God Of football-Chapter 299: Breaking Point

The morning after the Germany match, the Spanish camp was quieter than expected.

Not silent—Spain had just eliminated the tournament hosts, and the energy from the win still lingered—but there was a shift.

The euphoria of last night was beginning to settle, replaced by the creeping weight of what lay ahead.

Izan woke up later than usual, sunlight slipping through the curtains of his hotel room.

His body ached in that satisfying way that only came after a war on the pitch. His mind, though, was restless.

His phone was a mess. Notifications flooded every app—congratulations, analysis, memes of Rüdiger hitting the floor, Neuer’s reaction to the chip, the endless debates about whether Spain had just become the tournament favorites. His name was everywhere.

Izan sighed and set the phone aside, running a hand through his hair.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts.

"Breakfast," came Pedri’s voice.

Izan got up, stretching as he walked over. He opened the door to find Pedri, Rodri, and Dani Olmo waiting.

"You’re up late," Rodri smirked, handing him a banana from the plate he was carrying.

"Let the kid rest," Olmo added. "He ran Germany ragged last night."

Izan chuckled, stepping aside to let them in. The team usually ate downstairs together, but on recovery days like this, small groups would gather in rooms instead, talking about the match, upcoming games, or whatever was making the rounds in football news.

They settled in, stretching out across the chairs and bed.

"So," Pedri started, taking a bite of toast, "do you feel it yet?"

Izan frowned. "Feel what?"

"The shift," Pedri said. "This isn’t just a good tournament for you anymore. You’ve crossed into something else. You’re the story now."

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Rodri nodded. "Germany wasn’t just another knockout game. You didn’t just play well—you took them apart.

The football world sees you differently today than they did yesterday."

Izan exhaled. " Come on guys. Not you too. I’ve seen a lot on my phone since waking up. Let’s not go o-"

Before he could continue, Lamine Yamal and Nico Williams barged in, still laughing about something.

"You see the latest?" Nico grinned, flipping his phone to show a meme. It was a still of Rüdiger mid-slide, exaggerated with motion blur, next to a picture of a fish flopping out of water. The caption? Rest in peace, Rüdiger. Killed by Izan Hernandez.

Izan rolled his eyes, but a small laugh escaped.

"You lot have too much time on your hands."

Lamine grinned. "Bro, we just have to keep you humble."

Rodri smirked. "Enjoy it. Not every day you embarrass one of the best defenders in the world on this stage."

Izan only shook his head, but deep down, he knew it was bigger than just a viral moment. This goal, this performance—it meant something.

...…..

Later that evening, the entire Spanish squad gathered in one of the hotel lounges, watching the Portugal vs. France quarterfinal.

The room was packed, players sprawled across couches and chairs, some leaning forward in anticipation, others casually eating from the spread of snacks the staff had set up.

The mood was relaxed, but there was an underlying awareness—whoever won this match would be their next opponent.

Izan sat between Pedri and Aymeric Laporte, watching as Cristiano Ronaldo led Portugal onto the field, his face set in stone.

"Could be his last Euros game," Laporte murmured.

Pedri nodded. "Crazy to think about. He’s been here forever."

The game was tense. France had the better chances early on, but Portugal were resilient, holding them off.

Ronaldo wasn’t as electric as in his prime, but his presence alone was a constant threat. Every time the ball got near him, the stadium held its breath.

When the match reached extra time still at 0-0, the tension in the Spanish camp rose. Players leaned in, murmuring strategies, debating who looked more vulnerable.

Then, penalties.

Ronaldo stepped up first and scored, calm as ever and doing the same as his Idol, Mbappé responded the same way.

Each kick felt heavier than the last. Then came João Félix. He stepped up, struck the ball cleanly—

And hit the post.

Gasps filled the lounge. Félix clutched his head in disbelief.

France buried their next penalty. Then another.

When Theo Hernández scored the decisive kick, it was over.

Ronaldo stood frozen, staring at the Portuguese fans, his eyes unreadable.

Izan swallowed. The camera zoomed in on him, his expression tightening as he turned away, walking off the pitch.

It was done. One of the greatest careers in football history had just ended its European Championship chapter.

Silence hung in the Spanish camp for a moment.

"Man," Nico whispered. "That’s tough."

Pedri exhaled. "You think that’s it for him?"

Rodri nodded slowly. "Maybe. Or maybe he’ll push for one last World Cup."

Izan didn’t say anything. He just watched as Ronaldo disappeared down the tunnel, knowing that, one day, he could face that same moment.

But not today.

For now, his tournament was still alive.

....

Luis de la Fuente didn’t waste any time.

The next morning, as Spain gathered for their team meeting, he made it clear: the celebrations were over.

"France," he started, his tone sharp, "is different from Germany."

A screen behind him lit up with tactical breakdowns—Mbappé’s heatmaps, Griezmann’s movement, Rabiot’s passing networks.

"They are disciplined, physical, and dangerous in transition. Against Portugal, they absorbed pressure and punished mistakes.

They will not let us play as freely as we did against Germany."

[ They always say this only for Izan to dismantle the team but let’s just play along, Kay.]

He turned to face them.

"If we give them space, they will kill us."

The room was silent. Every player understood.

France had just ended Portugal’s dreams. If Spain weren’t careful, they would be next.

De la Fuente gestured to the coaching staff. "We’ll have an intense session tomorrow. Recovery today, analysis, and then we prepare. No distractions."

Izan’s jaw tightened.

No distractions.

Except one.

After the meeting, as players split off, he pulled out his phone and opened his messages.

Miranda: Call me when you’re free.

His stomach twisted. He hadn’t spoken to her since yesterday. And after what she’d told him about Valencia’s financial situation…

He exhaled and walked outside, finding a quiet spot before dialing.

She picked up on the second ring.

"You’ve been busy," she greeted.

Izan leaned against the railing. "You find anything out?"

A pause. Then—

"Yeah. And it’s not great."

His grip on the phone tightened. "How bad?"

Miranda sighed. "Valencia’s finances are worse than we thought. There are serious talks about player sales. And, Izan… you’re at the top of the list."

A slow, cold anger settled in his chest.

"They haven’t even spoken to me," he muttered.

"They probably won’t," she said. "Not unless they have to."

Izan exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching.

He wasn’t ready for this. Not in the middle of a tournament.

But clearly, Valencia was.

"I will not focus on it," he muttered. "For now, I have a game to win."

Miranda’s voice softened. "I know. And Izan… whatever happens, we’ll make sure it’s on your terms."

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it

...

The mood inside Valencia’s boardroom was grim.

Club president Layhoon Chan sat at the head of the long mahogany table, fingers interlocked, listening as the finance team laid out the cold, unforgiving truth.

[Okay guys, Valencia’s president-like figure is a Singaporean financial adviser called Layhoon Chan.

I’ve been using the old president for a while so I decided to change it to match real life.]

Around her, executives, directors, and legal advisors sat in silence, the weight of reality settling over them like a suffocating fog.

"We’ve exhausted every alternative," one of the financial officers admitted, adjusting his glasses.

"The sponsorship deals we pursued didn’t bring in enough liquidity. The stadium rights negotiations have stalled. And LaLiga’s financial control committee is breathing down our necks."

Javier Solís, the club’s corporate director, leaned forward. "What about restructuring our debts? Pushing for more time?"

"We’ve already done that," the finance officer responded. "The league isn’t buying it anymore. We need immediate revenue, or we’ll be in violation of financial fair play."

Layhoon exhaled sharply, her gaze flicking to the man sitting quietly at the far end of the table.

Miguel Ángel Corona, Valencia’s sporting director. He had been the one pushing hardest to avoid player sales. He believed in this squad. But even he knew that belief wasn’t enough.

"LaLiga is already on us," the finance officer continued. "They want a clear financial plan before the window closes, or we’ll be blocked from making new signings.

And if we don’t act soon, they’ll start imposing sanctions."

Layhoon pinched the bridge of her nose. This was what they had been trying to avoid.

Selling key players wasn’t just a financial decision—it was a death sentence for the project they had spent years trying to build.

Corona finally spoke, his voice measured but tense. "If it comes to player sales… we have to control the narrative. We cannot look desperate, or clubs will lowball us."

"Control the narrative?" one of the directors scoffed. "The moment news gets out, every club in Europe will know we’re vulnerable."

A heavy silence followed.

Then, Layhoon broke it.

"Who’s on the list?"

Corona hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he picked up a document and slid it forward.

"The ones we can actually sell for significant money," he said.

Layhoon glanced down.

The first name on the list?

Izan Hernandez.

She closed her eyes for a moment. This was always going to happen. He was their golden boy, their most valuable asset.

They had hoped Champions League qualification would stabilize the club, but the financial hole was deeper than they had admitted—deeper than they had even told the players.

"What offers have we received?" she asked.

Corona hesitated. "Nothing official yet. Clubs are circling, but no one wants to move first. They know we’re in trouble."

Layhoon looked up. "Then we need to start serious conversations. Izan is at the Euros. The moment Spain’s tournament ends, things will move fast."

A murmur spread across the room. Some executives looked uneasy. Others resigned.

"Are we informing him?" one of them asked.

Layhoon shook her head. "Not yet."

But deep down, she knew—he would have already found out. If not then she prayed it stayed the same.