God Of football Chapter 1039: Last Of Group H!

~4 minute read · 1,054 words

Previously on God Of football...

Following a brief stoppage, the second half began with Spain pressing forward. Izan skillfully evaded Darwin Núñez, allowing Spain to advance. Lamine Yamal then showcased his dribbling prowess, beating Olivera and Sanabria. He passed to Ferran Torres, who combined with Lamine for an impressive assist. Izan, showing incredible athleticism, volleyed the pass across the goal, and Ferran Torres scored, giving Spain the lead. The team erupted in celebration, with commentators praising Izan's decisive contribution.

Miranda let herself fall back into her seat with a long sigh, one hand dragging slowly across her face as she glanced out the glass shielding.

"I swear this boy is trying to shorten my life."

Beside her, Hori turned and blinked.

"You’d think you were the one playing."

She waited for the laugh, but it never came.

Komi was still staring at the pitch too, and so was Olivia.

The latter hadn’t even taken her eyes off the players below, specifically one in particular.

Hori looked from one face to another before shaking her head.

"...Guess I believe in him more than the rest of you," Hori said a moment later.

That finally earned her three identical looks.

"What?" she said with a questioning look before avoiding their gazes.

"You all looked like you didn’t believe Spain could score," she said with a shrug.

"It’s Izan. He was always going to find a way out."

While Hori spoke, the Akron burst into another wave of cheers.

The Spanish players had barely made it halfway back into their half when another chorus rolled around the stadium.

"Izaaaan!"

Hearing that, he looked sideways at the man beside him before laughing under his breath.

"I can’t even get mad at that!"

Izan glanced over.

"You scored."

"I know."

Ferran spread both hands.

"But somehow they’re singing your name."

Another wave rolled around the stadium as Ferran clicked his tongue.

"Unbelievable," he said, a bit annoyed though he was smiling.

Izan also smiled right as they entered their half and began settling into their respective positions, the restart shortly on the horizon.

Ahead of them, Valverde wasn’t interested in any of it.

He clapped sharply, trying to rally his mates as the captain of his team, but it was easier said than done.

"¡Vamos!" he called shortly and then pointed towards the circle, but they couldn’t even manage a hint of confidence towards him.

As Uruguay moved into position again, Izan’s attention drifted beyond faces and shirts.

Specifically above Araújo’s head...

There, the [HEIGHTENED], trait, hovering, dimmed.

The pale blue lettering flickered, but it didn’t go away.

It just didn’t glow as much as it did previously.

He looked towards Muslera and saw the same thing.

The glow that had clung to both of them throughout the evening was beginning to weaken, almost as though whatever had pushed them beyond themselves was finally running out.

At that, the corner of Izan’s mouth lifted.

"So that’s all it was."

A moment later, the referee’s whistle sounded before anyone else noticed.

The breakthrough changed everything.

Uruguay had spent over fifty minutes surviving wave after wave, but once the first goal finally slipped through, the game refused to settle again.

Spain smelled hesitation.

And Spain were merciless whenever they sensed it.

It was almost like Uruguay were intentionally giving the ball away, but it was really hard to fault them when the Spaniards were suddenly showing different levels after playing at one tune for the whole game.

Every recovery found another red shirt immediately asking another question of Uruguay’s defence.

And less than fifteen minutes later, the second arrived this time from a different source.

Pedri slipped Izan through after another flowing move, and with Muslera finally beaten for pace rather than placement, Izan swept the finish beyond the goalkeeper before jogging away with little more than a raised hand toward the Spanish supporters.

The third belonged to Lamine.

The second youngest of the Spanish teenagers danced past two defenders near the edge of the box before bending one beautifully into the far corner, celebrating with both arms spread wide as though he’d been waiting all tournament for that moment.

Three goals, all three different scorers than usual and another Spanish victory.

When the final whistle echoed around the Akron, there was little argument over who had deserved it.

"Right..."

The camera settled on the host as the studio lights reflected softly off the desk.

"That wraps up the Group H action, and what a fascinating contest it turned out to be."

As he spoke, a graphic appeared behind him.

Spain 3-0 Uruguay

"For over fifty minutes this looked like a genuine battle. Uruguay defended brilliantly, Muslera was magnificent, Ronald Araújo might have played one of the finest defensive halves we’ve seen all tournament..."

As he said that, a smile played at his lips.

"...and then Izan Hernandez Miura happened."

The graphic changed as all three goals flashed across the screen.

"The breakthrough eventually came through Ferran Torres after a remarkable piece of improvisation from Izan, before Spain pulled away late with Izan himself adding the second and Lamine Yamal putting the result beyond any doubt."

A moment later, the camera widened to reveal that it wasn’t just the host.

Seated beside him were Micah Richards and Zlatan Ibrahimović, all in tailored suits and looking the part.

"So then," the host began, turning towards them, "entertaining?"

Micah laughed immediately.

"I loved it."

"So did I," Zlatan said straight to the point.

"I’ll be honest," Micah continued, "there was a point where I genuinely thought Uruguay were going to nick something.

Spain kept coming and coming, but nothing was going in. Muslera was saving everything, Araújo was throwing himself into every shot..."

He shook his head.

"I actually started believing it wasn’t going to be Spain’s night."

Hearing that, Zlatan chuckled beside him.

"I never believed that," he said in that signature thick Swedish English accent of his.