked their watches. The captains exchanged pennants.

The teams then moved down the line, shaking hands.

Izan grasped Wirtz’s hand briefly. A small nod.

He then exchanged a glance with Musiala. No words—just the understanding of young talents carrying the weight of their nations.

Rodri clapped his hands once as he turned back toward his teammates.

The referee stepped back, checking his whistle.

The noise reached its peak.

The camera focused on Izan, standing in position at the center.

This was it.

Spain vs. Germany.

The battle for the semifinals.

"Kickoff is next." The commentator said as the referee brought the whistle to his mouth.

With a resounding shriek, the referee sent the whole stadium into a frenzy.

...….

[Madrid, Spain – A Packed Sports Bar]

The dimly lit sports bar in the heart of Madrid was already overflowing, fans dressed in red and yellow packed shoulder to shoulder.

The walls trembled with chants of "¡Vamos España!" as the massive screen flickered with the pre-match coverage.

In the middle of the crowd, a group of friends leaned in, their eyes locked on the TV.

"Man, Izan’s starting as a false nine," one of them muttered, gripping his beer. "De la Fuente trusts him."

The guy next to him, wearing a Spain jersey with 21 IZAN on the back, grinned. "Of course, he does. The kid’s built for moments like this."

The national anthem began playing through the speakers, and suddenly, the entire bar fell into a respectful hush before roaring back to life as kickoff neared.

On the other end of things, a family of four sat in Berlin huddled around their massive TV, tension thick in the air.

The father, a long-time Toni Kroos fan had his arms crossed, nodding approvingly as Kroos and Rüdiger appeared on the screen.

"We have the experience," he muttered. "Spain is young. They’ll crack under pressure."

His teenage son, draped in a Musiala jersey, barely reacted, his focus glued to the screen. "Spain’s midfield is scary, though."

The mother, usually indifferent to football, smiled at their youngest daughter, who was holding a homemade sign: "Let’s go, Jamal!"

As the German anthem played, the father and son exchanged a glance. No more debates. The battle was about to begin.

Despite the time difference, a small rooftop bar in Tokyo was buzzing with energy.

Most of the crowd was made up of neutral football fans, but a group of Spanish exchange students had claimed a corner table, wearing Spain scarves despite the humid night air.

One of them, a young woman, clutched her phone. "Izan’s family is part Japanese, right?"

Her friend nodded. "Yeah, half. His mom’s from here."

Another guy leaned forward. "If he scores, Japan will claim him as one of our own."

Laughter followed, but as the teams lined up, the mood shifted. The bartender turned the volume up, the excitement spreading.

No matter the country, no matter the background—everyone was here for one thing.

Some Good Football.