God Of football-Chapter 298: Pending Record

A slight murmur went through the room.

De la Fuente kept his expression calm. "We trust the referees," he said simply. "They make the decisions, and we respect them.

If there is anything that needs to be clarified, I’m sure they will address it."

The German journalist pressed. "So you don’t think the timing was controversial?"

De la Fuente’s lips twitched in a small smile. "I think the controversy would be different if Germany had scored, no?"

A few reporters chuckled. The tension eased.

The press conference continued, but one thing was clear—

Spain had won.

And nothing would change that.

Continue .....

The bus ride back to the Spanish camp was electric.

Music blasted through the speakers, a chaotic mix of hip-hop, and Spanish classics.

The players, still buzzing from the match, were either on their feet, singing at the top of their lungs, or slumped into their seats, exhausted but grinning.

Izan sat by the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, watching the city lights blur past.

His fingers tapped absently against his knee, still feeling the phantom weight of the ball at his feet, the lingering pressure of Neuer’s presence, and the deafening roars of the Stuttgart crowd.

He had done it.

The goal was everywhere. Social media was on fire. Clips of him sending Rüdiger to the ground had already gone viral, some calling it the filthiest move of the tournament.

Others were debating whether his chip over Neuer was one of the coldest finishes in Euros history.

Pedri nudged him from the aisle seat, smirking.

"You good, Estrella?"

Izan exhaled, finally pulling himself from the post-match haze. He turned to his teammate. "Yeah. Just… processing."

Pedri laughed. "Processing what? You cooked Germany in their own backyard. Nothing to process. Just enjoy it."

Rodri, a few seats ahead, turned back with a small chuckle. "He’s right. You’ve just made history, kid."

Izan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "I know but I can’t bring myself to do that after what I did to Rüdiger." he ended with a firm.

The players all turned towards Izan after his words trying to find what had made him say this but Carvajal burst out laughing.

"Never do that," he said between sobs-like laughter. "Just be humble but I’ll let Rüdiger know you felt sorry for him. Well after we win the Euros"

"I’m just playing. It’s just that everything is great and I find it hard to reel it in" Izan added after the players had finished laughing.

"Well, do that," Rodri said. "Because the whole world is talking about you now. I should let the Sheikh know about you" Rodri said while taking his phone.

" You think he doesn’t know already. He must have already set aside a bidding fee for Izan by now" Pedri spoke with a laugh from behind causing Rodri to put his phone down with a wry smile.

Across the aisle, Lamine Yamal and Nico Williams were still watching replays of the goal on someone’s phone, laughing every time Rüdiger hit the floor.

"Bro," Nico wheezed, "look at his face!"

Lamine grinned. "Izan, you might have to apologize to him, man."

Izan only shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Izan looked around, his teammates laughing and taking in the scene.

The moment he had spent years dreaming of. And yet, part of him felt like he was standing on the edge of something bigger—something he couldn’t quite see yet.

Izan heard a "ding" sound and at that moment, he smiled. "Of course. What would I do without you"

...…

The bus rolled into the team hotel, and the players spilled out, still buzzing, still talking about the match.

Izan headed straight to his room. He wanted to shower, to sit with his thoughts for a moment, to breathe.

But as soon as he stepped inside, his phone lit up.

Miranda.

Izan exhaled, already knowing this wasn’t just a check-in. He answered.

"Felicidades, campeón," Miranda’s voice came through, warm but laced with something heavier underneath.

Izan smiled slightly. "Thanks but we still have to play one of France and Portugal. I take it you watched?"

"Watched? The whole world watched. You just turned the Euros into your show."

He chuckled. "I don’t know about that."

"You don’t have to. The numbers do. Your name has been trending for hours, and every club in Europe is watching."

Izan sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand over his face. "So… what’s the damage?"

Miranda hesitated. "Well… let’s just say your price tag just got a lot more interesting."

He sighed. "Who’s calling?"

"A few clubs. But I turned them all away for now."

Izan leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. "You’re sure about that?"

"You already know my answer."

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Izan knew Miranda was keeping something back. He could hear it in her tone.

"Alright," he said, sitting up. "What is it? What aren’t you telling me?"

Another pause. Then—

"It’s Valencia."

Izan straightened, his grip tightening on the phone. "What about them?"

Miranda exhaled. "I wasn’t going to bring this up right now, but… I heard some things. And if it’s true, we need to be prepared."

His heart kicked up a notch. "Miranda, what are you talking about?"

She sighed. "Financial issues."

Izan felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What do you mean financial issues?"

"Well, it had to do with some bad balancing of the books before you got promoted into the first team.

It had been going on for a while but it got worse when sales from players among others weren’t put back into the club"

Izan sighed rubbing his hand over his face.

"How bad?"

"Bad enough that I made a few calls to get the full picture. There’s a lot of noise about the club’s situation behind the scenes.

Some people are saying it’s nothing serious, but others… others are talking about another possible sale to balance the books."

A sharp silence.

Izan’s jaw clenched. "Sales."

She didn’t say it outright. She didn’t need to. The implication was clear.

His name would be on that list. What better way to gain urgent money than to sell your fattened-up cash cow?

Izan pressed a hand against his forehead. "The fans might take it as a betrayal should anything happen. And they haven’t even told me anything?"

"Not yet. But they might not even want to if they think keeping you in the dark is better for negotiations."

The anger came fast, sharp, and hot.

This was his club.

They had not nurtured him that much but they had at least placed some faith in him, showing in his early debut for the club.

And now—after everything—he was hearing about financial problems from his agent instead of them?

Miranda’s voice softened. "Izan, listen to me. We don’t know the full story yet. That’s why I’m going to Valencia first thing tomorrow to talk to them directly.

If something is happening, we’re going to get ahead of it."

Izan exhaled, rubbing his temples. His mind was still whirling, still trying to piece everything together.

"Alright," he muttered. "Alright. Just… tell me everything as soon as you know."

"I will," Miranda assured. Then, a brief pause. "Also… there’s something else."

Izan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course there is."

Miranda’s tone lightened slightly. "Relax. It’s not as heavy as the Valencia thing. Just a little milestone you should be aware of."

He frowned. "What?"

"Five goals."

Izan blinked. "What?"

"If you score five more goals in this tournament, you’ll break the all-time Euros goal record."

A beat of silence.

Izan sat up straight. "Wait—seriously?"

"Yes. Ronaldo and Platini hold it at nine. You’re on 5 right now. That means five more, and you become the highest scorer in the history of the tournament."

His mind went blank for a second.

Five goals. In two matches.

That was it.

Five goals and he would carve his name into history but it would be nigh impossible.

Miranda laughed lightly. "Yeah, let that sink in."

Izan exhaled, shaking his head. "I wasn’t even thinking about that. And we only have two matches left."

This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.

"Well, think about it now. And you scored 2 today. What shows that you can’t bust a hat trick in each of the remaining games should you go to the final."

He chuckled, despite everything. "Yeah. I guess so."

Another pause. Then, Miranda’s voice softened again.

"Get some rest, Izan. You’ve got a lot ahead of you."

He nodded. "I will. And, Miranda… thanks."

"You don’t have to thank me, kid. Just keep doing what you do."

The call ended, leaving Izan sitting in the darkened room, the weight of everything settling on his shoulders.

His mind was still spinning. The goal. The celebrations. The records. The uncertainty.

Valencia.

He clenched his jaw.

No.

Not yet.

For now, he had a tournament to win.

And if the world was watching—

He was going to give them a show they’d never forget?