The morning of the match arrived with an electric charge in the air.
A quiet tension settled over the Spanish camp as the players woke up, stretching out the stiffness of sleep and letting reality sink in.
This was it. The start of their Euro 2024 journey. Breakfast was subdued—players focused on their als, minds already on the ga.
So watched clips of Croatia’s recent matches, while others kept their routines the sa, not wanting to overthink.
Izan sat with Pedri and Lamine Yamal, eating in silence, his thoughts sharp and asured.
He wasn’t in the starting eleven, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was being ready.
After the final team eting, where de la Fuente reinforced their tactical approach, they boarded the team bus.
As they pulled out of their hotel, fans lined the streets, waving Spanish flags and chanting.
So held up signs with nas and ssages of support, and among them, Izan caught sight of one that made him smirk.
"Izan Is that guy."
A simple ssage, but a bold one.
The team bus weaved through Berlin’s streets, approaching the colossal Olympiastadion, the legendary venue that would host their opening clash against Croatia.
The mont they arrived, caras sward, flashing relentlessly as the Spanish players stepped off the bus.
Fans roared from the stands above the entrance, their cheers echoing through the stadium tunnels.
Izan walked with his teammates, his expression calm but focused. The weight of the tournant sat on all their shoulders, but it was sothing he welcod.
Inside, staff mbers moved efficiently, setting up the locker room. Jerseys hung neatly at each player’s designated spot, and boots were lined up underneath.
As Izan approached his locker, sothing caught his eye.
A black Adidas shoebox, different from the standard-issued pairs. Three silver-embossed letters glinted under the lights:
HIM.
His gaze sharpened as he picked it up, lifting the lid to reveal a pair of boots unlike any he had worn before.
White, with gold accents. The material woven with intricate patterns—a fusion of Spanish and Japanese elents.
On the heel, his initials were engraved in gold, followed by the words:
"Hungry. Intelligent. rciless."
But Izan knew the deeper aning.
HIM.
Hernández. Izan. Miura.
A folded card rested inside the box.
We made these for the future.
But the future starts now.
—Adidas Football
Izan smirked slightly, running a hand over the textured surface. He had a pair ready for warm-ups, but these?
These were for sothing bigger.
After changing into his warmup gear, Izan followed his teammates down the tunnel and out onto the pitch for warmups.
The Olympiastadion was already filling up, Spanish and Croatian fans turning the stadium into a sea of red and white.
As he jogged along the sidelines, Izan took a mont to interact with the Spanish supporters, tossing a few signed footballs into the crowd.
So fans chanted his na, others held up banners—a few of them referencing his Pichichi win.
Lamine jogged up beside him, nudging him slightly.
"Already a fan favorite, huh?" he teased.
Izan smirked but said nothing, shifting his focus back to the drills.
Despite not starting, he trained with the sa intensity as if he were. Every touch, every pass—sharp, deliberate, purposeful.
And across the field, he felt the eyes on him.
The Croatian players, finishing their own warmups, had noticed.
Luka Modrić, the eternal maestro, glanced at him briefly, expression unreadable. Mateo Kovačić, jogging past, gave him a quick look of acknowledgnt.
Josko Gvardiol, stretching near the halfway line, also watched him for a mont longer before turning away.
They knew who he was.
And they knew, even if he wasn’t starting, he wasn’t just another squad player.
After warmups, the team returned to the locker room, where de la Fuente delivered his final words.
"This is our mont. Trust each other, trust the work we’ve put in, and play without fear. We make a statent today."
With that, the players stood, adjusting their kits, and tightening their boots. Izan sat calmly, rolling his shoulders as the adrenaline built inside him.
Soon, they were led back down the tunnel, where they t Croatia face-to-face.
The atmosphere shifted—a quiet storm of tension and anticipation.
Rodri stood at the front, shoulders squared, eyes locked ahead. Morata cracked his knuckles absently.
On the Croatian side, Modrić stood with the sa calm aura he had carried for years. Gvardiol, imposing as ever, sized up his Spanish counterparts.
Perišić exchanged a knowing look with Morata, a veteran recognizing another.
Nico, standing further back, locked eyes with Kovačić for a brief second. The Croatian midfielder gave him the smallest of nods—a sign of respect.
But the ti for silent ssages was over.
The referee stepped forward.
It was ti.
The players marched onto the pitch, greeted by a deafening roar from the Olympiastadion. The Euros had begun.
The Olympiastadion pulsed with energy as the Spanish and Croatian players lined up on the pristine grass.
The sea of red and white in the stands created a striking visual—Spain and Croatia, two nations with unfinished business on this grand stage.
The broadcast feed captured everything—the players’ focused expressions, the tension in their movents, the sheer weight of the occasion.
"Live from Berlin, welco to the UEFA European Championship 2024. It’s Spain against Croatia in this highly anticipated Group B clash at the Olympiastadion.
Two nations with rich footballing heritage, eting once again in a tournant setting."
"Spain, under Luis de la Fuente, brings a new generation of talent, headlined by Pedri, Lamine Yamal, and of course, the youngest-ever Pichichi winner, Izan Hernández.
But he starts on the bench today, a decision that has certainly raised so eyebrows."
"And Croatia—led by the tiless Luka Modrić—are here to prove that their golden generation still has one last run in them.
They reached the World Cup final in 2018, the semifinals in 2022… and now, they want to go all the way in the Euros."
The cara panned across the players, capturing close-ups of their faces. Modrić, standing in front of the Croatian line, his expression unreadable.
Rodri, Spain’s leader in midfield, exuded quiet authority while Morata, bounced on his toes, waiting for the match to begin.
The pre-match formalities began with the national anthems.
Croatia’s anthem, "Lijepa naša domovino", echoed through the stadium first, their players standing tall, many of them singing with closed eyes, a mont of deep national pride.
Then, "Marcha Real" rang through the Olympiastadion. The Spanish players stood shoulder to shoulder, so staring at the ground, others looking into the distance.
Izan, positioned in the seat just behind Jesus Neves and Oryazabal, kept his gaze forward. No singing, just focus.
The fans added their voices, creating a spine-tingling backdrop of chants and passion.
With the anthems concluded, both captains—Modrić and Morata—stepped forward for the coin toss, shaking hands with the match officials. The referee flipped the coin, and Modrić called it. Heads.
Croatia won the toss and chose to kick off.
As the players dispersed to their positions, the final monts of pre-match rituals unfolded.
Spain’s defenders clapped their hands together in unison, a small gesture of unity. Croatia’s midfielders huddled for a quick last-second word from Modrić.
The substitutes took their seats, though Izan remained standing for a mont, absorbing the atmosphere.
Then, with the stadium at full voice and millions watching around the world, the referee blew his whistle.
Euro 2024 had officially begun for Spain.
.....
The opening whistle was drowned out by the roar of the Olympiastadion.
The tension, thick enough to cut, snapped into motion as Croatia knocked the ball around from the kickoff, probing Spain’s shape.
Luka Modrić dictated the first touches, playing a simple pass back to Marcelo Brozović.
From the sidelines, De la Fuente and Zlatko Dalić stood with arms crossed, scanning the field like chess masters analyzing an early sequence.
Spain pressed high imdiately. Lamine Yamal darted forward, shadowing Borna Sosa’s movent down the left.
On the other side, Nico Williams hounded Josip Juranović, forcing Croatia to recycle possession.
Rodri, ever composed, hovered in midfield, eyes locked on Modrić’s every step. The Croatian maestro, even at 38, moved with an effortless grace, shifting angles to evade the press.
The first real test ca in the 3rd minute.
A neat Croatian build-up saw Kovačić slip a pass into Andrej Kramarić, who peeled away from Le Normand.
He turned and fired quickly—but Unai Simón was alert, diving low to smother the shot.
Spain responded imdiately.
Pedri, smooth as ever, picked up the ball in midfield and slalod through Croatian shirts before threading a pass into Álvaro Morata, who took a deft touch past Gvardiol and let fly.
Dominik Livaković stretched out a strong palm—denying an early Spanish breakthrough.
The match had ignited.
By the 10th minute, it was clear—this was a war for midfield control.
Rodri and Fabián Ruiz took turns engaging Brozović and Modrić. The Croatians, masters of short passing under pressure, moved the ball just fast enough to escape Spain’s clutches.
Pedri, anwhile, floated between the lines, a silent predator waiting for space to exploit. Every ti Spain recycled the ball, he was there, head swiveling, orchestrating the next move.
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