As Spain walked down the tunnel, the reality of the tournant set in.
They had beaten Italy.
But there were bigger battles ahead.
The next match would decide everything.
And for Izan, one thing was clear—
He wasn’t finished yet.
.....
The football world had been watching Spain closely. A squad full of young stars, bursting with talent, but with questions lingering about whether they could truly challenge the established favorites.
But against Italy, those questions were answered.
Spain didn’t just win—they won in fashion.
From the very first whistle, La Roja played with intensity, precision, and confidence.
Izan, the youngest player on the pitch, danced through Italy’s defense, playing with a maturity beyond his years.
Nico Williams was electric on the left, stretching the defense and creating space. Lamine Yamal, barely 17, weaved through challenges with a veteran’s composure.
And in midfield, Pedri controlled the tempo like a seasoned maestro.
Italy had monts, but David Raya stood firm, denying them any lifeline. Rodri and Laporte marshaled the defense, keeping things organized while allowing the attack to flourish.
It was a performance that sent a ssage across Europe—Spain weren’t here just to compete. They were here to win.
...….
Inside the BBC studio, Gary Lineker shook his head, a smile creeping onto his face.
"Well, if there was any doubt about Spain before this match, I think we can put that to bed now. That was a statent performance."
Cesc Fàbregas, nodding in agreent, leaned forward. "It’s not just the result, Gary. It’s the way they played.
They controlled this match. Italy are no pushovers, but Spain made them look like one."
Rio Ferdinand interjected, grinning. "And that’s because of players like Izan, Nico Williams, and Lamine Yamal.
They just ran Italy ragged. Every ti they got the ball, you could see Italy’s defenders panic. They had no clue how to deal with them."
Zabaleta, ever the tactician, pointed at the replay screen. "But it wasn’t just the attack.
Look at this mont—Rodri stepping in, intercepting the pass, and imdiately setting the tempo. That’s why Spain looked so dominant. He gives the attack freedom."
Alex Scott chid in, nodding. "And let’s not forget David Raya. He had so huge monts in goal.
People were wondering if Unai Simón being dropped would affect Spain, but Raya showed tonight that he’s more than capable."
Lineker laughed. "So, Cesc, let ask you—how far can this Spain team go?"
Fàbregas didn’t hesitate. "If they keep playing like this? They can win the whole thing."
...
anwhile, in Italy, the mood was grim. Alessandro Del Piero sat in the Sky Italia studio, arms crossed.
"This was tough to watch," he admitted. "Spain were just… better. Everywhere. I thought after Chiesa’s goal, we might be able to spur back to life.
They had more energy, more ideas, and more quality in the final third."
Fabio Capello, always brutally honest, sighed. "We were outplayed. Completely. Izan? Magnificent. Lamine Yamal? Unstoppable.
Nico Williams? Dangerous all night. And then Pedri, just orchestrating everything in midfield. Spain made us chase shadows."
Del Piero gestured at the screen. "Look at how Spain’s attack moves together. Izan drops deep, Pedri slides into space, and Lamine pulls defenders away—it’s all so fluid.
Compare that to Italy, where we struggled to string five passes together in the final third. It’s the difference between a team that knows exactly what they want to do… and a team that doesn’t."
Capello nodded. "Spain are a machine right now. And if they keep playing like this, I don’t see many teams stopping them."
...….
Over in the CBS studio, Thierry Henry couldn’t hide his admiration. "Izan stole the headlines, and rightfully so. But this wasn’t just about him. This was about a team."
Guillem Balagué, ever the tactician, jumped in. "Exactly, Thierry. Everyone played their part. Lamine Yamal—so smooth in possession, always making things happen.
Nico Williams—electric, direct, fearless. Pedri—dictating the tempo, keeping Spain ticking. And let’s talk about David Raya. He made so huge saves."
Henry pointed at the screen. "And let’s not forget the defense. Rodri was imnse. He’s the glue that holds it all together.
He gives Izan, Pedri, and Lamine the freedom to attack without worrying about what’s behind them. That’s why Spain looks so balanced."
Balagué nodded. "And that’s what makes them scary. They don’t rely on one star. They have multiple players who can hurt you."
With six points from two gas, Spain had secured their place in the Round of 16 with a match to spare.
That gave them a valuable advantage: the ability to rotate and rest key players before the knockout rounds.
Alex Scott, back in the BBC studio, analyzed the situation. "Spain are already through, and that’s huge.
Now they can manage their squad, give so players a break, and make sure they’re fresh for the knockout rounds.
That’s sothing the other big teams might not have the luxury of doing."
Zabaleta nodded. "And it’s not just about rest—it’s about keeping everyone involved.
Maybe we see Dani Olmo get more minutes, or Ferran Torres. Spain have depth, and that could be crucial later in the tournant."
Gary Lineker smiled. "Spain have arrived, haven’t they?"
Cesc Fàbregas leaned back, confidence in his voice. "Oh, they’ve more than arrived, Gary. They’re here to win."
But this wasn’t just about Izan—it was about a squad full of players hitting their stride at the right ti.
Lamine Yamal. Nico Williams. Pedri. Rodri. Raya. The list of standouts was long.
And that’s what made Spain so frightening.
They didn’t just have one superstar.
They had a team.
A team that looked ready to go all the way.
...
The bus ride back to Spain’s training camp was lively, the energy still buzzing from the night before.
Players leaned back in their seats, scrolling through their phones, reading reactions, and watching highlights of their dominant win over Italy.
The younger ones—Lamine Yamal, Nico Williams, and Izan—laughed at s circulating on social dia.
"Look at this one," Nico grinned, turning his phone toward Izan. It was a still image of him sprinting past an Italian defender, captioned: Check your mirrors, Nico Williams is coming.
Izan smirked, but his focus was elsewhere. He glanced at the comnts under his post—a flood of praise, shock, and excitent. His na was everywhere.
So called him the breakout star of the tournant. Others compared his performance to past legends.
He locked his phone and leaned his head against the window. Spain had made a statent that day, but there was still a long way to go.
.....
When the team bus pulled into their training complex, the mood was relaxed but upbeat.
So players stretched their legs as they stepped off, others slung their bags over their shoulders, already thinking about recovery sessions.
The crisp night air greeted them as they made their way inside.
Just as they were about to split off, Luis de la Fuente gathered them in the common area.
"Listen up, everyone." His voice carried over the quiet murmurs. "Morning training is canceled."
A few eyebrows raised. Normally, even after a match, there was a light session—recovery work, tactics, and video analysis.
"You’ve earned a morning off," De la Fuente continued a small smile on his face. "Do what you want—rest, explore, get a massage, whatever helps you recharge. Just be back for the team lunch at three."
A murmur of approval spread through the squad. So players imdiately started discussing plans.
"Golf?" Rodri suggested, turning to Laporte and Fabián Ruiz.
"I’m in," Laporte nodded.
"I might check out the lake," Pedri mused, already picturing a quiet morning.
"Spa," Morata said firmly, stretching his back. "Definitely the spa."
Nico Williams nudged Lamine Yamal. "Let’s go check out the basketball court."
Izan stood quietly for a mont, considering his options. He had expected another intense day of training.
Now, with a free morning ahead, he had ti to breathe.
Ti to think.
As his teammates dispersed, he made his way toward his room. He had an idea of how he wanted to spend his next morning.
And it didn’t involve staying inside.
....
Izan’s eyes flickered open to the faint hum of the early morning. No alarms, no urgent knocks at his door—just a quiet stillness that felt almost unnatural after days of rigid schedules.
He exhaled, staring at the ceiling for a mont before sitting up, the ache in his legs a reminder of last night’s battle.
The floor was cool as he stood, rolling his neck to shake off the last traces of sleep. His phone sat face down on the bedside table, buzzing occasionally with notifications, but he ignored it.
He already knew what they’d say. Instead, he walked to the sink, splashing cold water on his face, the shock jolting him fully awake.
Within minutes, he was dressed—light tracksuit, sneakers laced tight.
He grabbed his headphones and tossed them into his bag. He wasn’t staying inside. He had a different kind of morning in mind.
A/n: Have this dear readers. I know I’m milking it but we can’t jump right to the final boss right.
But the next few matches will be fast, especially with Albania and the round of 16 match too so we can get this over with.
IRL, Spain won by 1-0 so sorry to the Italian readers. Love y’all
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