God Of football Chapter 1017: Can’t Stop What You Love!

Izan found himself observing his own reflection as the system adeptly focused on his visage, particularly his eyes.

And there it was, the very essence he had overlooked in that particular version of himself, an element gradually obscured by years of victories, record-breaking achievements, and glossy magazine features.

The young boy's shoulders were noticeably slumped.

His posture conveyed the dejection of someone informed that their deepest passion in life would be irrevocably denied.

Yet, his eyes told a different story.

Within them resided a palpable strength, an unyielding hunger, and most strikingly, a profound fascination with the spherical object he was habitually kicking.

Izan gazed at the fourteen-year-old figure standing on the worn turf of Alboraya for a prolonged moment.

Subsequently, the visual representation altered, and the system imparted further information:

A frown creased his brow as he pondered the cryptic message, but his inquiries were met with silence.

"Helloooo," Izan mused internally, yet no response was forthcoming.

With a slight furrow of his brow, he vocalized, "System," and only then did the familiar, cool, bluish interface materialize. However, the voice that responded was unfamiliar.

It was the same entity that had accompanied him since he was fourteen, but the voice he had just conversed with had vanished without a trace.

He even activated the conversational feature, hoping to elicit the paternal tone the system had previously adopted, but it proved futile.

The interface remained static before his eyes, offering no additional information beyond what had already been presented.

"That was genuinely peculiar," he murmured, rising to his feet. To deem something peculiar amidst the cascade of thoughts overwhelming him was, in itself, a testament to its strangeness.

He stood on the spectator stands under the Tennessee night sky, casting one final glance at the field before turning and descending the steps. Beneath his breath, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "I must be imagining things. I need to rest."

He made his way back toward the complex, and as he had anticipated, a significant number of the other boys were still awake.

"These lads," he remarked with a wry smile as he approached the recreational area designated for them, which continued to resonate with its usual lively clamor.

: Atlanta

The Mercedes-Benz Stadium, with a capacity of seventy-one thousand spectators, was, on the afternoon of June 15th, experiencing the collective arrival of its entire audience, all unified by a shared anticipation and purpose.

The sheer volume of sound was an overwhelming precursor to even entering the venue.

That was the initial impact.

Even from a quarter-mile away in the parking lot, the roar felt as potent as a physical force.

The atmosphere itself seemed to transform in the presence of seventy thousand individuals who had eagerly awaited this specific afternoon for days.

Within the lower seating tiers, the Spanish supporters had commandeered their designated section, transforming it into a pulsating spectacle of red and yellow hues, a vibrant tide that constantly shifted and reformed when viewed from the upper levels.

Banners, vast as small rooms.

Cheering scarves.

Faces adorned with paint.

And in the corner of the stands, a fervent group, armed with drums, had already commenced their rhythmic assault!

In a bustling Madrid bar, forty-seven patrons, who had convened at opening time and shown no inclination to depart, intently followed the pre-match proceedings across three screens, engaged in animated debates about the starting lineup.

In Barcelona, a woman had strategically positioned a television on her balcony, facing the street, as her apartment lacked the space to accommodate the influx of enthusiastic supporters.

Across the entirety of the nation, shopfronts bore a uniform declaration.

Even in the absence of such signage, no one would have dared to intrude, for during the critical ninety minutes, and potentially more, when their national team graced the television screens, the entire country would come to a standstill.

----

Despite their son, brother, and boyfriend actively participating in his inaugural World Cup match, the Hernandez family had, remarkably, still managed to arrive late.

They weren't

The sounds of Miranda and Komi finishing their preparations drifted from the bathroom.

The door swung open, with Miranda emerging first, followed closely by Komi. Komi subtly adjusted the small necklace she wore, ensuring it was perfectly placed, a gesture that caused Miranda to facepalm, remembering all the effort she'd put into getting it just right for Komi.

"All done," Komi announced, as Hori ceased her casual lean against the doorframe.

"Finally," Hori responded, already turning to exit the room.

"We're not late," Komi stated.

"We will be."

"We won't be."

"We already—"

Before Hori could finish her sentence, her mother's hand, with practiced precision, landed on the back of her head, a testament to years of experience in such disciplinary actions.

"Don't speak to your mother that way," Komi admonished, a barely concealed smirk playing on her lips.

Hori absently rubbed the back of her neck, while Olivia pressed her lips together, suppressing another bout of laughter.

"I heard that first comment," Komi reiterated, unwilling to let the remark slide.

Hori wore a frown, though her options for retort were limited.

They proceeded towards the elevator, Hori and Olivia leading the way, eager to witness Izan's debut match in the World Cup.