The morning of the semi-final arrived with a quiet intensity.
The Spanish squad went through their usual matchday routine, but everything felt heavier.
There was no escaping it now. France stood between them and the final.
Izan woke early, but he hadn’t slept much. Olivia had stayed on the line with him for a while, talking about nothing and everything, but eventually, the exhaustion won.
He had drifted off, phone still in hand, only to wake up a few hours later with the weight of the day pressing down on him.
He exhaled, pushing himself up from bed and reaching for his phone, only to see a missed call.
Komi.
Izan frowned slightly, but before he could call her back, his phone buzzed again. He swiped to answer.
"Hey, Mom," he murmured, his voice still rough from sleep.
"Finally," Komi huffed. "I’ve been calling."
"Yeah, sorry. I was—" He ran a hand through his hair. "—sleeping."
Komi sighed on the other end. "I figured. I just wanted to check on you."
Izan leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.
"I’m fine."
"Are you?" Komi’s tone softened, but there was sothing firm beneath it, sothing knowing. "Because when I see you on TV, you don’t look fine. And I know my son, Izan."
Izan closed his eyes briefly. He should’ve known she’d notice. He had been off these past few days, and if Pedri could tell, then of course his mother could too.
"I’m just… thinking a lot," he admitted.
Komi was silent for a mont, then said, "Listen to , Izan. I know your mind is probably in a million places right now, but you have to rember why you’re here.
This is one of the monts you’ve worked for your entire life. This mont. This match."
Izan swallowed.
"You’ve fought through everything," Komi continued. "The injuries, the doubts, the setbacks.
You’ve broken records, carried Valencia when no one else could, made Spain believe in you. And now you’re one step away from the final of your first major tournant. Hell you even made start watching football"
Izan exhaled, gripping the edge of the sheets before laughing at the latter statent.
"I know, Mom."
"Then don’t let anything—anything—take your focus away from it," Komi said firmly. "You’ll deal with all of that when the ti cos.
But right now, you need to be present. For yourself. For your teammates. For the dream you’ve been chasing since you were a little boy."
Izan pressed his lips together.
She was right. He knew she was right.
Before he could respond, another voice chid in from the background.
"Tell him not to be a loser!"
Izan blinked.
"Hori?"
There was a rustling sound as the phone was passed, and then his little sister’s voice ca through clearer.
"Hey, dummy," Hori said cheerfully. "So, I heard you’re being all moody and weird, which ans I had to step in and save the day."
Izan smirked despite himself. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. So here’s the deal— I have a surprise for you but you’ll probably see it during the match"
Izan raised an eyebrow. "A surprise? During the match"
"Yep."
"What kind of surprise?"
Hori snickered. "Not telling. But it’s a good one. So don’t ss up."
Izan let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "You know, this isn’t exactly how motivation speeches are supposed to go."
"I don’t care," Hori said. "Just don’t embarrass us, okay?"
Izan sighed, but there was sothing lighter in his chest now.
"I won’t," he murmured.
"Good." Hori handed the phone back to Komi.
"Listen, Izan," his mother said, her voice softer now. "No matter what happens tonight, we’re proud of you. We always will be. So clear your head. Play your ga. And finish what you started."
Izan nodded, even though she couldn’t see him.
"I will," he promised.
"Good," Komi said. "Now go eat. And don’t let Pedri talk your ear off."
Izan chuckled. "No guarantees."
They said their goodbyes, and when Izan finally hung up, the weight in his chest had eased—just a little.
...
He dressed in silence, pulling on his training gear before heading to the team breakfast.
The cafeteria was buzzing with energy, but the usual lighthearted jokes were dialed down.
There were nods of acknowledgnt and a few quiet laughs, but the tension sat thick in the air.
Izan grabbed a plate and found a seat next to Pedri, who gave him a knowing look but didn’t say anything.
Across the table, Morata and Rodri were discussing last-minute tactical adjustnts, while Lamine and Nico exchanged smirks over their phones.
"Bro, look at this," Lamine nudged Izan, flipping his phone around.
Izan glanced at the screen. It was a clip from a fan compilation—his moves against Rüdiger set to dramatic music, with exaggerated comntary in the background.
Nico chuckled. "They still got Rüdiger looking like he’s seeing ghosts."
Izan smirked, shaking his head. "Y’all need to focus."
"Oh, we’re focused," Lamine said, grinning. "Just hyping up the main character before the big ga."
Rodri leaned over. "As long as the ’main character’ rembers we have to actually win."
The table chuckled, but the reminder hit ho.
They were currently in one of the most important matches of their careers.
...….
The atmosphere inside the stadium was electric. The Spanish fans were loud, but the French supporters matched them.
It was a battlefield before a single ball had been kicked.
Izan stepped onto the grass, breathing in the cool evening air as the team started their warm-up drills.
France’s squad was already on the other side, going through their own routine. Mbappé, Griezmann, Camavinga—all of them locked in.
Izan could feel their eyes on him. Whether it was the crowd, the caras, or the French players themselves, it didn’t matter. He just needed to focus.
"Ready?" Pedri murmured beside him.
Izan flexed his fingers, feeling the energy course through him. The doubts, the noise, and everything else faded.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
"Yeah."
.....
The warm-up ended with the Spanish squad going through their final stretches.
The coaches monitored every movent, scanning for any sign of tension or nerves, but there was no hesitation in their players now.
The work had been done. There was nothing left to refine—only to execute.
As the team jogged off the pitch, Izan felt the roar of the stadium. A deafening roar, a mix of Spanish red and French blue clashing in the stands. This was the last hurdle before the final.
They entered the tunnel, the tension thick in the air as they returned to the locker room.
The players took their seats, so closing their eyes, others staring at the floor, lost in thought.
Luis de la Fuente stood before them, but he didn’t say much.
He didn’t need to.
The speeches had been made, the tactics drilled into their minds.
Instead, the manager surveyed the room, his eyes sharp as they moved from player to player.
When his gaze landed on Izan, De la Fuente gave a small nod before speaking.
"Leave everything on that pitch." His voice was calm but firm. "That’s all I’ll say."
With that, he turned back toward the door.
The players exchanged looks, their nerves morphing into sothing sharper—determination.
Morata was the first to stand, rolling his shoulders. "Let’s go, boys."
Izan rose to his feet, shaking out his limbs. He was ready.
The tunnel was silent apart from the occasional shuffle of boots and murmured conversations.
The Spanish and French players lined up, waiting for the signal to walk out.
Izan glanced up.
Mbappé was a few places ahead, talking quietly with Griezmann, but as if sensing eyes on him, the French captain turned. His gaze t Izan’s for a brief mont.
A silent acknowledgnt.
Mbappé didn’t smile, didn’t say anything. Just a subtle nod.
Izan returned it.
They both knew what was coming.
A match that would demand everything from them.
The noise hit like a wave. The mont their boots touched the grass, the stadium erupted into an explosion of chants, cheers, and deafening whistles.
This was it.
The semi-final of the Euros. Spain vs. France.
As the players spread out for the national anthems, the caras zood in on the key figures.
Mbappé, the face of French football. Pedri, the orchestrator of Spain. Izan, the rising star.
The world was watching.
....
"Under the floodlights of Munich, two giants collide. Spain, youthful and fearless, against France, seasoned and relentless.
A battle of generations, a clash of philosophies. The elegance of La Roja against the ruthlessness of Les Bleus."
"And what a story it has been for this Spanish side. A team reborn. The veterans provide the spine—Rodri, Morata, Carvajal—but it is the youth that has stolen the headlines.
Lamine Yamal, the prodigy. Nico Williams, the electrifier. Pedri, the artist. And Izan—Spain’s sensation, the one who has made this tournant his stage."
"They have dazzled, they have conquered, and now they stand one step away from the final.
But in their path, the might of France. The forr world champions know what it takes. They have seen the bright lights before. And they will not bow easily."
"It is a night for the bold. A night for the brave. And a night that will be rembered for years to co. My na is Peter Drury and I’ll be your host for this exciting fixture"
[This comntator is the GOAT. His comntary just gives the chills. Particularly the one in South Africa’s 2010 World Cup where South Africa scored]
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