The dining hall was buzzing with energy—not the usual relaxed atmosphere they had during the tournant, but sothing sharper, more focused.
Conversations were quieter, movents more deliberate. Everyone was locked in for the final.
Izan sat with Pedri, Yamal, and Nico, eating thodically, but his mind wasn’t entirely on the food.
It was on the match, on the thousands of possibilities the next few hours held.
He wasn’t nervous—not in the way a rookie might be—but he was restless. The kind of restlessness that ca with knowing what was at stake.
"You’re eating like soone who’s being forced," Pedri remarked, nudging his plate with his fork.
Izan barely glanced up. "I’m eating."
"You’re dissecting each bite like it’s a tactical breakdown," Nico added with a smirk.
[Bruh. Who writes Thi-. Sorry continue]
Izan sighed, setting his fork down for a mont. "You guys ever get the feeling like everything is moving too slow and too fast at the sa ti?"
Morata, who had been quiet, finally spoke. "That’s how you know it’s a final."
They didn’t need to say more. They all felt it—the tightening in the chest, the static in the air.
This was the kind of match that could define a career, the kind that people would rember for decades.
And Izan was right in the center of it.
The players had been given so ti to relax before their final tactical eting, but as Izan made his way back to his room, a mber of the Spanish staff intercepted him.
"Hey, Izan. Adidas just sent sothing over for you."
Izan blinked. "Adidas?"
The staff mber nodded, gesturing toward one of the small conference rooms. "They asked for you to check it out before the match."
Izan didn’t say anything, just followed.
The room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of overhead lights. And in the center of the table, placed on a black display stand, was a pristine pair of football boots.
His breath hitched.
White, with golden accents. Sleek, elegant—but built for purpose.
His eyes moved lower, toward the heel, where his initials were embedded in a bold, yet minimalistic fashion. HIM.
He swallowed.
The door closed behind him, and a rep from Adidas stepped forward. "You like them?"
Izan didn’t answer imdiately. He stepped forward, reaching out to pick one up. The leather was soft but firm, the weight perfectly balanced in his palm.
"They’re the prototype," the rep continued. "We designed them with your playstyle in mind—lightweight, responsive, built for quick changes in direction. And the colorway… well, we thought it fit the occasion."
White and gold. For the final.
Izan exhaled slowly, running his thumb over the embossed initials.
"You don’t have to wear them today," the rep added. "It’s just a first look. But if you do—"
"I’ll wear them."
The words left his mouth before he fully processed them.
He wasn’t even sure why he said it so quickly, but the mont he did, it felt right.
A final deserved sothing special. And these? These felt like a statent.
The rep smiled. "We’ll have them ready for you in the locker room."
Izan nodded, setting the boot down gently before turning to leave.
...…..
The hallway was quiet except for the occasional murmur of voices behind closed doors.
Most of the squad had already gathered when Izan stepped inside, the room dimly lit except for the large screen at the front.
De la Fuente and his assistants stood near it, their expressions calm but expectant.
Izan slid into a seat near Pedri and Nico, giving them a brief nod before turning his attention forward.
"Good, you’re all here," De la Fuente said, clasping his hands together. "This won’t be long, just one final review before we leave."
He gestured to the screen, where clips of England’s recent matches had been queued up. The first was their semi-final against the Netherlands.
"They’ve been compact in possession, but they’re vulnerable when the ball turns over," the coach began.
"This is where we have to be at our sharpest. Izan, Nico, Lamine—you’ll have to exploit the spaces left behind by their full-backs.
Their defensive shape is strong when settled, but in transition, there are gaps."
Izan nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the footage. He could already see where the opportunities would co.
Beside him, Lamine whispered, "Trippier’s gonna have nightmares, bro."
Izan smirked. "If we do it right, yeah."
The review continued, with each phase of the ga broken down—England’s tendencies, Spain’s counterasures, and the small details that could decide a final.
De la Fuente’s tone was asured but firm, his belief in the squad clear.
"Rember," he said as the session wrapped up, "this ga will be won by the team that stays composed. Trust each other. Trust what got you here."
There was a beat of silence before he nodded toward the door. "Alright, go grab your things. We leave in an hour." Stay connected with .Côm
The squad stood, so stretching, others quietly muttering to themselves.
Izan rolled his shoulders, his mind already running through the match scenarios.
The clock was ticking, and the final was drawing closer.
....
The hotel lobby was a controlled storm of movent—staff ensuring nothing was left behind, security coordinating the team’s safe exit, and the occasional murmur of passing words between players.
Izan adjusted the strap of his bag, stepping out into the warm afternoon air. The mont he erged, the crowd outside the hotel roared.
"¡España!"
"¡Vamos, Izan!"
Phones lifted, banners waved, and voices filled the space between security barriers, all trying to capture a glimpse of La Roja before they departed for the biggest match of their lives.
Izan barely had ti to take it in before Morata clapped him on the back.
"Co on, superstar," the captain said with a knowing smirk before walking ahead.
Izan huffed a quiet laugh and followed, stepping onto the bus just behind Lamine and Pedri.
Inside, the atmosphere was different—quieter, heavier. The usual chatter was replaced with a more subdued energy, each player lost in their thoughts.
The final was no longer sothing in the distance. It was real.
Izan found his seat, settling in as the rest of the squad filtered in. De la Fuente was one of the last to board, nodding once to the players before exchanging a few words with the coaching staff.
Then, the doors shut.
The bus ride was quiet, each player caught between their thoughts and the weight of the mont.
The occasional low conversation between teammates barely cut through the soft hum of the engine.
As the team approached the Olympiastadion, the outside world ca alive—Spanish and English fans lining the streets, chanting, waving flags, creating a sea of red and white.
When the bus pulled up to the designated entrance, security moved swiftly, ensuring a clear path for the squad.
One by one, the players stepped off, passing through the flashing caras and dia presence that waited near the entrance.
Inside, the stadium’s corridors stretched ahead, polished and pristine. Staff mbers guided them toward the locker rooms, their footsteps echoing through the hallways.
Izan walked alongside Pedri and Lamine, the three exchanging a few quiet words before entering the dressing room.
The atmosphere inside was controlled but charged with anticipation. So players moved straight to their lockers, so sat on the benches, and others exchanged brief conversations with the coaching staff.
Izan reached his space and imdiately noticed the neatly arranged kit waiting for him—his white Spain jersey with the bold red number 21 on the back.
After checking out the jersey, Izan moved to his boots.
Pristine white, golden accents catching the light, and on the heel, the initials "HIM"—his prototype boots with Adidas.
Before he could even take them in his hands, a voice ca from behind him.
"No way."
Lamine.
Izan didn’t even have to turn around to know the younger player was staring at the boots like he had just seen sothing unfair happen.
"You got a prototype for the final?" Lamine’s voice was half-impressed, half-incredulous.
Before Izan could answer, Nico walked up and let out a dramatic sigh. "That’s crazy. So of us have been with Adidas longer and still don’t have sothing like this."
Izan smirked, picking up one of the boots and turning it slightly in his hand. The design was sleek, every detail, carefully crafted.
Lamine folded his arms, shaking his head. "It’s fine. It’s whatever. I’m not jealous or anything."
Nico scoffed. "You literally are."
Lamine ignored him. "But you know what? This ans they expect Izan to be the main guy today." He nudged Izan. "You can’t wear those and not do sothing crazy."
Izan rolled his eyes. "You guys are acting like I asked for this."
"That’s what makes it worse," Nico muttered. "It just happens for you."
Before Izan could respond, the sound of laughter ca from the other side of the room.
So of the older players—Morata, Rodri, and Carvajal—had been listening in.
"Look at them," Carvajal smirked, shaking his head. "Final of the Euros, and these kids are arguing about boots."
Rodri chuckled. "I swear, I don’t think they even feel nervous. Back in the day, everyone would be locked in, focused—now we’ve got them debating who Adidas loves more."
"Not our fault you guys overthink everything," Lamine quipped, unbothered.
Carvajal scoffed. "Oh yeah? We’ll see when the first whistle blows."
Izan shook his head, setting his boots down and beginning to change.
He wasn’t as outwardly relaxed as Lamine, but he wasn’t drowning in nerves either.
The weight of the match was there, pressing against his thoughts, but it was a feeling he knew well.
It was always there before big gas—before he did sothing that mattered.
A/n: Feeling cute. Might upload an extra chapter to thank you guys for the golden tickets. You’ve been wonderful. Now I gotta leave. I have a eting with Gege Akutami. Need advice on how to kill off a character.
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