God Of football-Chapter 295: Heartbreak

The stadium was a cauldron of tension, bubbling with energy, as the final ten minutes of normal time ticked away.

The scoreboard flashed Spain 2 – 2 Germany, but neither team had any intention of settling for extra time.

Spain surged forward with fresh hunger, while Germany, relentless in their counterattacks, refused to back down.

The match had transformed into a battlefield, both sides throwing themselves into challenges, running on fumes, but driven by the desire to find that one decisive moment.

Every pass felt like a risk, every movement laced with desperation.

And the fans—oh, the fans—were living through every second of it.

The Spanish supporters, voices hoarse from the relentless chanting, leaned forward in their seats, hands clasped together in hope and anxiety.

Meanwhile, the German fans drummed their feet in the stands, roaring encouragement with every touch of the ball.

This wasn’t just a match anymore.

This was war.

85’

Chaos unfolded on the pitch after Pedri weaved his way through midfield, his feet dancing over the ball as he evaded Kroos with a quick feint.

With a flick of his boot, he slipped the ball through to Nico Williams, who exploded into the final third.

The German defense scrambled back.

Williams cut inside, eyes locked on goal. He wound up for the shot but then—

Thump!

A crunching tackle.

Antonio Rüdiger lunged in, his boot meeting the ball cleanly just as Williams fired. The ball ricocheted upward, spinning wildly into the night sky before dropping near the edge of the area.

Izan was already moving.

He rushed forward, chesting the ball down, feeling a German shadow closing in. He turned sharply, about to lay it off but then once again,

THUD!

He went flying.

Joshua Kimmich had bulldozed into him from behind, sending him sprawling onto the grass.

The Spanish bench erupted, furious.

De la Fuente stormed to the edge of his technical area, arms raised. "¡Eso es falta! ¡Eso es falta!(That’s a foul)"

But the referee—cold, unmoved—simply gestured for play to continue.

Boos cascaded from the Spanish fans but the German players weren’t shook.

Kimmich wasted no time recovering the ball and immediately releasing it forward, launching Germany into another devastating counterattack.

Germany stormed forward.

The ball was worked wide to Florian Wirtz, who surged down the left flank, his pace electric.

Cucurella, already drained, tried to keep up, but Sané was too quick.

Wirtz twisted his body and whipped a cross into the box. It was dangerous—low, driven, and fast.

Le Normand and Laporte lunged to clear it, but neither could reach in time.

And then—

A sudden stoppage.

The ball smacked off Marc Cucurella’s outstretched hand.

For half a second, the stadium froze.

Then came the German screams.

Arms shot up, and voices roared. "HANDBALL! HANDBALL!"

Cucurella’s face twisted in horror as he immediately turned to the referee who seemed to not have seen.

The match was about to continue but then the referee immediately blew his whistle and pointed to the spot.

Penalty.

The Stuttgart Arena or the German fans exploded.

The Spanish players swarmed the referee, furious.

Rodri led the protests, his voice sharp. "No, no! That was unintentional! He couldn’t get out of the way!"

Cucurella shook his head frantically, pleading his case, but the referee wasn’t interested.

On the touchline, De la Fuente’s hands clenched into fists. "MALDITA SEA,(Damn)" he cursed under his breath.

But there was no changing the decision.

Germany had a penalty.

And Spain’s Euro hopes were hanging by a thread.

Wirtz stepped up, placing the ball carefully on the spot as the whole stadium watched on.

He took a deep breath.

Unai Simón, standing tall on the goal line, rolled his shoulders. His eyes burned with focus, reading every little movement.

The stadium buzzed with anticipation as the referee signaled them ready before blowing the whistle.

Wirtz took his run-up—

And then struck.

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A smooth, placed shot toward the bottom right corner.

Simón dove—

But he was a split second too late.

The ball kissed the inside of the post and nestled into the net.

Wirtz wheeled away, arms spread wide, screaming in triumph as his teammates mobbed him.

Martin Tyler:

"GERMANY LEAD AGAIN! FLORIAN WIRTZ FROM THE SPOT—AND IS THAT THE GOAL TO SEND THEM INTO THE SEMI-FINALS?"

"A nightmare for Spain! They have battled so hard to level it, only to concede a penalty at the worst possible time. And now, with just minutes left… can they respond?"

Cucurella covered his face, devastated while Rodri let out a frustrated growl.

As Wirtz and his German teammates celebrated, the scene cut to the other side of the world.

Valencia’s training facility—where Jaume Doménech, Hugo Guillamón, and Fran Perez among others sat motionless in front of the screen.

The entire squad had gathered to watch, expecting a battle, but now their worst fears were unfolding.

Jaume let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Mierda…"

"That might be it," Guillamón muttered, his fingers gripping the armrest of his chair.

Fran didn’t speak. He simply stared at the screen, his face unreadable.

Across Spain, in Madrid, thousands of fans at Plaza Mayor slumped in disbelief. Some buried their heads in their hands, others simply stood still, staring at the giant screen.

A teenager in an Izan jersey punched the air in frustration. "How is that a penalty?!"

His father sighed. "It’s over, kid."

Meanwhile, in Tokyo, inside a dimly lit room, Komi and Hori sat on the edge of their seats while Komi’s parents stared at the television before glancing at each other in resignation.

Komi held her breath. "Izan…"

Hori eyes wet, arms wrapped around her knees, simply whispered, "Not yet. He said I’d come for the final"

...…..

On the pitch, Izan stood still for a moment, eyes fixed on the German celebrations, then exhaled sharply.

"I’ve been too worried about a lot of useless things" Izan muttered, his expression lifeless as he glanced toward the ball in his net.

With fury burning in his veins, Izan grabbed the ball from the net and sprinted back to the center circle.

...….

[England Camp]

Jude Bellingham leaned back against the couch, watching the celebration unfold surrounded by his teammates.

"That’s done," he murmured causing Pickford to glance at him. He then took his phone, tapped his phone screen, and opened his texts.

Bellingham:

Rough one, bro. The penalty was harsh.

But he didn’t hit send.

Something stopped him.

On the screen, as the ball rolled out of the net, Izan was moving.

And Bellingham knew that look.

...…

[Back to the pitch ]

Rodri jogged beside Izan panting. "We don’t have time. We go long." but Izan didn’t pay heed.

He got to the center circle and placed the ball down before waiting for the referee’s instructions.

The referee signaled for five minutes of added time.

Five minutes to save their tournament.

Spain kicked off, launching forward with everything they had left.

Izan drifted into the half-space, scanning the field like a predator. He saw a gap between Rüdiger and Tah.

He sprinted into it.

Pedri spotted his movement and chipped a ball forward.

Izan controlled it beautifully, his first touch killing the pace before he cut inside, dragging Kimmich with him.

A feint to the left, then to the right saw Kimmich tumbling to the ground and Izan skipped past him, pushing into the final third.

And then—

KROOS SLAMMED INTO HIM.

A brutal, cynical challenge.

Izan crashed onto the grass.

The Spanish fans erupted in anger, screaming for a free kick.

The referee hesitated for a moment—

Then waved play on.

The Spanish bench exploded in fury.

But Cucurella, still angered and rattled by the penalty, instinctively threw out a leg to bring Kroos down.

Whistle.

Another decision.

But this time—against Spain.

The referee pointed in Germany’s favor.

Cucurella quickly got off the ground and rushed toward the referee before voicing out his frustrations.

"So you can see. I thought you were blind if you were able to call this foul, then you should have been able to call the previous one."

The referee stood silently listening to Cucurella’s words before putting his hands into his pocket and issuing a yellow card.

The Spanish players crowded over the referee, disbelief written across their faces.

Rodri shoved a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "This is insane."

Izan still lay on the ground for a moment before getting up slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes burned.

Enough was enough.

As Germany restarted play, Izan hunted Kroos down.

A crunching tackle, this time the German fans appealed for the foul but the referee seemed to not mind.

The ball rolled free and Izan was up in an instant, sprinting onto the loose ball, and driving toward the edge of the box.

He felt a body coming—Rüdiger.

A quick flick—gone.

And then—contact.

Rüdiger clattered into him, and Izan went down right on the edge of the area again.

This time, the whistle blew.

Spain had a free kick.

Rodri stood over the ball, hands on his hips.

"This is probably our last play," he muttered. "We need to work it. Don’t go direct."

Izan nodded. "Got it."

But deep down—he had other plans.

The referee arranged the wall. Neuer shouted instructions to his defenders, pointing, and adjusting their shape.

The Spanish fans held their breath.

This was it.

One strike could decide their fate.

Izan exhaled slowly, staring at the ball.

He had already made up his mind.

The referee raised his whistle to his lips—

And blew.

Izan stepped forward—

The Spanish fans, the German fans, the world—

Held their breath for what was to become a moment that could be talked about for decades.