God Of football-Chapter 314: Cohesion

The sun dipped lower as training wrapped up, the final whistle cutting through the humid air.

Players broke off into groups, some stretching, others hydrating, but the energy in the session lingered—something was different today, and they all felt it.

Izan wiped the sweat from his forehead, exhaling as he glanced around. His mind still buzzed with the sensation from earlier—the sharpened awareness, the seamless interplay, the way everything just clicked.

Lamine and Nico were still talking about it.

"I’m serious," Lamine muttered, shaking his head. "That didn’t feel normal. It felt like—" He hesitated, struggling to find the right words.

"Like a game where we’ve already played together a hundred times," Nico finished. He gestured vaguely. "Like we skipped the ’figuring each other out’ part."

Izan leaned against the barrier near the sideline, watching their expressions. They weren’t wrong.

This wasn’t just chemistry—it was something deeper, something structured but effortless.

"You are getting surprising each time Max," Izan thought causing the system to buzz in response.

"You’re overthinking it," Pedri said, walking past with a towel around his neck. He stopped next to them, thoughtful. "Or maybe not. We did look good today."

"Good?" Nico raised a brow. "Bro, if we play like that in a match, we might actually scare teams before kickoff."

Before anyone could respond, a voice cut through the air.

"¡Chicos!"

De la Fuente.

The squad turned toward their coach, who stood by the analysts and coaching staff.

His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his posture—something aware.

"I want all of you to get some rest," he said, his voice even. "Tomorrow’s session will be lighter, but I want this intensity to stay. Keep this standard.

What we just saw out there—" he motioned to the pitch, "—that’s not normal."

Players exchanged glances.

"The staff will be reviewing today’s session closely," De la Fuente continued. "Some of you probably felt it.

I know I did. Something clicked today." He let the words settle before nodding. "Now go. Recovery is key."

As the squad started filing off, Izan remained behind a moment longer, his gaze shifting to the analysts, who were already deep in discussion.

He knew what they were looking for but they wouldn’t find it. At least not until they knew of his system title.

After smirking at them, he walked away.

And so, as the sun dipped lower and the training ground emptied, Spain’s coaches pored over the footage.

The screen flickered, showing different angles of the session. Every pass, every movement, every phase of play was broken down in slow motion.

De la Fuente leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Beside him, his assistant, Pablo Amo, rewound a particular sequence.

"Look at this transition," Amo murmured. The clip showed Izan winning possession and, in the same breath, threading a pass that shouldn’t have been possible—one that sent Nico through instantly.

De la Fuente nodded. "He saw it before it happened."

Amo tapped the screen. "And the others? Their reactions are near-instant. Look at Pedri—he already knows where to position himself before Izan even releases the ball."

Another staff member, sitting by the data monitor, spoke up. "It’s not just anticipation. Their overall reaction times improved. Even their off-the-ball movement was sharper."

De la Fuente exhaled, watching the footage again. He knew Spain was talented. He knew this team had chemistry.

But this wasn’t just natural cohesion. This was something else.

Another analyst gestured toward a chart on the screen. "If we compare this session to last week’s training data, we’re seeing an unusual spike in synchronized movement.

It’s like—" he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "—like there’s a central figure dictating the tempo without directly commanding it."

The entire room went silent.

They knew who it was.

De la Fuente leaned back in his chair, glancing at the lineup sheet pinned to the board.

"Izan," he said simply.

Amo rubbed his jaw. "We knew he was special, but this…" He gestured toward the screen, where Izan’s positioning influenced everything. "This is rare."

De la Fuente exhaled through his nose. "Keep recording everything. Tomorrow, I want him mic’d up in training."

Amo raised a brow. "Think he realizes what he’s doing?"

De la Fuente thought about the way Izan carried himself, how he didn’t seem overly surprised by his influence—only thoughtful like he was figuring it out.

"He’s learning," the coach said at last. "But so are we."

Back in the player lounge, the mood was lighter. Some players lounged in compression boots, others got massages or scrolled through their phones.

Izan sat with his legs stretched out, rolling a recovery band around his wrist. Across from him, Lamine and Nico were still debating—this time about who had the best goal in training.

"You just think it’s yours because you scored," Lamine was saying.

"Bro, I know it’s mine because I hit top bins," Nico shot back.

"You didn’t even aim."

"Didn’t need to."

Izan smirked, shaking his head. He glanced at Pedri, who had been watching the exchange like it was entertainment. "How are they always like this?"

Pedri didn’t even look away and just shrugged.

The conversation shifted again, this time to Spain’s upcoming match. Everyone could feel it creeping closer—matchday. The real test.

As the players rested, and the coaching staff prepared for tomorrow’s session, one thing became clear.

Spain were getting ready for the final.

...…..

Pablo Amo leaned against the doorframe of De la Fuente’s office the next day, arms crossed as he exhaled. "That was some training session."

De la Fuente glanced up from his notes, nodding. "I saw."

Amo walked in, taking a seat across from the head coach. "They clicked again. Same as yesterday, maybe even better.

It’s not just good chemistry—it’s seamless. Like they already know where to be without thinking about it."

De la Fuente set his pen down, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "And Izan?"

Amo smirked. "He’s the one leading it, whether he realizes it or not. The way the others adjust around him, it’s…" He gestured vaguely.

"I don’t know, it’s just natural. What I don’t get is why it started just now. The chemistry was there but now it’s elevated."

De la Fuente hummed, leaning back in his chair. "Good."

Amo arched a brow. "That’s it? ’Good’?"

De la Fuente chuckled. "What else do you want me to say? We’ve got a team that understands each other, playing with confidence right before a major match. That’s exactly where we want to be."

Amo leaned back as well, considering that. "Yeah, I guess you’re right." He shook his head with a slight grin. "It’s just rare to see something click like that, especially this quickly."

De la Fuente nodded again. "Enjoy it. And start shifting focus to the match. I’ll handle the press conference."

Amo pushed himself up from the chair. "Alright. Just don’t let them bait you into saying too much."

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De la Fuente smiled. "I’ll manage."

As Amo left, De la Fuente turned his attention back to his notes. The team was in a good place and that was all that mattered.

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.....

The room was packed. Cameras clicked, microphones adjusted, and journalists murmured among themselves as they waited for Luis de la Fuente to take his seat.

Spain’s head coach walked in with measured steps, a composed expression on his face.

He greeted the press with a small nod before settling in, the Spanish Football Federation’s logo displayed prominently behind him.

"Good afternoon, everyone," he began, glancing briefly at the media personnel in front of him. "Let’s get started."

A journalist from Marca raised his hand immediately. "Coach, training footage has surfaced showing what many are calling the best Spain has looked in years.

The team seems incredibly in sync. Can you tell us what’s changed?"

De la Fuente offered a small smile. "I wouldn’t say anything has ’changed.’ We’ve been building towards this.

The players are talented, and when you put great talent together, understanding develops. That’s what you’re seeing—hard work, trust, and natural cohesion."

A journalist from AS leaned forward. "Would you say Izan is a key reason for this? His influence seems undeniable."

De la Fuente’s smile remained, but his response was measured. "Izan is an excellent player, and like all great footballers, he has an impact.

But football is a team sport. What you’re seeing isn’t about just one player—it’s about everyone buying into the same idea, playing for each other."

Another journalist jumped in. "That may be true, but statistically speaking, Spain’s attacking patterns seem to flow through Izan. Is he becoming the focal point of the team?"

De la Fuente tilted his head slightly, choosing his words carefully. "We don’t focus on one individual. We focus on the collective.

That said, every team has players who naturally influence the game more, whether through movement, passing, or decision-making.

Izan has qualities that make him stand out, but our strength is in how we function together."

A journalist from El País raised a hand. "Tomorrow’s match is crucial. How do you approach it, especially against a strong opponent?"

De la Fuente nodded. "With respect and preparation. We know the challenge ahead, but we also know our strengths.

The players are ready. We’ve worked hard to get here, and now it’s about executing on the pitch."

The questions continued—some about tactics, others about individual players, and a few about the pressure of expectations.

De la Fuente handled them all with a steady demeanor, never giving too much away but never sounding dismissive.

As the conference wrapped up, one final question came from the back. "Coach, a lot of fans are excited about the way Spain is playing. Do you believe this team can go all the way?"

De la Fuente smiled, his eyes calm but unwavering. "We take it one match at a time. But I believe in my players."

With that, the press conference ended. The cameras clicked one last time as De la Fuente stood and exited the room.

Tomorrow, Spain would step onto the pitch. And the real test would begin.

[Author: I’m bouta cook. JK lower your expectations. I’d go full bluelock but the damage done would be irreversible. Don’t want this turning into a fantasy novel]