God Of football

120+2’

Izan—shoulders hunched, breath short—scanned the field—one last chance.

A pass? A shot?

One decision.

Spain surged forward, red blurs against the fading English resistance.

The weight of history pressed down on them, yet Izan carried it like a warrior in his prime.

Rodri, ever the general, looked up. A diagonal ball—sharp, purposeful—sent Dani Olmo into motion on the left flank.

Peter Drury: "Spain’s last breath—one last whisper into the wind. Olmo, eyes up, heart pounding… Is there still time? Is there space?"

Olmo—cornered—felt Declan Rice pressing, his presence like a wall of sheer will.

The England midfielder had been a titan all game, but even Titans had their limits.

Olmo hesitated, his muscles coiled with doubt, just enough to create the illusion that the moment had passed.

But it hadn’t.

A ghost arrived.

Izan.

No one saw him. Not Stones, not Walker, not Pickford, not the thousands of English fans holding their breath, bracing for penalties.

But suddenly, there he was, ghosting in from the right like a shadow slipping through the cracks of fate.

Peter Drury: "Wait—wait—who’s that?! IT’S HIM! IT’S IZAN!"

Olmo didn’t think—a first-time pass, curling away from Stones, curling toward destiny.

The stadium gasped.

Izan, running at full speed, caught it flush—his left foot carving through the air like an artist painting his masterpiece.

[Nexus Flow and Pinpoint Accuracy Fused]

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[ Initiating UNION ]

The sweet mechanical voice rang through his head as the ball left his foot.

A curler.

A dagger.

A shot for eternity.

The ball bent, wicked and precise, beyond Pickford’s despairing reach.

The English goalkeeper, arms outstretched, knew the moment it left Izan’s boot—he was beaten.

He turned his head, praying for mercy but there was none.

The ball curled inside the far post—kissing it—before nestling into the back of the net.

For a second, no one moved.

Then—

Eruption.

GOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL

Peter Drury: "OW, WOW. IZAN! IZAN! THE NAME THAT WILL LIVE FOREVER! FROM THE ASHES OF DESPAIR, HE DELIVERS SPAIN INTO THE LIGHT!

A GOAL THAT BELONGS TO THE AGES! REMEMBER IT! REMEMBER WHERE YOU WERE!

REMEMBER THIS NIGHT! BECAUSE SPAIN, OH SPAIN, THEY ARE GOING TO THE HEAVENS!"

Alan Smith: "OH MY WORD—UNBELIEVABLE. BEYOND UNBELIEVABLE. IN THE LAST SECOND OF EXTRA TIME, SPAIN HAVE SURELY WON IT!

WHO DID HE THINK HE WAS, WAS WHAT THEY SAID. WELL THERE IT IS."

The Spanish fans in Berlin didn’t celebrate—they detonated.

Madrid?

It exploded.

Tables were flipped. Drinks rained from the sky.

Strangers collapsed into each other, screaming, crying, shaking as if their bodies could not contain the sheer force of what had just happened.

Plaza Mayor became a riot of ecstasy.

Spanish flags flooded the streets.

In bars, in homes, in restaurants, people fell to their knees, hands clasped over their faces in disbelief.

Some sobbed. Some roared. Some simply stood still, unable to process what they had just seen.

And the Spanish bench?

Gone.

Every single player sprinted toward Izan.

Luis de la Fuente—usually a figure of measured control—ROARED.

His fists punched the air as he sprinted down the touchline, his staff desperately chasing after him, unable to contain him, unable to control the sheer madness of the moment.

And Izan?

He ran.

Not toward his teammates.

Not toward the corner flag.

He ran straight into the stands—into the soul of Spain itself.

Into the crowd.

He leaped—arms spread, jersey off—into a sea of hands and bodies that swallowed him whole.

They clung to him, held him, kissed him, and screamed his name like a prayer turned into reality.

Peter Drury: "THEY WON’T LET HIM GO! AND WHO CAN BLAME THEM?! THIS IS BEYOND FOOTBALL!

THIS IS IMMORTALITY IN REAL TIME! A MOMENT TO LAST A LIFETIME—A MOMENT TO LAST FOREVER!"

The Spanish bench reached the pile of limbs, diving into the madness, bodies upon bodies celebrating like men who had forgotten how to breathe.

Rodri and Le Normand returned to the pitch and hauled Luis de la Fuente into the air, throwing him skyward as if he were the trophy itself.

And then they turned—they lifted Izan too.

Spain’s new king.

The boy who had won them the Euros.

They hoisted him like a symbol, like a god.

He was theirs, and they were his.

⸻

In the VIP section—

Komi covered her mouth, her eyes shining with tears.

Hori had collapsed into laughter, shaking Olivia as they screamed in disbelief as if their bodies didn’t know how else to react.

Miranda, however? Miranda had dollar signs in her eyes.

Miranda: "Oh, my God. Oh my GOD. Do you know how much money he’s going to make next season?! We’re talking generational wealth. We’re talking statues. We’re talking—"

Komi: "Miranda."

Miranda: "Yes?"

Komi: "Shut up."

Miranda: Ok!

Olivia and Hori burst into laughter, doubling over as Miranda threw her hands up.

And then—

A tap on Miranda’s shoulder.

A man in a black suit. Anonymous. Unreadable.

He handed her a business card.

"You’re Izan’s agent, correct?"

Miranda blinked while taking the card.

"We’d like to talk. After the game." the man said before walking away, leaving Miranda and the rest of the women stunned.

Miranda confused turned the back of the card and-

"Oh Fuc-"

[PG everybody. PG]

⸻

Back on the pitch—

Bellingham stood at the center circle, hands on his hips, his entire body drenched in sweat.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the Spanish players lost in their rapture, the sheer magnitude of their euphoria drowning out everything else.

The dream had slipped from England’s grasp.

And Izan?

Izan had stolen it.

Kane approached, placing a hand on Jude’s shoulder.

[Of course, he did. Really wish he wins something this year]

A silent understanding passed between them.

Some wars aren’t meant to be won.

⸻

The reactions came in instantly.

Twitter/X exploded.

@B/R Football: IZAN. HISTORY.

@Fabrizio Romano: Izan. A name that will echo through football history. More to follow…

@Gary Lineker: Football. Bloody hell. Izan is HIM.

@Real Madrid Fans: Florentino, MOVE. RIGHT NOW.

The entire world had just witnessed a new legend being born.

The referee didn’t even bother restarting the match.

A final whistle.

Spain were champions of Europe.

And Izan?

He had just written his name into eternity.

The explosion of euphoria hadn’t settled—it had only intensified.

Rodri grabbed Izan again, his embrace tight, firm, filled with something beyond words.

Lamine Yamal was next, jumping onto Izan’s back, laughing breathlessly.

"You’re unreal, man," Lamine said, shaking his head. "UNREAL." Continue your saga on Freewebnovel

Then Nico Williams—pure, raw emotion in his eyes. "Bro. Bro. Do you even realize what you just did?!"

Izan didn’t know how to answer. His body felt weightless, as if reality itself had detached from him.

But then—

A sudden force barreled into him.

Luis de la Fuente.

His coach—his manager—his mentor—wrapped him in an iron grip, shaking him, eyes ablaze.

"You," de la Fuente breathed, gripping Izan’s face between his hands. "You madman—you legend—do you have any idea what you’ve just done?!"

Izan exhaled, his lips curving into something between a grin and sheer disbelief.

"I think…" he started, breathless, "I just won us the Euros?"

De la Fuente howled—a sound of pure triumph, of unshackled joy—and pulled Izan into him again.

The Spanish players mobbed them both.

More shouting, more shaking, more laughter—an uncontainable eruption of Spanish pride.

And then—

A camera zoomed in.

Izan turned.

Bellingham stood at the center circle, still motionless, still processing.

Their eyes met.

It was brief, just a flicker of shared understanding in the chaos.

Jude exhaled sharply. Then, after a moment, he lifted a hand.

A small nod.

Izan returned it.

The Spanish players were still lost in the chaos of celebration when the announcement came over the stadium speakers.

"We will now proceed with the individual awards of UEFA Euro 2024."

The roar of the Spanish fans didn’t die down, but a different energy rippled through the air—anticipation.

The players, still breathless, gathered near the podium, draped in their country’s flag, sweat still clinging to their skin.

The first award—Best Young Player of the Tournament.

The announcer barely got the name out before the Spanish squad erupted.

"Lamine Yamal!"

Lamine blinked, stunned for half a second before his teammates shoved him forward.

"This should have been yours," Yamal said when he got to Izan but thw latter just shoved him towards the podium.

"I got a few coming up. I think that’s why they decided to give this to you"

Lamine laughed and nodded. " Yeah. You have" he laughed, shaking his head, before jogging up the podium, arms raised.

One of Spain’s youngest stars. The future is sealed.

Peter Drury: "From the streets of Barcelona to the heights of Europe—Lamine Yamal has arrived, and my word, what a tournament he has had."

The third award—Golden Glove.

The name rang through the speakers.

"Unai Simón!"

The Spanish goalkeeper, still recovering from the madness, let out a deep breath before stepping forward.

If not for him—his saves, his leadership, his presence—Spain wouldn’t be here.

Rodri wrapped an arm around him, grinning. "You deserve it, hermano."

Simón lifted the trophy high, nodding to the Spanish fans, who roared in approval.

And then—

The fourth award.

Golden Boot.

There was no debate. No question. No need for anticipation.

"With 9 goals, equaling Michel Platini’s all-time record for most goals in a single Euros… the Golden Boot goes to—IZAN!"

The stadium detonated.

The Spanish players shoved him forward, hands slapping his back, voices rising in disbelief.

"Go on, Pichichi!" Nico Williams laughed, pushing him toward the stage.

Izan, still overwhelmed, ran a hand through his damp hair before jogging up the podium

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