God Of football-Chapter 327 : Roof-Top Celebrations [Golden tickets]

The hotel was a battlefield of exhaustion and adrenaline.

By the time the Spanish players arrived, it was well past 3 AM, but nobody was in a rush to sleep.

The trophy had been passed around like a sacred artifact, everyone taking turns posing with it, kissing it, or just staring at it in disbelief.

The entire hotel lobby had turned into an impromptu afterparty.

Izan sat back on one of the plush couches, still feeling the weight of the night settle in.

His wet hair clung to his forehead from the champagne showers, his body ached from the sheer intensity of the final, but his mind? It was buzzing.

Next to him, Nico Williams stretched his legs onto the table with the comfort of a man who had just conquered the world.

"You know what, bro?" he said, staring at the ceiling. "I ain't even tired."

Lamine sprawled across another couch and groaned. "Don't say that, man. My legs are gone."

From the bar area, Cucurella raised a glass. "Bro, just admit it—you ain't built for a full tournament like me."

"YOU SPRINTED FOR A TROPHY AND ALMOST CRAMPED MIDWAY," Dani Olmo fired back.

Cucurella dramatically placed a hand on his chest. "And yet I survived. That's called champion mentality."

Izan shook his head, a small laugh escaping him.

This was what made it all worth it—the exhaustion, the battles, the pressure.

Moments like these, where everything was stripped away, and they were just a group of young men who had written their names into history.

But eventually, the inevitable happened.

Bodies started slumping. Conversations slowed.

The trophy, once the center of attention, now sat on the coffee table as if it were just another decoration.

Rodri, ever the responsible captain, finally stood. "Alright. We fly out in the morning. Get some rest."

Some groans. Some protests. But no real arguments.

Izan didn't even remember making it to his room.

One moment, he was talking to Morata about something—probably about how surreal it all felt.

The next, he was waking up to the sound of an alarm blaring through the hotel room.

His entire body hated him.

But the world outside?

It was on fire.

News outlets across the globe had one name plastered everywhere.

IZAN HERNANDEZ– SPAIN'S GOLDEN BOY

A Name Etched in History – Izan Equals Platini's Record

From Afterthought to Legend – The Tournament of Izan

Valencia's Golden Asset – How Long Can They Keep Him?

Every article, every broadcast, every social media post was centered around him.

The nine-goal milestone had sent the football world into a frenzy.

He was now tied with Michel Platini for the most goals in a single Euro tournament—a record that had stood since 1984.

The headlines were relentless.

"Valencia are the luckiest club in the world right now."

"Real Madrid and Barcelona are licking their lips."

"Is this the moment Spain enters a new golden era?"

But there was one particular detail that had certain journalists speculating.

"Did Izan Hesitate When Greeting the Federation President?"

A slowed-down video had surfaced online, analyzing the exact moment Izan shook hands with the Spanish Football Federation president.

It was brief—so brief that most wouldn't have noticed. But now? Every angle was being dissected.

"Did he almost pull back?"

"Is something happening behind the scenes?"

"Could this be Izan taking shots at the president for allegedly not calling him up?"

Izan rubbed his temple, scrolling through the endless stream of takes as he sat on the team bus heading for the airport.

"You're way too deep in your phone," Rodri's voice cut in from across the aisle.

Izan looked up. "It's crazy right now."

Rodri smirked. "Enjoy it. This moment doesn't come often."

He wasn't wrong.

Dragging their bodies onto the plane was an ordeal.

Ferran Torres tried to convince everyone to chant Campeones again, only to get pillows thrown at him.

Cucurella somehow fell asleep before the plane even took off while Lamine and Nico spent half the flight editing their Instagram posts.

Izan sat by the window, watching the clouds roll past, his mind still processing everything.

Rodri, sitting next to him, nudged him. "You ever think about what comes next?"

Izan hesitated. "What do you mean?"

Rodri shrugged. "For you. Your future. This is just the beginning."

Izan exhaled. He knew that. He felt that.

"You know, Pep really liked you," Rodri said abruptly causing Pedri to laugh.

"If I had done this, you would be on my neck but look at you too. Why don't you call the Sheikh" the latter spoke.

"Wait. That's actually better. I think I have his contact" Rodri said while seriously scrolling through his phone.

Pedri who was laughing suddenly faltered. "You know I'm joking, right? Right?" he said following Rodri through the aisle.

Izan looked at the duo bantering while smiling. He would think of such scenes when he had to but right now, he just had to enjoy himself.

....

The moment the plane landed, the noise was deafening.

Thousands of fans had gathered outside the airport.

The sheer volume of red and yellow flags, the banners, the flares—it was chaos in the best way possible.

The bus crawled through the streets of Madrid, packed on both sides with fans singing, chanting, and waving flags high into the evening sky.

The sun was setting now, painting everything in shades of gold and red, as if even the city itself was celebrating.

The trophy gleamed under the streetlights, held high in Rodri's hands as the team basked in the love of their people.

Izan leaned against the railing, taking it all in—the faces of thousands of fans, the sea of shirts with his name on them, the chants that echoed his goal from the final.

"IIIIIZAAAN!"

It was surreal.

A kid, maybe ten years old, stood on his dad's shoulders in the crowd, holding up a sign written in shaky but determined letters:

"IZAN, NUESTRO ORGULLO. QUÉDATE EN VALENCIA."

Izan swallowed. That word—"quédate". Stay.

Before he could process it further, Ferran Torres suddenly threw an arm around him, pulling him towards the mic before starting another round of singing with Izan.

And then—Cucurella happened.

At some point during the parade, someone handed him a mic.

Big mistake.

He immediately started singing:

"Me como una paellaaaa, me bebo una Estrellaaaa!"

The team lost it.

Rodri was doubled over laughing. Dani Olmo had his phone out, already uploading it to Instagram.

Within minutes, the internet had its newest viral moment.

Izan wiped tears from his eyes. "Bro, you're an era."

The source of this c𝓸ntent is frёeweɓηovel.coɱ.

Cucurella, grinning, pointed at the camera. "ESTA NOCHE SE BEBE!"

Rodri, still holding the trophy, turned to Izan. "Your turn, Pichichi."

Izan blinked. "What?"

The team started chanting.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!"

He stepped forward. Took a deep breath.

And then—

His voice rang through the streets of Madrid.

"This is just the start."

"Spain is back at the top of Europe, but we're not done."

"We are going to fill that trophy cabinet to the brim."

The roar of the crowd was earth-shaking.

Rodri clapped him on the back. "Now that's a speech."

Izan smiled back but before he could do anything, Olmo appeared, "Alright, Pichichi, time to show off those vocals!"

The crowd erupted.

Izan shook his head. "No chance."

"Too late!" Dani Olmo was already turning up the volume on the speakers.

The music blasted through the streets, the beat unmistakable.

The entire team burst out laughing as Cucurella once again took center stage, arms outstretched like he was headlining a stadium concert.

"Me como una paellaaa, me bebo una Estrellaaa—!"

The entire bus sang along this time, including Izan.

The moment was so ridiculous, so chaotic, so perfect, that he couldn't help but join in.

Rodri, ever the steady one, wrapped an arm around Izan's shoulder as they watched the madness unfold.

"You're going to remember this for the rest of your life, you know."

Izan nodded. He knew.

The night stretched on, Madrid refusing to sleep.

The team eventually made their way to Plaza de Cibeles, the traditional site of Spain's greatest football celebrations.

The atmosphere was electric. Fireworks exploded overhead as the team lifted the trophy on the grand stage, basking in the adoration of their people.

Then, the inevitable question arrived.

The host of the event, microphone in hand, turned towards Izan with a knowing smile.

"España tiene un nuevo héroe. (Izan, after a historic tournament, a Pichichi win, and now a European Championship… everyone wants to know. What's next?"

The crowd hushed. Every camera, every phone, every journalist leaned in.

Izan exhaled.

And then, for the first time that night, he allowed a small, knowing smile.

"Let's just say… I'm in good hands."

The crowd erupted.

Rodri patted his back, smirking. "Nice dodge."

Izan laughed. "I learned from the best"

......…

The hotel was eerily quiet the next morning.

Most of the team had finally crashed, exhaustion winning over celebration.

Izan sat on the hotel balcony, sipping a cold glass of water, watching the city come to life below.

His phone was buzzing with notifications, but one caught his attention.

Miranda: Izan… Valencia's situation is improving. Fast.

His breath hitched.

They're doing everything to keep you.

For the first time in weeks, something settled in his chest.

A thought. A possibility.

Hope.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough for now.

A/n: Okay so I was about to sleep but someone [Daoist Adquiro] decided to spam the Golden tickets.

So here we are. I'll still release the daily two but please let me sleep okay. Its 1 right now