God Of football Chapter 1032: HEIGHTENED!

The handshakes broke apart, and the players drifted away from one another slowly.

Red shirts moved towards one half and the blue shirts toward the other.

The noise never settled while the players did.

It rolled around the Akron in waves, one side answering the other before the first had even finished.

Izan adjusted the captain’s armband once as he walked, eyes searching around.

Across the centre circle, Valverde was already there.

Neither of them looked particularly interested in the crowd.

Valverde stood with his hands on his hips, staring into Spain’s half and as Izan stopped near the centre spot, he glanced up.

Their eyes met briefly, but nothing came of it.

Calling both men acquaintances wouldn’t be a stretch because they’d played against each other more than they could count, both when Izan wore a Valencia shirt, or when he wore an Arsenal shirt.

And now that he wore a Spanish shirt.

Both men nodded slightly after a while as around them, the final details were being put in place.

In the Uruguay defence, Araújo looked heated.

Even before the game had started, the Barcelona man was already in tune with the game, calling one of his teammates to step narrower before pushing another a step wider.

Beside him, Giménez bounced twice on his toes before settling.

Further forward, Núñez was already making little practice runs into channels that didn’t exist yet, testing distances, testing angles.

And it was only a moment later that he stopped moving.

On the opposite side, Pedri stood a few yards away with the expression of someone waiting for a train rather than a football match.

He was calm and almost annoyingly so.

The camera found him on the giant screen and the Spanish supporters cheered.

Pedri looked up at himself, nodded once in acknowledgement and then looked away again.

That somehow got another cheer.

"I have no idea why they loved that," Moreau admitted on the broadcast.

"Because football supporters and lovers are strange people," Drury replied with a little chuckle in his voice.

"That is a fair point," Moreau came in, also laughing infectiously as the broadcast camera moved again, highlighting the faces that most knew would probably be the ones in charge of the game.

"This is not the atmosphere of a group-stage game," Drury said as the sound swelled around them once more.

"No," Moreau agreed.

"These are two nations who believe they can win the whole thing."

Near the touchline, De La Fuente folded his arms.

Across from him, Bielsa had one hand in his pocket and the other resting against his chin.

Both men watched the pitch, and both men looked equally as though they were already envisioning if their plans would play out.

After a while, the giant clock above the stadium clicked over, and at that, the players began taking their final positions.

The match official rolled the ball toward the centre spot, and Izan stopped beside it.

Fifty thousand people climbed to their feet in anticipation of the same thing as the referee took one last look around him and then some last glances at his assistants who replied with a singular nod.

Then the whistle rose toward his lips.

"And now," Drury said, his voice lowering as though the stadium itself was leaning in to listen, "we find out whether Uruguay’s belief is justified."

The whistle sounded, and Izan, standing beside the ball, touched it to Oyarzabal just as a loud cheer came in.

Oyarzabal’s first touch after kickoff lasted less than a second.

He received it, felt a blue shirt closing and immediately rolled it into Pedri’s path before pushing forward himself.

"¡Sigue, sigue!"

Pedri acknowledged him with a small wave of the hand before opening his body and moving it wide.

Lamine was already waiting on the touchline when the ball arrived.

Two Uruguay players were immediately on him just as he controlled the ball.

He turned to face them, almost wanting to take them on, but he could almost hear De La Fuente screaming at him in his mind, telling him not to try that and lose the ball.

Or maybe he really was.

Sighing, Lamine turned back and touched the ball back inside, pulling away from the Uruguay players.

Then away again.

The deflated energy in the crowd could be felt all around the stadium as one could tell they expected something flashy for the Barcelona prodigy.

From there, it was all Spain, though they didn’t do too much with the ball.

"¡Solo!"

"¡Atrás!"

"¡Tiempo!"

Voices travelled constantly across the pitch as the Spanish players played like parts of the whole they were, keeping tabs on opponent players and making sure that they warned their mates whenever Uruguay tried to spin a web.

Basically, neither side seemed particularly interested in forcing something that wasn’t there.

For Izan, he barely held the ball.

When it came to him, he touched it once, sometimes twice and then just laid it off.

When he’d done that, he’d always begin moving, eyes searching around like he was looking for the right puzzle piece.

He never stood still long enough for anyone to get comfortable with where he was.

And just like that, five minutes went by.

Then seven!

The crowd remained loud, but the football itself hadn’t quite caught up yet, and after a while, Moreau eventually voiced what everyone watching was beginning to think.

"You know, Peter, this is probably the most normal opening five to seven minutes from Spain we’ve had all tournament."

Drury laughed.

"Normal?"

"Normal," Moreau affirmed.

"I was told this was supposed to be a blockbuster."

"Well, it is," Drury said on the broadcast as Moreau gestured vaguely at the pitch from the gantry.

"I thought lasers would be flying around by now."

Drury laughed again as he turned towards his co-commentator.

"You expected chaos."

"Pretty much."

By the time the duo were done with their little conversation, the ball had worked its way all the way back to Unai Simón.

Ahead of him, Uruguay dropped into their shape and in the thick of it, Izan watched it all happen.

Then started jogging backwards.

Not toward Spain’s goal but toward Uruguay’s.

The Uruguay players saw him moving, and all instantly switched on, leaning slightly towards Izan to be able to reach him quickly.

The commentary was still chuckling when Simón’s foot connected with the ball.

"And now Spain go long."

The pass climbed into the Guadalajara night, high and hanging, turning slowly as it descended.

Izan’s eyes followed it immediately but from behind him, so did Araújo’s.

The two adjusted underneath it, anticipating the ball.

The crowd sensed it before either man left the ground.

"Here comes Izan—" the commentary called as he jumped.

And then something hit him.

The sort that made every muscle in his body tense instinctively.

For a brief moment it felt as though someone had launched a boulder through his back.

His jump faltered as the ball disappeared above him and in its place, the Araujo appeared.

The Uruguayan centre-back met it first and powered it away with a header that travelled thirty yards before beginning to fall.

And immediately, the whistle sounded, triggering all sorts of reactions from the crowd in the stands as Izan’s feet landed on the ground.

And the second he did, the breath left his lungs all at once.

He took two steps before stopping, heaving slightly to try and gasp.

"What was that?"

The words escaped him before he could help it.

He turned a bit to look behind, and there Araújo was already retreating into position with even a twinge of malice in his eyes.

It’d just been professional.

Izan’s eyes remained on him for a while before something flickered.

The familiar window appeared at the edge of Izan’s vision, and above Araújo’s head was a text!

[HEIGHTENED]