Chapter 275: First XI

With Spain’s next match approaching, the discussion naturally shifted:

Would Izan start against Italy?

Most analysts believed de la Fuente would keep his lineup unchanged. After all, why fix what wasn’t broken?

But others argued that Italy would demand something different. A tougher midfield battle, a game that might require Izan’s creativity to break through.

Luis de la Fuente had kept one of his biggest weapons in reserve.

The only question now was when he would decide to use it.

....

The euphoria of the Croatia win had barely settled when Spain’s players found themselves back in their training kits, stepping onto the lush training grounds in the heart of Germany.

The morning air was crisp, the sky a soft gray, and the distant hum of media crews setting up for the open portion of training served as a reminder—Euro 2024 wasn’t stopping for anyone.

Luis de la Fuente and his coaching staff gathered the squad before the session, their voices firm but measured.

"Enjoying the victory is fine," de la Fuente told them, scanning the group. "But Italy is a different kind of beast. They won’t give us space. They won’t let us breathe. We need to be sharper."

The message was clear. Croatia had been a statement win, but Italy was something else entirely.

As the warm-ups began, the mood was light, with the players joking among themselves. But as soon as the tactical drills started, the intensity ramped up.

Izan moved with quiet determination, his touches sharp, his movements precise. He hadn’t played against Croatia, but his body felt ready, almost desperate for action.

Rodri, Spain’s midfield general, took charge during positional drills, instructing Pedri and Fabián Ruiz on when to press and when to hold their ground.

The defenders worked separately, with Aymeric Laporte and Dani Carvajal adjusting their shape under the guidance of assistant coach Pablo Amo.

De la Fuente called for an 11v11 drill, simulating Italy’s defensive structure.

With Nacho playing as a makeshift Alessandro Bastoni, the focus was on breaking through a compact block.

Izan, positioned as an inside forward on the left, found himself locked in duels with Carvajal, who wasn’t giving him an inch.

"If you want minutes, Izan, you’ll have to earn them," Carvajal muttered after dispossessing him cleanly.

Izan exhaled sharply but didn’t respond. He liked Carvajal—respected him—but he wasn’t here to prove himself in training.

He had already done that for a season at Valencia. He just needed a chance.

That evening, Spain’s squad gathered in the hotel’s media lounge, watching Italy’s opening game against Albania.

Plates of light snacks—fruits, yogurt, protein bars—were scattered around as the players relaxed into the couches.

It took 16 seconds for Albania to shock the Italians with a goal.

"What the hell?" Laporte murmured, sitting forward.

Lamine Yamal, next to Izan, laughed. "Well, that’s one way to start a game."

But Italy responded immediately, equalizing through Bastoni before Barella’s strike made it 2-1.

The game settled into a familiar rhythm—Italy controlling possession, suffocating Albania with their compact defensive structure.

Izan watched intently, noting how Federico Chiesa moved in the attack. Quick, aggressive, relentless.

If he played, he’d likely be up against Giovanni Di Lorenzo—an experienced right-back who would test his patience.

Meanwhile, Rodri and Pedri were deep in conversation about how to break Italy’s defensive shape.

"They drop into a back five when they defend," Rodri pointed out. "Which means we’ll need movement between the lines. Static players won’t work against them."

"That’s where we can use someone like Izan," Pedri added, glancing at him. "Quick feet, tight control.

Someone who can create something out of nothing but at the end of the day, it’s up to De la Fuente."

Izan didn’t react outwardly, but inside, he took note. He wasn’t being ignored by his teammates—far from it. They knew his value.

As the game ended, de la Fuente stood from his seat. "We have what we need. Tomorrow, we finalize our plan."

The last training before matchday was shorter but even more intense. De la Fuente split the squad into two groups—one working on attacking movements, the other on defensive structure.

Izan found himself in an attacking drill with Morata, Pedri, and Yamal. The objective was simple—breaking down a deep defensive line in the final third.

De la Fuente and his assistants watched closely, occasionally stepping in with adjustments.

"Quicker combinations," he instructed. "Italy won’t let you take three touches in the box."

Izan received a pass from Yamal, turned sharply, and found Pedri in stride with a delicate outside-foot pass. The midfielder slotted the ball past the training keeper.

De la Fuente clapped once. "That’s it! Fast and decisive!"

But nothing was given away about who would start.

After the session, Izan sat on the grass, retying his laces when his phone rang. After picking up, a familiar voice interrupted him before he could speak.

"Izan, can you talk?"

Miranda.

He sighed, already bracing himself before he stepped aside.

"You’re seriously telling me you flew to Germany just to watch the game from the bench?" she fumed.

"Miranda, it’s the first game. Chill."

"No, I will not chill. You could’ve stayed in Japan and made millions in endorsements while this coach keeps you in bubble wrap!"

Izan exhaled. "It’s a tournament. You know it’s not about individual minutes."

"Whatever. Just don’t forget your commitments. I’m rescheduling some things in case this coach keeps being an idiot."

The call ended, and Izan shook his head. Miranda cared, but sometimes, she cared too much.

Later that evening, just as he was about to unwind, his phone buzzed again.

Komi & Hori were calling.

A small smile formed as he answered.

"Izan!" Hori’s excited voice came through first. "Are you playing tomorrow?"

"I don’t know yet, Hori. We’ll see."

"If the coach doesn’t put you in, I’m flying to Germany," she threatened.

"Hori," Komi’s voice cut in, amused but firm. "You are not flying to Germany."

Izan chuckled.

His mother’s voice softened. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, Mom. I’m good."

"We’re proud of you," she said. "No matter what happens."

Those words meant more than she probably realized.

After hanging up, Izan hesitated before making another call.

"Izan?"

Hearing Olivia’s voice instantly eased the tension in his chest.

"Hey," he murmured.

"Hey yourself," she teased. "I was starting to think my boyfriend forgot about me."

"Never," Izan said sharply.

Hearing that, Olivia laughed softly. "How’s Germany?" she asked after composing herself.

"Cold. Intense. Feels like a long way from home."

"You’ll make it home soon—with a trophy."

Izan leaned back against his pillow. "You believe in me that much?"

"Always."

There was a pause, a quiet comfort between them. Then, softly, Olivia said, "I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Win tomorrow," she whispered. "For me."

"For you?" he grinned. "That’s pressure."

"You handle pressure just fine."

His heart ached a little but in the best way.

"I’ll call you after the match."

"You better."

As the call ended, Izan lay there for a moment, holding onto the warmth of her voice.

The team gathered in the meeting room, the air thick with quiet anticipation. Luis de la Fuente stood at the front, the team sheet in his hand.

"This is our XI," he began.

Izan straightened in his seat.

This was it.

The room was still. The only sound was the faint rustling of paper as Luis de la Fuente unfolded the team sheet.

Every player sat upright, waiting. No one wanted to miss what came next.

De la Fuente glanced around, his expression unreadable. "This is our XI," he said, finally breaking the silence.

The lineup appeared on the screen behind him.

David Raya

Carvajal – Le Normand – Laporte – Cucurella

Rodri – Pedri

Lamine Yamal – Izan – Nico Williams

Morata

For a split second, Izan didn’t react. Then, the realization sank in.

He was starting.

And not just anywhere—he was playing in the No. 10 role, directly behind Morata. A position that gave him the freedom to create, to exploit spaces, to make something happen.

A second striker, almost.

Pedri, seated a few spots away, turned toward him, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Looks like you got your chance."

Izan nodded slowly, his mind already processing what this meant. He wasn’t coming in as a winger or a traditional attacking midfielder.

De la Fuente wanted him central. A Harry Kane type of play. It was a gamble, a shift in approach. And Izan was the key to it.

Rodri, seated nearby, gave an approving nod. "This means more direct play. Faster transitions. You’ll have space to run at them."

De la Fuente stepped forward, pointing to the screen as he explained the tactical shift.

"Italy’s defensive structure makes it difficult for traditional buildup play," he began.

"They’re compact, disciplined, and they don’t allow time on the ball. But they also have weaknesses."

The screen changed, displaying clips of Italy’s match against Albania.

"Barella and Jorginho will press high, which leaves gaps in midfield. That’s where we attack. Izan, this is why you’re starting."

Izan felt the weight of every eye in the room, but he didn’t flinch.

"You’re playing in the hole between their lines," de la Fuente continued. "Di Lorenzo and Dimarco will be aggressive on the flanks, meaning Yamal and Nico Williams will stretch them wide.

Your job is to exploit the space left behind and drive at their center-backs. Force them into decisions they don’t want to make."

He turned to Morata. "Alvaro, you’ll pin Bastoni and Mancini. Keep them occupied."

Morata nodded. "Got it."

De la Fuente’s eyes returned to Izan. "This is your game to change. When we win the ball, you’re our first option."

Izan nodded once, his mind sharpening. He understood.

De la Fuente scanned the room one last time. "We’ve prepared for this. Trust each other. Trust the plan. We beat Croatia—now we beat Italy."

He closed the team sheet, signaling the end of the meeting.

Players rose from their seats, some stretching, others exchanging quiet words of encouragement.

Pedri patted Izan’s back as he walked by. "Big day ahead," he said jokingly.

"I know," Izan replied with a slight shove.

Lamine Yamal who was beside them grinned. "No pressure"

Izan smirked. "Don’t know if they’ve told you but they almost added no pressure to my name."

And on the day, he would prove it.