God Of football-Chapter 303: Cruel Start [2]

Mbappé was flying, his strides eating up the pitch with terrifying ease. Each step felt inevitable, every touch on the ball a declaration of his dominance.

The French fans roared, sensing danger, anticipation crackling through the air.

Carvajal, retreating with everything he had, angled his body, determined to slow the French captain.

He knew he couldn’t stop him alone—but he just needed to stall, just a second, just enough.

And then came the answer.

Izan.

A blur of red.

Like a missile locked onto its target, he surged forward, his electric pace igniting gasps from the crowd.

He was moving faster than anyone else on the pitch, slicing through space, closing the impossible gap with a terrifying inevitability.

The Spanish fans erupted in disbelief.

"Look at Izan! Look at him go! My word, he is flying!"

Peter Drury’s voice trembled with awe.

Mbappé felt the presence before he saw it. A shadow creeping into his periphery. He pushed the ball forward, one more touch to set up the strike—

But Carvajal lunged. A half-second intervention, just enough to force Mbappé slightly wider. It wasn’t much, but it was everything.

Because Izan was there.

Mbappé pulled back his foot—a fraction of space, just enough for the shot. He swung.

Then—

A red flash.

Izan, lunged, throwing his body across, his outstretched leg cutting off the shot at the last possible moment.

A deafening THUMP as the ball ricocheted violently off his boot.

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Gasps. A collective shockwave rippling through the stadium.

"OH, WHAT A BLOCK!"

The French fans groaned in stunned disbelief. The Spanish fans roared in euphoric relief.

The ball spun wildly toward Unai Simón, who reacted sharply, diving forward to clutch it against his chest, cradling it like salvation itself.

Izan, chest heaving, pushed himself off the grass, his face unreadable, but his mind racing.

Mbappé stared at him, the usual confidence in his gaze flickering for just a second before walking away.

Izan had matched him. Step for step.

A new side of Spain’s golden boy had been revealed.

"He’s not just a magician going forward," Drury marveled. "That was defensive brilliance. That was warrior’s instinct. That was Izan proving he is a force at both ends of the pitch!"

And in the stands, thousands of Spanish fans chanted his name.

....

The match had found its rhythm—a tense, gripping battle where neither side could fully assert dominance.

Spain’s youthful exuberance clashed against France’s battle-hardened experience, creating a game of moments—sharp flashes of brilliance, defensive stands, and breathless transitions.

France, rigid in structure, absorbed Spain’s fluid attacks, waiting for the perfect chance to pounce.

Spain on the other hand, fearless and relentless, weaved their intricate patterns, searching for the one thread that would unravel the French defense.

Peter Drury narrated the spectacle with reverence.

"The initial storm has settled, but make no mistake—this remains a knife-edge contest. A game played at the very limits of concentration.

The attacks may not be as frenzied as before, but the threat lingers, always waiting to explode."

Spain held possession in midfield, dictating the tempo with short, sharp passes. Izan, the architect of their movement, adapted to the ebb and flow with an understanding beyond his years.

He was controlling the game like a master at his craft.

There were moments when he darted between defenders, a flick of his boot sending him into open space.

Other times, he slowed things down, shielding the ball, inviting the pressure, and using his body to manipulate the French defense.

Koundé once pressed him near the halfway line, eager to steal possession but Izan absorbed the contact, planting his foot, his balance unshaken.

With a subtle shift of weight, he rolled the ball under his sole and turned, using Koundé’s momentum against him.

The defender stumbled just slightly—enough for Izan to spin free.

But instead of surging forward, he did something different.

He stopped.

Held the ball.

Baited France’s midfield into collapsing toward him.

"And this is where he shows his intelligence," Drury noted. "Izan is not just a sprinter. He is a thinker too. He slows it down, he draws the opposition in, and then—"

A flash.

A disguised pass, cut through the heart of midfield, slipping between Rabiot and Camavinga like a blade.

Pedri, already reading the play, darted onto it.

Gasps rippled through the Munich crowd.

Pedri surged forward, eyes scanning for an opening, but Theo Hernández reacted quickly, cutting off the angle before Spain could exploit the space.

France cleared, but the warning had been sent.

Izan adjusted his wristbands, watching the play unfold with calm focus. He wasn’t frustrated. He was calculating.

And when Spain regained possession, he did it again.

Receiving the ball on the right flank, Izan allowed the game to breathe for just a second.

Koundé, still wary from the last exchange, stepped in cautiously.

Izan dropped his shoulder. A feint.

Then, with sudden sharpness, he spun away—his movement so clean, so precise, that Koundé barely reacted in time.

Upamecano rushed in.

Izan, already a step ahead, flicked the ball past him with the outside of his foot, his frame twisting away as if moving through the eye of a storm.

He had space now. He had vision.

And he saw Nico Williams.

The run had already begun, a streak of red bursting down the left flank, calling for the ball.

And Izan delivered.

Not with a simple pass. Not with a driven ball.

With something audacious.

Something magical.

He struck the ball with the outside of his foot, sending it forward with wicked precision. But it didn’t fly in a straight line.

No—this was different.

It zigzagged.

A deceptive, curling masterpiece, veering inward just enough to bait Koundé into stepping toward it—only for the ball to suddenly bend outward, twisting mid-flight as if it had a mind of its own.

It landed perfectly into Nico’s path, bypassing the entire French defensive setup in one stunning stroke.

"Oh, my word!" Drury gasped. "That… that is wizardry! A pass that defies the laws of physics! Izan—take a bow!"

The Spanish fans erupted in applause, recognizing the brilliance of what they had just witnessed. Even those neutral to the contest had to admire it.

It was the kind of pass that belonged in highlight reels. The kind that made defenders question reality.

And just like that, Spain were in again.

Nico, eyes alight with intent, controlled the ball in stride, his body tilting forward as he tore down the left flank.

Nico Williams streaked down the left, the ball glued to his feet as he tore past Pavard, his blistering pace forcing the French defense into full retreat.

The Munich crowd rose in anticipation of what could happen in the following minutes.

Pedri sprinted to support. Morata made his run into the box. But Nico had already spotted his target.

Izan.

Hovering just outside the penalty area, his posture loose, his eyes scanning, his mind moving faster than the game itself.

The ball rolled toward him and before anyone could approach, he caught it with the inside of his boot, his first touch immaculate, killing the momentum but not the danger.

Upamecano and Camavinga converged but Izan didn’t panic.

With the smoothest of movements, he rolled the ball forward with his sole, barely shifting his body weight—just enough to make Upamecano hesitate.

Then, like a magician revealing his trick, he flicked his boot upward, lifting the ball delicately over the defense.

A pass disguised as a whisper.

A pass only Morata could reach.

Gasps rippled through the stands as the ball arced over Koundé, dipping perfectly onto Morata’s path inside the six-yard box.

The striker struck first time, a low, precise shot toward the bottom corner.

Maignan lunged.

He couldn’t reach it.

But Koundé did.

A desperate lunge. A last-second clearance.

The ball bounced off his shin, hit the crossbar, and spun away, inches from the line, denying Spain what seemed an inevitable goal.

"Spain were there! Inches! CENTIMETERS away from taking the lead!"

Peter Drury’s voice cracked with excitement.

The Spanish bench reacted, hands on heads, shouts of disbelief.

Izan exhaled sharply, already backpedaling, already reading the next moment. Because this wasn’t over.

France weren’t just clearing.

They were countering.

And it was deadly.

Tchouaméni recovered the loose ball, lifting his head immediately. A single glance. That was all it took.

A raking, diagonal pass.

Mbappé—already on the move.

The stadium roared.

He controlled it on the run, an effortless touch that sent him flying into open space, like a predator released into the wild.

"Now it’s the French’s time to attack"

Carvajal sprinted, Rodri tracked back, but there was something inevitable about what was coming.

Like a predator sensing weakness, France pounced.

Mbappé, a blur of blue, devoured the space ahead of him. Carvajal lunged, stretching every fiber in his body—but he never stood a chance.

A simple touch. A devastating shift of weight.

Mbappé skipped past him like he wasn’t even there.

The stadium held its breath.

Rodri charged in—a desperate last stand—but Mbappé didn’t even look at him.

Because he had already seen the finish.

The pass.

One touch, perfectly weighted, slid through the seams of Spain’s unraveling defense.

The ball didn’t just reach Kolo Muani, It summoned him.

He arrived at full tilt, unmarked, unchallenged while the moment of silence stretched thin—

Then—

A clean, ruthless strike.

The ball flew.

Unai Simón dived—arms outstretched, fingertips grazing air—

He couldn’t reach it.

A sickening ripple.

The net bulged.

Goal.

1-0, France.

An explosion of sound.

French fans erupted, voices crashing together in a wild, deafening roar.

"KOLO MUANI!!!"

Peter Drury’s voice soared above the chaos.

"AND JUST LIKE THAT—FRANCE STRIKE FIRST! SPAIN WERE IN CONTROL, BUT FOOTBALL DOES NOT WAIT FOR PERMISSION! IT PUNISHES HESITATION! AND FRANCE—WITH ICE IN THEIR VEINS—HAVE LANDED THE FIRST BLOW! AND NOT OFTEN SEEN AS THAT BUT NICE ASSIST BY MBAPPE"

The Spanish players stood frozen.

Rodri, hands on his hips, exhaled sharply.

Carvajal buried his face in his sleeve.

Izan… stared at the ball inside the net.

Their goal was almost inevitable but now, under the bright Munich lights, they were the ones chasing.