God Of football-Chapter 265: Second Coming at La Rojas
The night air in Tokyo was warm, the scent of summer carried through the open window of Izan’s room.
The cicadas hummed steadily outside, their rhythmic buzz filling the quiet. Inside, he sat on the tatami floor, his phone screen still glowing with the notification of his official call-up.
For a moment, he just stared at it. The chaos, the controversy, the back-and-forth and it had all led to this. He was finally going to the Euros.
His fingers hovered over his phone screen before he instinctively opened the team chat. A flood of unread messages had poured in the moment the news broke.
Lamine: About time they did.
Nico: Welcome to the tournament, Pichichi, winner
Gaya: You deserve this, hermano. See you soon.
Pedri: Sorry you had to wait longer than you should have, but now, let’s move forward.
....
The next morning, Izan awoke to the smell of miso soup and grilled fish drifting from the kitchen.
It was an early summer morning in Japan, the air still crisp before the heat of the day would set in.
The house was quiet, save for the occasional sound of his grandfather flipping through a newspaper and his grandmother moving around the kitchen.
He lay there for a few moments, staring at the ceiling. Last night’s call still lingered in his mind. Spain had finally come for him.
He rolled over, reaching for his phone. Miranda had sent a dozen messages overnight, all capitalized and furious:
MIRANDA: DO NOT LET THEM ACT LIKE THEY ARE DOING YOU A FAVOR.
MIRANDA: THIS WHOLE THING IS A PR DISASTER. WE WILL TALK AT THE AIRPORT.
MIRANDA: ALSO, BRANDS ARE ALREADY REACTING. GOOD FOR BUSINESS. OBVIOUSLY.
MIRANDA: YOU KNOW, I’M NOT EVEN MAD. JUST VINDICATED.
Izan smirked. Typical Miranda.
He got up, stretched, and stepped out into the hallway. The sliding doors to the dining room were partially open, revealing his mother, Komi, sitting at the table with his grandparents.
Hori was next to her, sipping a glass of iced tea. They looked up as he entered.
"Morning," he said, rubbing his eyes.
His grandmother smiled. "You’re finally up"
Izan nodded at his grandmother’s words before glancing at his mother, Komi who gestured for him to sit.
"Eat," she said. You’ll need it before the flight."
Izan sat down and picked up his chopsticks. The meal was simple but comforting. Some steamed rice, miso soup, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables.
He ate in silence for a while, listening to the morning news playing softly on the television. His name had already made it into Japanese headlines and it looked like it would linger for a while.
Hori, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. "So, you are really leaving today?"
Yeah." Izan glanced at her. "I told you last night."
"I know," she muttered, pushing her food around her plate. "It just sucks that you get to go on holidays in Germany."
There was a pause.
Izan sighed. Firstly, I’m going to play football. Secondly, you can come after I go. You just have to ask Mum" he ended, prompting Hori to look in the direction of her mother.
Komi exhaled sharply but didn’t say anything.
As they finished eating, Izan stood up and stretched. He glanced at Hori, who was still sulking as her mother hadn’t confirmed anything.
"Hey," he said, nudging her shoulder. "How about this? If Spain makes the final, I’ll bring you to Germany."
Hori looked up, eyes narrowing. "You’re not just saying that?"
"I promise."
She studied him for a second, then gave a small nod. "You better win, then."
Izan grinned. "That’s the plan."
—
Tokyo’s Narita Airport was bustling as always, but Izan barely noticed. The moment he stepped into the terminal, Miranda was waiting, her arms crossed and her foot tapping impatiently.
"You," she said, pointing at him as soon as he approached, "owe me an explanation."
Izan raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"For not calling me the SECOND de la Fuente rang you."
"You found out within minutes anyway."
"Not the point." She adjusted the sleeves of her blazer. "We should’ve planned a response."
Izan sighed. "Miranda—"
"No, listen. The way they handled this was an absolute joke. You were snubbed for days while they dragged their feet. Now suddenly they ’need’ you? That’s not a favor, Izan. That’s them backtracking."
"I know."
"Do you?" Miranda narrowed her eyes. "Because this is more than football. This is your reputation. This affects your brand.
Your legacy. You’re not just some talented kid anymore. You’re the youngest Pichichi in history. You led La Liga in assists. And they left you out. Until they had no choice."
Izan knew she was right. But he also knew that, at the end of the day, he just wanted to play.
"I get it," he said. "But I’m going."
Miranda exhaled, shaking her head. Then, after a moment, she nodded. "Good but go remind them why they should’ve picked you first."
- - - - -
By the time Izan landed in Spain, the media frenzy had reached a peak. Cameras flashed as he stepped out of the airport, but security quickly ushered him into a private car arranged by the federation.
His destination: Las Rozas, the Spanish national team’s training center.
As the car drove through Madrid, Izan glanced out the window. He hadn’t been here since the last call-up.
The city’s skyline passed by in streaks of gold and blue as the sun began to set.
Finally, they arrived at Las Rozas.
Izan stepped out of the car, adjusting his duffel bag. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass from the nearby training pitches.
He took a deep breath, then walked inside.
The first thing he noticed was the silence. The team had already finished their training session for the day.
The hallways were quiet, save for the occasional voice drifting from one of the meeting rooms.
Then, a familiar voice broke the stillness.
"Well, look who finally decided to join us."
Izan turned. Pedri stood there, arms crossed, smirking.
"Pedri." Izan couldn’t help but grin.
Pedri shook his head. "Man, you took your time. You know how many people lost their minds over this?"
"Yeah, I noticed."
They started walking toward the main lounge, where other players were gathered. As Izan entered, conversations paused.
Nico Williams was the first to react, grinning wide. "Look who it is!", he roared in Izan’s direction. Lamine who was at the back also waved before settling down.
A few of the players clapped or nodded in greeting. Some, like Morata and Rodri, gave small, approving nods. Others, Izan noticed, were more reserved.
He could feel it. The unspoken tension.
Not everyone had been thrilled about his late addition. Some players had fought for their spots. Izan? He had been parachuted in at the last moment.
De la Fuente, who had been speaking with some staff members, noticed Izan’s arrival and walked over.
"Glad you’re here," he said. His tone was polite but firm, his expression unreadable.
Izan nodded. "Ready to work."
De la Fuente held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Because we don’t have time to waste."
.....
Later that evening, Izan lay on his bed in the team’s hotel quarters, staring at the ceiling. His official training kit was folded neatly on the chair. His boots sat by the door, ready for the morning.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Hori.
HORI: Still mad at you.
HORI: But also… go score goals.
Izan smirked.
Then, another message.
MIRANDA: I hope you know the entire footballing world is watching you now.
Izan exhaled. He already knew that.
Tomorrow, training started.
And with it, the biggest test of his career so far.
...
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The morning air was crisp, the Madrid sky stretching in an endless blue above Las Rozas.
The players filed onto the pristine training pitch, their boots sinking into the freshly cut grass.
Conversations hummed around the group, a mix of groggy complaints and sharp-witted banter.
Izan walked out in his Spain training kit, the red and gold fabric unfamiliar on his skin. The late call-up still lingered in the back of his mind, but he pushed it aside.
He was here now. That was all that mattered.
Across the field, Pedri and Nico Williams were already passing the ball between them, their movements light and effortless.
Rodri stood nearby, quietly speaking with Morata and Cucurella, while some of the younger players stretched in small clusters.
Luis de la Fuente and his coaching staff were gathered at the touchline, their expressions serious.
This wasn’t a club session. This was the Spanish national team. Every second counted.
Izan bent down to tighten his laces. As he straightened, he caught a few glances in his direction—some curious, others unreadable.
He wasn’t just another squad member. He was the late arrival. The outsider who had forced his way into the team at the last moment.
The whistle blew sharply, cutting through the morning air.
"Alright, everyone," one of the assistants called out. "Let’s get moving. Warm-ups. Standard routine."
Izan exhaled, stepping forward.
The session had begun.
