God Of football-Chapter 302: Cruel Start [1]

The noise hit like a wave. The moment their boots touched the grass, the stadium erupted into an explosion of chants, cheers, and deafening whistles.

This was it.

The semi-final of the Euros. Spain vs. France.

As the players spread out for the national anthems, the cameras zoomed in on the key figures.

Mbappé, the face of French football. Pedri, the orchestrator of Spain. Izan, the rising star.

The world was watching.

....

"Under the floodlights of Munich, two giants collide. Spain, youthful and fearless, against France, seasoned and relentless.

A battle of generations, a clash of philosophies. The elegance of La Roja against the ruthlessness of Les Bleus."

"And what a story it has been for this Spanish side. A team reborn. The veterans provide the spine—Rodri, Morata, Carvajal—but it is the youth that has stolen the headlines.

Lamine Yamal, the prodigy. Nico Williams, the electrifier. Pedri, the artist. And Izan—Spain’s sensation, the one who has made this tournament his stage."

"They have dazzled, they have conquered, and now they stand one step away from the final.

But in their path, the might of France. The reigning world champions know what it takes.

They have seen the bright lights before. And they will not bow easily."

"It is a night for the bold. A night for the brave. And a night that will be remembered for years to come. My name is Peter Drury and I’ll be your host for this exciting fixture"

.....

[A few days ago]

Days before the match, Adrien Rabiot had made headlines with his comments.

The French midfielder had dismissed Spain’s young core, saying experience would be the difference.

"They’re talented, but talent isn’t enough. We’ve been here before. We know how to win these games. Let’s see if they do."

It sparked debates and fueled discussions. The Spanish youth had been questioned before, but they had answered every time. And this time, they answered together.

Hours before kickoff, Lamine Yamal posted on social media.

"Doubt us if you want. We’ll keep showing you."

A photo accompanied the message—Lamine, Nico, Pedri, and Izan, arms around each other in training.

A united front.

A reminder, that this was about finishing what they started.

...…..

The captains stepped forward for the coin toss—Morata for Spain, Mbappé for France—meeting the referee at the center circle.

The official, standing tall between them, exchanged brief words, ensuring both understood the rules before flipping the coin high into the air.

Morata called it. The coin landed. The referee glanced down and nodded toward the French captain.

"France wins the toss," he announced, pointing towards the side of the pitch they would attack first.

Mbappé nodded and turned toward his teammates. Spain would kick off.

Izan stood among the Spanish ranks, rolling his shoulders as he watched the brief exchange.

A few feet away, Pedri adjusted his shin guards, Nico Williams bounced lightly on his toes, and Lamine flicked his gaze toward the French midfielders, his expression unreadable.

As the two captains shook hands, Mbappé turned slightly, eyes locking onto Izan’s again before going back to his side of the pitch.

This match was a meeting of talent, ambition, and the relentless pursuit of glory.

The referee signaled for the teams to get into position.

The pleasantries were over.

Now, it was war.

....

Peter Drury’s voice carried the weight of the occasion, painting the battlefield before the first blow was even struck.

"And so, under the bright lights of Munich, two footballing giants lock horns. Spain, youthful, fearless, and eager to reclaim lost glory.

France, experienced, ruthless, and unwilling to let go of their throne."

"This is a clash of generations. A test of belief, of talent, of nerve."

"The lineups tell their own stories—Spain’s dazzling attack led by the exuberance of Lamine Yamal, Nico Williams, and Morata.

Behind them, the steady hands of Pedri and Rodri dictate the rhythm, while Izan dictates. And then, at the back, a line of warriors stand ready."

"For France, it is a side built for war. Kylian Mbappé, the captain, the talisman, the inevitable force.

Antoine Griezmann, the architect. Eduardo Camavinga, the engine. And a backline forged in steel, with Dayot Upamecano and Jules Koundé guarding Maignan’s goal."

"It is a night where heroes will rise. A night where history will be written."

"The whistle sounds. Spain vs. France. And Spain—oh, Spain—have come to fight!"

The moment the ball rolled, Pedri’s pass zipped across the grass, finding Lamine Yamal before France had even settled.

Camavinga closed in, but he was already beaten.

Lamine’s first touch was sharp, his second even sharper, and suddenly, the teenager was gliding past him, leaving the French midfielder grasping at air.

"Oh, and Yamal is away! A flick, a burst, and he is flying!"

The Munich crowd roared as Spain surged forward with intent. The French defense backpedaled.

Lamine’s vision was razor-sharp, his eyes scanning the field in a split second. He spotted it—an opening, a lane, a golden path.

Izan was moving.

Lamine didn’t hesitate. His pass was perfectly threaded, slicing between Upamecano and Koundé like a dagger.

Izan exploded forward.

Koundé reacted a fraction too late, his boots churning the grass as he tried to recover.

But Izan was already there, already taking his first touch to shift the ball inside, his body moving with the confidence of a player who knew what came next.

The goal was in sight. The crowd held its breath.

"And Izan is through! It’s opened up for him—this could be an electric start!"

Upamecano lunged, but Izan ghosted past him, his right foot cocking back, his entire frame coiling like a spring.

This was it.

His strike was clean, precise, and brutal. A bullet hurtling toward the bottom corner, the kind that usually rippled the net before the goalkeeper even saw it.

The Spanish fans got up, ready to celebrate a legendary start to a Euro semi-final and it should have been a goal.

But Mike Maignan had other plans.

A blur of yellow shot across the frame. The French goalkeeper stretched out an impossible hand, fingertips grazing the ball at full extension, altering its course by the barest of margins.

For a split second, time seemed to pause. The stadium inhaled.

Then—

A loud thump as the ball deflected off Maignan’s glove and spun past the post.

No goal.

"Oh, MAIGNAN! That is outrageous! That is breathtaking! Izan struck it true, struck it clean, but Maignan—oh, Maignan—has just torn a goal away from him with a save that defies belief!"

Izan exhaled sharply, his hands on his hips, eyes flicking toward the goalkeeper in stunned disbelief. That had been perfect. That had been a goal.

Maignan pushed himself up, his expression cool, unfazed, as if he had expected to make that save all along.

Izan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling as he glanced up at the scoreboard.

"I would want to see his trait but tell me if it’s bad first" Izan issued with a mental gesture causing Max to wiggle slightly.

"I’m cooked" he muttered.

But there was no time to dwell.

He jogged toward the corner flag, the ball already nestled in place.

The Spanish fans behind the goal were still buzzing, hands in their hair, groaning at what had just unfolded.

But Izan didn’t let it shake him. He could still make this count.

A deep breath. A measured step back.

His delivery was inch-perfect. The ball curled menacingly into the six-yard box, dipping at the last moment. A nightmare for defenders.

Le Normand rose highest. His header connected—but it lacked power, direction, everything it needed.

The ball floated harmlessly into Maignan’s grasp.

Spain groaned again.

Maignan wasted no time.

With a single glance, he spotted his target.

Mbappé.

Lurking near the halfway line, barely marked, coiled like a spring.

The French goalkeeper hurled the ball with unerring precision, sending it arcing through the air, cutting through Spain’s high press like a knife through butter.

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The stadium gasped.

"Oh, and here they come! Spain thought they had them pinned, but in an instant, France have flipped the script!

From one end to the other, Maignan to Mbappé—this is what they do! This is why they are feared!"

Mbappé’s acceleration was devastating. One touch to control, another to burst into space.

Carvajal scrambled back. Laporte turned his head, scanning frantically, realizing they were exposed.

And just like that, Spain were the ones gasping for air.

The roar of the French fans grew, rising with every step Mbappé took.

Izan had barely turned around from the corner when he saw it—the blur of blue, the unfolding disaster. His stomach twisted.

Spain had started like a storm.

But France had answered with lightning.

On the touchline, Luis de la Fuente was a storm of motion. Arms flailing, voice cutting through the chaos.

He bellowed instructions with the urgency of a man seeing his worst nightmare unfold.

"Get back! Dani, hold your ground!" His suit jacket flapped as he gestured frantically, demanding structure, demanding discipline.

But even as Carvajal struggled to retreat, one figure had already reacted. Izan. A blur of red, tearing across the pitch, his terrifying speed eating up the distance.

Eyes locked on Mbappé, heart pounding, he chased like a predator, desperate to halt the French captain’s charge.