God Of football-Chapter 267: Next Stop-Germany

[In The Evening]

The recreational room at Las Rozas was buzzing. Some players lounged on the sofas, scrolling through their phones.

Others were at the gaming setup, where Nico Williams and Lamine Yamal were deep into a heated FC match, both were trying so hard not to curse at the screen.

In the middle of the room, Izan sat with Pedri, Rodri, and Morata, the four of them idly chatting when Pedri suddenly leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Alright," he said, setting his phone down. "I’ve got a challenge."

Rodri raised an eyebrow. "This better not be another dumb FIFA bet."

Pedri smirked. "It’s football-related. And fair for everyone."

Now, everyone was listening.

"Go on," Morata said.

Pedri leaned back, stretching his arms. "Since we’re heading to the Euros, let’s see who’s got the best tournament mentality."

Izan tilted his head. "And how exactly do we measure that?"

Pedri grinned. "Simple. We play a ’Golden Goal Gauntlet.’ One-on-one, rotating attackers and defenders.

The first person to score wins the round, stays in. Loser swaps out. But here’s the twist—you can only take one touch before shooting. No dribbles, no second chances."

A ripple of excitement spread through the room.

"That’s actually good," Rodri admitted.

"Fast decisions, precise finishing," Morata mused. "I like it."

Lamine, hearing the challenge from across the room, turned around. "Wait, we’re doing this? I’m in."

Nico Williams abandoned his FIFA match entirely. "Nah, this sounds too fun to miss."

Within minutes, the players had shifted the furniture to clear space in the middle of the room. The setup was simple:

• One player would start as the attacker.

• Another would defend.

• The attacker received a pass from a neutral player and had one touch to score past an imaginary goal (marked by two chairs).

• If the attacker scored, they stayed. If they missed or got blocked, the defender stayed and the attacker rotated out.

And First to five would win.

—

The two players that began the golden gauntlet were Lamine and Nico.

Lamine received the first pass, flicked it instantly with the outside of his boot, and sent it toward the makeshift goal—only for Nico to block it at the last second with his foot.

"Defender stays!" Pedri announced.

Next up, Morata.

His sequence was cold-blooded—a quick touch, then a perfect finish.

"Striker’s mentality," Morata shrugged as Nico groaned, swapping out.

Then came Izan.

The ball came to him, and before anyone could react, he had already clipped it over Morata with a subtle flick of his boot. The ball dropped perfectly into the goal.

"Bro," Lamine muttered, shaking his head.

Nico whistled. "Nah, that was dirty."

Morata, laughing, clapped his hands. "Alright, now I’m taking this seriously."

—

Round after round, players rotated in and out, but one matchup started drawing the most attention.

Izan vs. Rodri.

Rodri was impossible to shake. His positioning—just like in training—was flawless. Twice, he read Izan’s intentions before the ball even arrived, cutting off passing lanes and forcing mistakes.

"Again," Izan muttered, stepping back into position.

Pedri rolled the ball toward him. Izan took a split-second glance at Rodri’s stance.

Then, he moved.

Instead of going for a direct shot, he let the ball run past him, using his speed to shift around Rodri’s block.

Before the midfielder could react, Izan slammed the ball into the net.

A brief silence.

Then, Lamine burst out laughing. "He studied you, Rodri!"

Rodri exhaled, shaking his head. "That’s what I get for teaching him too much."

Izan just grinned. "I learn fast."

—-

Eventually, it came down to two players with four points each.

Izan and Morata.

The squad gathered closer. This was the real test—Spain’s youngest and fastest star against their most clinical finisher.

[Pfttttt. That’s why this is a novel. No hard feelings Morata]

Pedri rolled the ball toward Izan.

Izan’s touch was immediate, a quick side-foot shot toward the bottom corner.

But Morata had anticipated it. He lunged, deflecting the shot with his thigh.

Groans and cheers erupted as Izan stepped aside, shaking his head.

"One chance," Morata murmured, stepping up to his turn.

Pedri sent the ball toward him.

Without hesitation, Morata backheeled it straight into the goal.

The room exploded.

"NAH, GET OUT!" Nico shouted, laughing.

Lamine grabbed his head. "He really did that."

Morata, grinning, threw his arms up. "I told you. Striker’s mentality."

Izan chuckled in response " Respect" he added before walking to his seat.

...….

[Next Day]

The morning at Las Rozas was a blur of activity. Players and staff moved with purpose, finalizing their last preparations before boarding the flight to Germany for the European Championship.

Cameras flashed as media members gathered near the gates, eager for any updates before Spain’s highly anticipated tournament run.

Inside the medical wing, players underwent their final pre-flight checkups—a routine but necessary step.

Rodri, ever composed, finished his flexibility test and stepped aside as Izan took his turn.

"You good?" the Manchester City midfielder asked.

"Yeah," Izan nodded, stretching his leg out as the physio made notes. "Easy stuff."

Nico Williams, however, wasn’t as calm. He was seated a few booths over, eyeing the needle in the nurse’s hand with exaggerated suspicion.

"Man, I swear they take more blood every year," Nico grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

Pedri, standing nearby, laughed. "Relax. You act like you’re not built like a machine."

Across the room, Lamine Yamal finished his tests and clapped his hands together. "Alright, who’s ready to go off in Germany?"

"First, let’s get there in one piece," Morata responded dryly, stretching his arms.

Once cleared, the players moved into the gym for a light activation session.

Luis de la Fuente and his staff observed as the squad went through mobility drills, jogging lightly, stretching, and working on quick footwork to keep their muscles primed before the flight.

Though the session wasn’t intense, competition still brewed among the younger players.

Lamine and Nico turned the agility drills into an impromptu race, darting through the cones at full speed while their teammates egged them on.

"Last one through is washing our boots!" Nico yelled.

Pedri, watching from the side, smirked. "Imagine spending energy before a six-hour flight."

Even in a casual setting, the group’s competitive fire burned strong.

By noon, the squad had showered and changed into their official Spain travel suits—polished navy blazers, crisp white shirts, and deep red ties.

As they exited Las Rozas, cameras flashed from all directions, capturing every moment of their departure.

On the bus ride to Madrid-Barajas Airport, the atmosphere was lively. Some players reclined in their seats, scrolling through their phones, while others engaged in animated discussions about the Euros group stage matchups.

Morata and Rodri sat toward the front, chatting quietly with De la Fuente and his assistant coaches.

Further back, Izan sat beside Pedri, the two exchanging thoughts on Spain’s potential knockout round opponents.

"You think England is as strong as people say?" Izan asked.

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Pedri shrugged. "They’ve got crazy talent, but tournaments aren’t won on paper. We’ll see if they handle the pressure."

The conversation was cut short when Lamine turned around from the seat ahead of them.

"Who’s placing bets on the first person to fall asleep on the flight?"

"Nico," Izan and Pedri said at the same time.

"Bro, what?" Nico protested.

The players burst into laughter Nico’s retort.

The team arrived at the private departure terminal, where reporters, fans, and airport staff had gathered to see them off.

The media, sensing a story in every interaction, bombarded the players with questions as they walked through security.

"Izan! How do you feel about your first senior tournament?" a journalist called out.

Izan glanced over, adjusting the strap of his backpack. "Excited."

The reporter pushed for more. "Do you feel pressure after the season you just had with Valencia?"

Izan only offered a small smile. "Football is pressure."

Nearby, Morata and Rodri handled the heavier questions.

"Do you think Spain is one of the favorites this year?"

Rodri, ever measured, responded, "We believe in our team, but we know every game will be a challenge. We have to prove everything on the pitch."

"What do you think about the squad selections? Any surprises?"

Morata, unfazed, simply said, "The coach made his choices. Now it’s up to us to deliver."

Some reporters, already stirring debates online, were focused on the players who hadn’t been gotten the chance to be called up.

Fans lined the airport barriers, waving Spanish flags and snapping pictures as the players passed through.

Some lucky ones got autographs and selfies, while others shouted their favorite players’ names.

The anticipation was undeniable—Spain was heading to the Euros, and expectations were sky-high.

As the team reached their private jet, they spotted the massive aircraft with "Selección Española de Fútbol" emblazoned along the side.

Inside, the seating was spacious, designed for comfort on the journey to Germany.

Some players claimed window seats immediately—Lamine being the first, much to no one’s surprise.

"Window seat secured," he declared proudly.

Nico, taking the seat beside him, shook his head. "Watch him fall asleep in two minutes."

Rodri, already settling in, chuckled. "I give him one."

Izan chose a seat near Pedri again, plugging in his headphones as the engines began to roar to life.

As the aircraft taxied down the runway, the squad exchanged glances. Some were relaxed. Others, like Morata, sat deep in thought.

This was it.