God Of football Chapter 1016: All This Noise For A That Hasn’t Started Yet!

Even before Spain had stepped onto the field, the entire nation was consumed by anticipation.

This fervent excitement wasn't exclusive to Spain.

Every country represented in the tournament was experiencing its own unique brand of collective nervousness. However, Spain's situation was peculiar: they had observed days of matches featuring other teams, all the while being told by experts, media, and online commentators that they were the tournament's strongest contenders.

While this might have been true for some, for others, it remained a point of contention.

This very debate only intensified the agonizing wait.

On Spanish social media platforms, as of June 14th, a palpable sense of restless impatience dominated the online conversations.

"At least our match is tomorrow." This sentiment, appearing with variations every thirty seconds, was posted by individuals who had clearly been monitoring the feeds incessantly, reaching a state of advanced impatience that had paradoxically circled back to a form of near-serenity.

In a Seville bar, three men, who had meticulously watched every single game of the tournament thus far—even the 1 AM match between Uzbekistan and Colombia—sat in companionable silence, their drinks untouched. One wore a Spanish jersey, while the other two had opted to wait until tomorrow, viewing an early donning of the shirt as a potential jinx.

"Tomorrow," one declared.

"Tomorrow," the other two echoed, as if voicing it might somehow postpone the inevitable.

Meanwhile, in Madrid, a woman walking her dog paused before a sports shop, her gaze drawn to an Izan shirt displayed in the window. It was the away kit, an off-white with maroon and gold accents, bearing his number.

She lingered for a moment, observing the jersey, before a gentle tug on her dog's leash prompted her to move.

"Sorry, Bebe," she murmured, casting one last glance at the kit before continuing her walk.

A uniform feeling permeated the nation: the wait had been long, and even with tomorrow's match so close, it still felt like an eternity.

......

Yet, for four particular individuals, their own distinct challenges awaited.

Upon entering the hotel, Miranda couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment—once again!

The other three women followed, each lost in their own thoughts.

Olivia had been remarkably quiet since their arrival from the airport, a silence far removed from her usual boisterousness when Izan wasn't making her laugh until her ribs ached.

Standing in the hotel lobby with her bag at her feet, she met Miranda's gaze with an expression she was clearly struggling to keep neutral.

Hori noticed it instantly, as Hori noticed everything instantly.

"Miranda," she said, glancing down at her phone briefly.

"Mm."

"You might want to sleep with one eye open tonight."

Olivia turned, her look conveying clearly and unequivocally that Hori's comment was unhelpful.

"I'm just saying," Hori replied, completely unperturbed. "She looks like she's planning something."

"I'm not planning anything," Olivia stated, her tone suggesting the exact opposite.

Miranda chuckled at this as the concierge approached.

"Olivia, I can drive you to Chattanooga if you wish. It's only a two-hour drive under normal traffic conditions."

"No one," Olivia declared, "should have to drive two hours just to see someone."

"You drove four hours to see Izan in Valencia once."

"That was different."

"How so."

Komi, who had been observing the exchange from a slight distance, looked at Olivia and offered a simple, "You'll be fine."

Olivia exhaled and retrieved her bag, while Miranda finalized their accommodation arrangements.

After a brief conversation with the concierge, room key cards were produced, a porter appeared, and soon, all necessary tasks were completed.

The four made their way to the elevator. Hori, initially pressing the button for the wrong floor, quickly corrected herself before the porter could intervene.

"Safe," she announced, crossing her arms, prompting Komi to playfully slap her back while Olivia burst into laughter.

.........

An hour later, in Chattanooga, Izan sat on the bleachers overlooking the practice pitch, bathed in the glow of the floodlights.

He simply sat, doing nothing in particular.

His phone remained in his pocket, untouched for forty minutes—a minor feat in this modern era.

He remained still and silent for some time. Just as he appeared ready to depart, a holographic interface materialized before him.

"What the hell-" he muttered as the translucent display flickered into existence within his field of vision.

"Is that possible now?" Izan inquired, though he didn’t anticipate a reply.

The system had stated it couldn't respond unless prompted, a setting Izan had adjusted after it became too talkative. But now?

[What thoughts occupy your mind?]

The system spoke first as Izan pondered.

Another second passed before he shook his head, feeling too weary to even question it any longer.

[What thoughts occupy your mind?] it inquired again.

He let out a breath.

"I am contemplating," he communicated mentally, "that I might cease to enjoy this experience."

[That will not happen.]

The system responded after a pause.

Izan smirked, considering the notion of a mere line of code offering solace, and before he could reply, the interface displayed an image.

A visual materialized within his sight with startling clarity.

It depicted a football pitch, patches of grass dotted across the surface, with goals at each end slightly askew, suggesting manual setup rather than professional groundskeeping.

"Alboraya," he whispered, instantly recognizing the location.

And there, on the pitch, was a child.

It was him, younger.

Fourteen years old, slender for his age, dribbling a ball with a drive his young body struggled to fully fulfill.

His touch was heavy.

His initial stride lagged by half a second, and moments later, even without defenders, the boy lost possession, stumbling a few meters as he attempted a turn.

Izan observed his past self as the system magnified his face, focusing on his eyes.

And there it was, the element he had forgotten about that younger version of himself, the very thing that years of victories, records, and magazine covers had gradually obscured.

The boy’s shoulders slumped.

His posture was that of someone who had just been informed their lifelong passion would be unattainable.

Yet, his eyes told a different story entirely.

They conveyed tenacity, yearning, and, most importantly, a captivation with the spherical object he had been kicking.

[That,] the system stated, [is not a child who will ever relinquish his love for the game.]