And then, the fourth award.
The one that was never in doubt.
"With 9 goals, equaling Michel Platini's all-ti record for most goals in a single Euros… the Golden Boot goes to—IZAN!"
The stadium detonated.
The Spanish players shoved him forward, slapping his back, pushing him toward the stage with laughter and disbelief still written across their faces.
"Go on, Pichichi!" Nico Williams grinned, practically launching Izan forward.
Izan exhaled, his breath still unsteady from everything that had just happened. His boots felt heavier than before, his body, drenched in sweat.
His heart pounded, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer reality of this mont.
The caras zood in.
And then—
A figure stepped forward, a trophy in his hands.
Michel Platini.
A legend. A relic of history. A man whose record had stood untouched for four decades.
Until tonight.
For a mont, the two of them just stood there.
Platini stared at him, eyes asuring, scanning, searching for sothing. A flicker of amusent crossed his face as he finally spoke.
"Neuf buts, hein?" Platini mused, shaking his head. "Tu ne pouvais pas t'arrêter à huit? Tu devais absolunt voler ce record?"
(Nine goals, huh? You couldn't have stopped at eight? You just had to steal my record?)
The officials behind him chuckled. So of the Spanish players down below raised their brows.
But what happened next made them pause.
Izan exhaled sharply, let out a small chuckle, and then answered—
"Désolé, Michel," he said smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue with the ease of soone who had spoken them all his life. "Je voulais juste m'assurer que tu te sentes moins seul."
(Sorry, Michel. I just wanted to make sure you didn't feel too lonely.)
Silence.
Then—murmurs.
Platini's eyes widened.
One of the UEFA officials tilted his head slightly.
Even so of the journalists whispering among themselves seed caught off guard.
"He speaks French?" one of them muttered.
"And fluently too. I didn't know that."
Izan caught the slight hesitation in Platini's stance—the way the Frenchman took an extra second to process what he had just heard.
The system function had done its job.
[Language Mastery: Learn languages 10 tis faster than ordinary people]
Izan had unlocked, more like purchased it a while ago, though he hadn't used it much outside of casual conversations.
But now? Now it was paying off in ways he hadn't even considered.
He had studied French on and off for a while, but with the system enhancing his retention and fluency, he could sound native.
Platini blinked—then he threw his head back and laughed.
A deep, genuine laugh.
"Bien joué, gamin. Bien joué." he said, shaking his head as he finally handed over the trophy.
(Well played, kid. Well played.)
Izan took the Golden Boot, feeling its weight, feeling its aning.
Platini clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "Enjoy it, but if you ever break it, I'll have to stop being so nice." he said this ti, in English
More laughter.
Peter Drury: "The record remains—shared, for now. Michel Platini, the legend… and Izan, the future.
A mont in ti, a passing of history, sealed with a smile."
The caras flashed. The applause thundered.
And as Izan lifted the Golden Boot high, standing next to Platini, the world knew—
This was only the beginning.
But there was one more.
One final individual honor.
It could have gone to Rodri—the general, the heartbeat of Spain's midfield.
It could have gone to Jude—the man who had carried England on his back.
But deep down, everyone knew.
"UEFA's Player of the Tournant… IZAN!"
If the stadium had exploded before, this was sothing else.
Sothing biblical.
The caras caught the reactions instantly.
Rodri grinned, nodding in satisfaction.
Nico and Lamine slapping each other, shaking their heads.
Jude—his hands on his hips, lips pressed together—gave the smallest of nods.
Izan exhaled.
Then, a slow grin.
A deep breath.
He walked forward, step by step, toward history.
The trophy was placed in his hands.
A second one.
More than just goals.
More than just a mont.
The best player of Euro 2024.
The King of the Tournant.
He turned, staring at the crowd, at his team, at the sea of Spanish fans losing themselves in this night.
Then he lifted it.
The world roared.
But there was one last trophy to lift.
The one that mattered most.
Spain's.
The European Championship.
The English players went first.
One by one, they walked up the stage, faces heavy with disappointnt, hands reluctantly accepting their silver dals. So wore them.
So took them off the mont they stepped away.
Jude Bellingham kept his on.
His jaw was tight, his eyes sharp, but he wore the dal proudly. He shook the UEFA president's hand, nodding once, then made his way down.
Declan Rice clapped him on the back as they rejoined their team.
So of the younger players, like Kobbie Mainoo, stared at the Spanish squad—at Izan—with barely concealed frustration.
Spain had won.
The wait had been long, but the trophy was coming ho—to the right ho.
And now, it was their turn.
The Spanish players moved forward, one by one, the gold dals shining under the stadium lights.
Izan walked up the stairs, his heartbeat steady but strong.
He greeted each official politely, accepting the congratulations with brief nods and firm handshakes.
Then—
He reached the president of the Spanish Football Federation.
The man smiled, his expression composed, and professional.
But Izan hesitated.
It lasted a second—maybe less.
But in his mind, ti-stretched.
This man hadn't wanted him here.
He hadn't been in the original squad. He had watched Spain's preliminary list co out—Rodri, Pedri, Lamine, Nico, Morata, Cucurella—one na after the other.
But not his.
Not Izan's.
His na had only been called after Asensio got injured.
Would he have ever been picked if that hadn't happened?
If there was no need for him, would they have just let him watch the Euros from his couch?
Would he still be 'just a promising talent' instead of the best player in the tournant?
Izan forced the thoughts down.
Not here. Not now.
He extended his hand.
A quick shake. A polite nod. No words.
Then he moved on.
The UEFA president greeted him next.
"Incredible tournant, young man," the older man said warmly as he placed the dal over Izan's head.
"One of the finest performances we've ever seen in a European Championship. Spain has a bright future with you."
Izan nodded. "Thank you."
As the Spanish players stood together, gold dals draped around their necks, the King of Spain and the royal family stepped forward.
The cheers from the crowd sohow grew louder.
The King greeted each player with warmth, shaking their hands, and offering words of congratulations.
When he reached Izan, the air shifted.
The caras zood in.
Because while Spain had a king—the people had crowned another.
"Ah," the King mused, shaking Izan's hand. "The hero of the night. The Golden Boot. The Player of the Tournant."
Izan bowed his head slightly. "Your Majesty."
The King smiled.
Then, with perfect timing— too perfect—he added:
"You know, Infanta Sofia was watching this match very closely."
Izan froze for a fraction of a second.
His grip on the dal tightened.
The Spanish players around him barely stifled their grins. Lamine Yamal was practically vibrating with unspoken comntary.
The King noticed.
And he laughed—a deep, amused laugh—before giving Izan a knowing look.
A look that said: Relax, I'm only joking.
Then a raised brow.
As if saying: Or am I?
Izan let out a slow breath, forcing a small chuckle. He glanced at the Queen, who was smiling way too politely, and then back at the King, who was enjoying himself way too much.
"Well then," the King said lightly, patting Izan's shoulder. "Congratulations, campeón. Enjoy your night."
And with that, he moved on, leaving Izan standing there—his mind catching up with what had just happened.
Nico Williams elbowed him. "Man… You just got set up by the King himself."
Izan exhaled through his nose. "Shut up, Nico."
Lamine Yamal finally broke. "Bro, you looked like you saw your whole career flash before your eyes."
The laughter echoed.
But Izan shook his head, refocusing.
Because ahead of them—it was waiting.
The trophy.
And it was finally ti.
The Spanish players walked forward as one.
The noise from the Spanish fans had reached sothing indescribable—a wall of sound, a force of nature, a nation's heartbeat pounding in unison.
Izan took it all in, face painted with a smile like a king, looking at his subjects
The endless sea of red and gold. The flags waving madly. The raw, unfiltered euphoria crackled in the air.
And at the very front—the trophy.
The Henri Delaunay Trophy.
The pinnacle of European football.
Izan exhaled, tightening his grip on his dal as he stepped forward alongside Rodri, Spain's captain.
The UEFA president handed the trophy over, shaking Rodri's hand. There were words exchanged, but Izan barely registered them.
Because in that mont—the weight of everything hit him.
A/n: Okay guys. Keep the tickets coming.
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