Chapter 283: Knockout Football.

With the interviews wrapped up, Izan joined his teammates as they boarded the team bus.

The knockout rounds loomed. No more safety nets. No more second chances.

As he took his seat by the window, watching the lights of Düsseldorf pass by, he felt the weight of the tournament settle on his shoulders.

......…

The team bus rumbled quietly through the streets of Düsseldorf, cutting through the night as it made its way back to the team hotel.

The atmosphere inside was a mix of quiet satisfaction and mental exhaustion. Spain had done their job—three games, three wins. The group stage was behind them.

Izan sat near the window, watching the city lights flicker past. His body was tired, but his mind was wide awake.

He could still feel the weight of the penalty decision, the way the Albanian players had protested, the way reporters had framed their questions.

Some had called it soft. Others said it was smart play.

To Izan, it didn’t matter. Contact was contact. He had played football, the referee had made a decision, and that was it.

Next to him, Lamine Yamal scrolled through social media, grinning.

"You see this?" he nudged Izan, showing him a post from a Spanish sports page.

IZAN: SPAIN’S GOLDEN BOY OR JUST ANOTHER DIVER?

Izan barely reacted. "That took them, what? Five minutes after the final whistle?"

Lamine laughed. "People love a controversy. The more they talk about you, the bigger you get."

Across the aisle, Pedri leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. "They’re just looking for something. We dominated the group, so now they have to make drama."

Rodri, sitting a row ahead, turned slightly. "That’s the game. Headlines drive clicks. Just don’t let it get to you."

Izan nodded, but deep down, he didn’t care about what was being said. All he cared about was football.

The real tournament was about to begin.

........

The morning after the match was slow. No alarms, no rush. Just a quiet, easy start to the day.

The players gathered in the hotel dining hall, some still shaking off sleep as they sipped coffee and picked at their breakfast.

The coaching staff had made it clear—today was for recovery.

Izan grabbed a plate of fruit and sat across from Nico Williams and Mikel Oyarzabal.

"Bro," Nico said between bites of toast, "did you see Georgia last night?"

Izan nodded. "Yeah. They went crazy against Portugal."

Georgia’s 2-0 win over Portugal had been one of the shocks of the tournament. Nobody had expected them to make it out of their group, let alone take down one of the favorites.

"They play fearless," Oyarzabal added. "They know they’re the underdogs, and they don’t care."

Rodri, who had just joined the table, set down his coffee. "That’s what makes them dangerous. They have nothing to lose."

Later that morning, Luis de la Fuente gathered the team for their first tactical meeting after the Albania game.

The players sat in a conference room, facing a massive screen as the coaching staff analyzed Georgia’s game plan.

"Georgia are not here by accident," de la Fuente said, his voice calm but firm. "They fight for everything.

They press aggressively, they counter fast, and they are clinical when given space."

On the screen, clips played of Georgia’s pressing traps against Portugal.

Their fullbacks pushed high, their midfielders collapsed onto the ball, and their star forward, Khvicha Kvaratskhelia, lurked like a predator, waiting to pounce on any mistake.

"They live off transitions," one of the assistant coaches pointed out. "They don’t care about possession. They want chaos. They are way different than when we met them"

Izan watched closely. Georgia reminded him of teams that had frustrated Valencia in LaLiga—low possession, deep defense, but deadly on the break.

De la Fuente clicked the next slide.

"Our job?" He looked around the room. "We control the pace. We dictate the rhythm. We starve them of space and force them to defend for 90 minutes. We will play it safe but we won’t hesitate to strike with Nico or Yamal."

Rodri leaned forward. "And if they sit back?"

"Then we need players who can unlock them," de la Fuente replied. His eyes briefly met Izan’s before moving on.

The message was clear: patience and precision. Georgia would not break easily.

The next four days were all about preparation.

Training sessions were intense but calculated.

The coaching staff drilled the team on how to break a compact defense—quick rotations, third-man runs, and low-driven crosses.

Izan looked sharp. His touches were clean, his movement crisp. Even when he wasn’t supposed to be, he treated every session like a match.

During a small-sided game, he and Lamine combined on the right wing, exchanging rapid passes before Lamine clipped a perfect cross into the box.

Morata met it with a volley. Goal.

The team erupted in applause. Even de la Fuente smiled.

"That’s the speed we need," he called out.

...…..

That afternoon, after another training session, Izan returned to his room and checked his phone.

A missed call from Miranda.

"She rarely calls without a reason," Izan said as he dialed her back.

She answered immediately. "Izan! How’s Germany treating you?"

"All good," he said, stretching out on the bed. "What’s up?"

"I wanted to let you know—I’m coming to Germany after the quarterfinal," she said. "Sponsors want meetings.

We or I have a few things to talk about with Adidas concerning the boot deal as well as a few other brands who want to collaborate. Oh and also for the deal with Selene"

Izan rubbed his temple. "Already?"

"Of course. You’re the most talked-about young player in the Euros. Every brand wants you. You’re making headlines every match."

Izan exhaled. He wasn’t against sponsorships, but right now, his focus was on football.

Miranda must have sensed his hesitation. "Relax. Nothing happens without your say. Just keep playing and as usual, I’ll handle everything else."

"Alright," he said. "We’ll talk after the quarterfinal."

"Perfect." She paused. "Also—don’t let the penalty talk get to you."

Izan smirked. "I don’t care about that."

"Good," she said.

...…..

The last full day before the match was all about team chemistry.

In the morning, the Spanish squad did light training, just to keep their legs fresh.

Afterward, press obligations.

Izan was paired with Pedri for a joint interview with Spanish television.

One journalist asked, "Spain have been the best team so far, but Georgia thrive as underdogs. Are you worried about their unpredictability?"

Pedri answered first. "We respect them, of course. But we focus on our own football."

Izan added, "We know they’re dangerous in transitions. We’ll be ready."

The journalists pushed for more—about the penalty, about his rising stardom.

Izan remained calm. He wasn’t interested in hype.

After the media session, the team relaxed.

Some players played FIFA in the lounge. Others, like Rodri and Morata, sat outside with coffee, enjoying the evening air.

Izan joined a small group that played table tennis—Lamine, Nico, and Ferran Torres.

"I’m taking all of you down," Ferran said confidently, spinning the paddle.

Lamine smirked. "We’ll see."

Laughter, jokes, relaxed energy. It was moments like this that kept the pressure from suffocating them.

De la Fuente ran the team through their last tactical drills. There was no tension, only focus.

That night, at the team hotel, de la Fuente gathered the players for his final words.

"Tomorrow, we step into the knockout rounds. This is where you etch your name in football history."

His eyes scanned the room.

"We know how Georgia play. But this is our game. Our tournament."

Then, he smiled. "Now get some rest. Tomorrow, we fight."

Izan lay in bed later that night, staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, the real tournament began.

No second chances. No excuses.

.....

The next day, an alarm buzzed somewhere down the hall, followed by the muffled shuffling of feet as players stirred from their sleep.

Izan blinked awake, the weight of the occasion settling in his chest. No nerves—just focus.

He swung his legs off the bed and stretched, feeling the tension in his muscles from days of preparation.

Down in the dining hall, the team gathered for breakfast. It was quick and the team wasted no time in finishing.

After breakfast, they returned to their rooms for final preparations. Some players listened to music, others visualized the game.

Izan laced up his boots, then checked his phone—no distractions, no messages. Just game time.

An hour later, dressed in their Spain tracksuits, they boarded the team bus.

The ride to the stadium was silent. Through the tinted windows, Düsseldorf passed by in a blur, but no one was paying attention. Every player was locked in their thoughts.

De la Fuente sat at the front, arms folded. The tension was thick, but it wasn’t fear—it was readiness.

Before they could realize it, the bus had already rolled into the stadium.

A/n: alright let’s get this over with. I have a computing exam tomorrow. Have fun reading.