God Of football-Chapter 312: Youths Of Spain

What ultimately doomed them was the burst of laughter that echoed across the lobby—loud, unfiltered, impossible to ignore.

And at that exact moment, De la Fuente arrived.

The air shifted instantly.

A sharp presence. A silence that cut through everything.

Izan, still holding a ball in his hands, locked eyes with the coach from across the room.

Time to run.

Without hesitation, he bolted, shoving Lamine and Nico ahead of him as they dashed toward the stairwell.

The younger players scattered like thieves caught in the act, slipping away into the shadows of the hotel corridors.

Left behind, Morata sighed. "Unbelievable."

Rodri turned slowly to face De la Fuente, resigned. "Before you say anything, just know… I told them this was a bad idea."

Carvajal folded his arms. "No, he didn’t."

The coach exhaled through his nose, his gaze sweeping over the mess they had made.

"You’d better hope we win," was all he said.

Then, without another word, he turned and left.

...….

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The morning sun streamed through the hotel windows, casting a warm glow over the Spanish national team’s rooms.

It was a picture of serenity—until the alarm clocks started blaring like emergency sirens.

Izan groaned as he peeled his face off the pillow, blinking blearily at his phone. He had barely closed his eyes before the relentless beeping yanked him back to reality.

His body felt like a bag of cement, heavy and unwilling to cooperate.

Across the room, Lamine Yamal wasn’t doing much better.

"Kill it," Lamine mumbled to no one in particular, his voice muffled against the sheets.

Izan grunted, flopping an arm toward his phone and slamming it down, silencing the alarm. For a few blissful seconds, there was peace. Then-

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. What are you doing in my room" Izan said grabbing the sheets to cover himself like a woman who had just been defiled.

But just then, their door burst open.

"Wake up, idiot," Nico Williams announced, far too cheerful for someone who had been just as involved in last night’s stupidity. "You too Izan. Breakfast in fifteen."

"Wait, I’m the only idiot?" Yamal said but Nico didn’t pay him any mind.

Izan groaned again, flipping onto his stomach. "I hate you."

Nico smirked. "No, you hate yourself for thinking table football and trash bin basketball were good ideas at 2 a.m."

Lamine barely lifted his head. "We would’ve been fine if Rodri hadn’t shown off."

Izan chuckled despite himself. "Man drained that shot like he was Steph Curry."

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Nico laughed. "Rodri’s a hidden baller, but De la Fuente’s face when he caught us? I saw my life flash before my eyes."

At the mention of their coach, Lamine finally sat up, rubbing his face. "Do you think he’s still mad?"

Izan exchanged a glance with Nico. "Mad? I’m pretty sure he’s plotting our downfall as we speak."

Lamine groaned dramatically and flopped back onto the bed. "But I’m not sure de la Fuente is that petty. We are so screwed."

Nico grinned. "Not me. I ran faster than all of you."

Izan threw a pillow at him. "Coward."

Nico dodged it effortlessly. "Nah, just smart."

Lamine finally sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Okay, but be honest—who has the worst baggy eyes?"

That was all it took.

Izan and Lamine immediately turned toward each other, faces just inches apart as they examined the damage.

Lamine squinted. "Damn, your eyebags are bad."

Izan scoffed. "Look who’s talking. You look like you haven’t slept in a week."

Nico burst out laughing. "This is the dumbest competition I’ve ever seen."

But it was too late. The challenge had been set.

By the time they reached the breakfast hall, Izan and Lamine were locked in a heated argument about whose dark circles were worse.

"I swear, mine are darker."

"Yours are just puffy. Mine have depth."

"Depth? What is this, an art critique?"

Players who had managed a full night’s sleep looked on in amusement as the two continued bickering.

Pedri, sipping his coffee, raised an eyebrow. "You guys are really debating who looks worse?"

Rodri, sitting nearby, shook his head. "This team is hopeless."

Then, just as Izan and Lamine were about to ask for a third opinion, a shadow loomed over them.

De la Fuente.

The coach set down his coffee cup with deliberate precision, folding his arms. "Tell me," he said, voice dangerously calm.

"Are you two really asking who has the worst eye bags?"

Neither of them dared to speak.

The entire breakfast hall had gone silent.

De la Fuente exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples like a man questioning all his life choices. "300 juggles. Each."

Izan blinked. "Wait, what?"

The coach’s gaze hardened. "And if the ball touches the ground, you start over."

A few players whistled, others stifled laughter. Nico clapped a hand over his mouth, barely holding in his reaction.

Lamine tried one last time. "Coach, be honest—who has worse eyebags?"

De la Fuente’s expression darkened. "400."

Izan slapped Lamine on the back of the head. "Nice job."

....

The Munich training ground was merciless.

Izan and Lamine stood side by side, sweat already forming on their brows. In front of them, a lone football.

Behind them, the entire team watched like it was the greatest entertainment of the tournament.

"I swear, I’m never staying up past curfew again," Lamine muttered.

Izan exhaled. "Shut up and juggle."

They both started, focusing on keeping the ball in the air. For a while, it was fine—smooth, controlled, rhythmic.

Then Nico walked by.

"Wow," he mused, hands behind his back. "Legends in the making. Except…" He tilted his head. "Didn’t Lamine mess up a simple pass in training yesterday?"

Lamine’s eyes twitched. "Ignore him."

Nico wasn’t done. He turned to Izan. "And you—didn’t you sky a shot so bad it nearly hit the team bus?"

Izan’s touch slipped. The ball hit the ground.

Silence.

Then, De la Fuente’s voice, ever patient. "Start over."

Izan slowly turned toward Nico, murderous intent in his eyes. "I’m going to end you."

Nico grinned. "Not before you reach 400."

Laughter rippled through the team.

Izan sighed, picking the ball up again. "This is actual torture."

Lamine nodded solemnly. "We did this to ourselves."

But as much as they suffered, the punishment had its own kind of humor.

Each time one of them dropped the ball, the other groaned dramatically, cursing their bad luck.

Every now and then, Rodri or Morata offered fake advice in serious tones, as if they were analyzing a Champions League final.

Even De la Fuente, despite his stern expression, was clearly holding back amusement.

By the time they finished, drenched in sweat, exhausted beyond words, they collapsed onto the grass.

Nico stood over them, smirking. "So, who had worse eyebags again?"

Izan and Lamine, too tired to argue, groaned in unison.

"Good answer."

.....

The evening after training, the Spanish national team gathered in their hotel’s private meeting room. The mood had shifted.

The echoes of laughter from the morning’s punishments had faded, replaced by the weight of what was ahead.

The final was still a couple of days away, but the reality was setting in.

Luis de la Fuente stood at the front of the room, his hands in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over his players.

Some leaned forward, elbows on their knees, others sat back, arms crossed, but every single one of them was listening.

He let the silence stretch for a few moments before speaking.

"We’re here," he said, voice steady. "Not by luck. Not by chance. We are here because we earned it."

He let the words settle, watching as heads nodded slightly, as backs straightened.

"There were people who doubted us before this tournament even began," he continued. "Said we were too young, too inexperienced. Said we weren’t favorites.

But we didn’t listen. We fought. We played our football. And look where that has brought us."

He turned slightly, pacing a few steps before facing them again.

"I want you to take a moment and think about everything that got you here. The extra training.

The sacrifices. The times you pushed through fatigue, through doubt, through pressure.

Think about the games we’ve played. Think about how much work it took to reach this point."

He paused, his voice growing softer.

"It would be a shame," he said, "to let all of that go to waste."

Silence.

Not the kind of silence that came from nerves, but the kind that came from understanding.

De la Fuente nodded to himself, pleased with the way the message was landing.

"These next few days, I don’t want you to think about the pressure. I don’t want you to think about the expectations. I just want you to remember one thing."

He looked around the room, making sure every single player met his gaze.

"We deserve to be here."

A beat passed.

"Now let’s make it count."

No cheers erupted. No dramatic responses. Just a deep, collective understanding.

This was their moment.

And they weren’t going to waste it.