Luis de la Fuente strode to the edge of his technical area, clapping his hands forcefully.
"¡Cabeza arriba!" Head up.
The Spanish players stood frozen for a second, the weight of the goal pressing down on them.
Their eyes flicked to the giant screen as the replay played again—Mbappé’s run, the cross, Kolo Muani’s finish.
De la Fuente didn’t let them dwell.
"¡Olvidadlo! ¡Sacudidlo!" Forget it! Shake it off! His voice was firm, controlled. "We start again! Stick to the plan!"
Rodri inhaled sharply, nodding. He turned, motioning to Pedri and Izan to reset.
Izan exhaled through his mouth, hands on his hips for a brief second. Then he straightened, his gaze locking onto Morata’s.
Then Nico’s.
Then Pedri’s.
No words were said but a silent agreent ford in their midst.
France jogged back with quiet confidence. Mbappé and Kolo Muani exchanged grins. The French bench clapped, Deschamps, giving a small nod of approval.
They thought they had control.
But Spain weren’t rattled.
They were waiting.
Rodri stepped forward, placing a hand on Pedri’s shoulder. A brief, quiet exchange.
De la Fuente saw it.
The fire was still there.
And that was enough.
...….
The French crowd’s celebration rippled through the stadium, their fans in full voice, scarves whipping through the air as the giant screen replayed Kolo Muani’s strike again and again, each slow-motion angle twisting the knife deeper.
In the stands, the Spanish section had fallen eerily quiet. A few hands clapped in forced encouragent, but the energy had shifted. A nervous hum replaced the earlier euphoria.
Even the comntator felt it.
"Spain have been brilliant so far," Peter Drury mused, his voice asured. "But conceding against a team like France?
It changes everything. Because now, France don’t have to chase the ga. Now, they can dictate how this plays out."
Jim Beglin, Drury’s co-comntator who the author just rembered to add spoke "And that’s the real test for Spain.
They’ve been fluid, fearless—but can they find the sa rhythm now? Can they break down a side that’s built to absorb pressure and punish?"
On the pitch, the French players were making small adjustnts.
Camavinga, eyes sharp, gestured toward Rabiot and Tchouaméni.
He wanted them compact, disciplined. No gaps for Izan, no space for Pedri to weave his magic.
Koundé jogged toward Mbappé and muttered sothing before receiving a nod in response.
They had Spain exactly where they wanted them. And they knew it.
Izan exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing at his sides.
For a mont, he just stared at the ball in the center circle, watching it rest there as if waiting for him to do sothing.
His mind replayed the sequence. The ball loss. Tchouaméni’s pass. Mbappé’s acceleration.
The mont Carvajal lunged, just a fraction too late. The weight of the pass. The ruthlessness of the finish.
Everything had been precise. Devastatingly so.
But sothing wasn’t sitting right with him.
He had felt it in the buildup.
A half-second where France had hesitated before pouncing.
They were disciplined, yes. Structured, yes. But they weren’t untouchable.
No defense was.
He clenched his jaw, rolling his shoulders back.
Then, slowly, he adjusted his wristbands.
"Alright then. Let’s try sothing different," he muttered before looking at Morata who stood over the ball.
...…
Spain restarted the match—but there was no cautious spell of possession.
No slow, thodical buildup.
No settling.
Instead—
Izan took off.
A blur of red streaked forward before the ball had even been played to him. His acceleration sent a montary shock through the French line, catching them mid-adjustnt, forcing an imdiate reaction.
Camavinga turned sharply—too late.
Pedri, always in sync, sent a first-ti ball slicing through midfield, finding Izan’s run with surgical precision.
Upacano stepped up, eyes locked on Izan.
He expected a direct challenge. A dribble. A duel.
But Izan didn’t take a touch forward.
He let the ball roll.
And then, with one smooth movent—
A backheel.
A flick, redirecting the ball into the empty channel between Koundé and Pavard.
Nico Williams was already moving, his blistering pace carrying him past the stunned defenders.
The stadium gasped.
Peter Drury’s voice surged with excitent.
"Oh, my word, Izan has just split France apart with a stroke of genius! A backheel— an audacious, impudent backheel—to unlock an entire defense!"**
The French backline scrambled, the realization hitting them too late.
Nico Williams roared down the flank, the goal looming.
Inside the box, Morata sprinted to position, his eyes wide with anticipation.
The pass ca—whipped across the face of goal, cutting through the six-yard box.
Morata lunged.
Missed it by inches.
The ball skimd past his boot, rolling just beyond the far post.
A groan echoed from the Spanish section, a collective exhale of frustration.
Peter Drury’s voice softened, a touch of disbelief in his tone.
"Spain were inches— re inches—away from an instant response! They carved France open in the blink of an eye, but the finishing touch eludes them!"
On the touchline, de la Fuente clapped hard. "¡Bien! That’s it! More!"
Izan jogged back, unfazed. He had seen what he needed to see.
France were not comfortable.
And that was all the opening he needed.
The ga resud, but the shift was palpable.
Spain weren’t just trying to get back into the ga.
They were forcing the issue.
And France, for the first ti, looked uneasy.
Pedri and Rodri began manipulating the tempo, weaving patterns that forced Tchouaméni and Rabiot into constant movent.
Lamine Yamal, ghosting in from the right, demanded the ball. He danced past Theo Hernández once, then twice, teasing, testing.
A sudden drop of the shoulder—he was gone.
The cross fizzed in—
Cleared.
But Spain were relentless now.
Peter Drury felt it, his voice layering the intensity.
"The matadors in red have raised their capes once more! Spain are playing with defiance, with urgency, with an unshakable belief that this is far from over!"
Izan was at the heart of it.
He found gaps that weren’t there seconds before. He drifted between the lines, his movent dragging defenders into places they didn’t want to be.
Then—
A touch.
A quick shift of weight.
A pass—no, a disguise.
Rodri let it run, allowing Pedri to collect in space.
France twisted, realizing too late—
Izan was already gone.
Pedri, once again saw it instantly.
The pass was delivered, feathered with the perfect weight.
Izan was through.
And for the first ti, the French defense felt the sheer, terrifying speed of him at full tilt.
Koundé chased.
Upacano lunged.
But Izan had the edge—
One touch.
Two.
The goal in front of him.
Peter Drury’s voice crescendoed.
"Izan to bring Spain level…!"
A heartbeat.
A flash of blue darting in from his left—
Theo Hernández, stretching, lunging— or so he thought until Izan stopped his shooting motion mid-way.
Theo Hernandez slid away like a figure skater and before the fans could realize it, Izan had already sent the ball hurling towards the French goal.
"Izzaaaann, Ow wow. One of the best saves you will ever see in football" Drury roared as the ball rolled agonizingly past the post.
Izan exhaled sharply, dragging his gaze from the ground as the ball rolled past the post.
A roar of frustration thundered through the Spanish section, a wave of hands thrown into the air in disbelief.
Theo Hernández was still on the turf, dazed, blinking at the grass as if it had betrayed him.
[W, grass]
Maignan, on the other hand, was already up, chest heaving, eyes scanning the field.
He barked an order at his defense, urging them to stay sharp, but even he couldn’t mask the hint of relief in his expression.
Peter Drury, breathless, found his voice.
"Izan thought he had it! We all thought he had it! But Maignan… oh, Mike Maignan with a save that defies the laws of reaction!
A hand—just a fraction of a fingertip—enough to keep France ahead!"
The French defenders scrambled to reset, their heads turning, searching—
But the ball was now out or so they thought. Yamal, as quick as ever lobbed the ball from the corner and Izan had already moved.
A flash of red near the corner flag, his body twisting in mid-air as his boot stretched out—
[Control]
A touch so absurdly delicate, so precise, that the ball obeyed him as if bound by unseen strings.
The stadium gasped.
The French defense barely had ti to react before Izan shifted his weight, balancing on the edge of the pitch, his mind calculating.
Lamine Yamal called for the ball back but the look on Izan’s face said it all.
The distance. The trajectory. The impossible angle.
A normal player would recycle possession. Play it safe. Look for options.
But Izan wasn’t thinking about passing.
His Rocket Trait flared to life.
Power surged through his veins, coiling like a spring in his muscles. The energy was sharp, volatile, teetering on the edge of control.
And then—
A snap.
A burst.
The shot left his foot like a missile.
It scread through the air, bending violently, swerving away—then back—then down—
Maignan’s eyes widened.
Peter Drury felt the mont before it even happened.
"OH, MY WORD! IZAN HAS GONE FOR GLORY FROM THE DARKEST OF ANGLES—"
Maignan lunged.
The ball dipped.
Too late.
It was past him.
The net—
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