Chapter 297: Pride Of La Roja

The ball rolled into open space, and Izan Hernández was already in full stride, chasing it down like a hunter locked onto his prey.

The German defense scrambled, white shirts surging back in desperation. But Izan was already ahead of them, already breaking through.

Ahead—only one man stood between him and history.

Antonio Rüdiger.

The last defender. The colossus. The warrior who never backed down.

Izan barely heard the roars around him, barely felt the pounding in his chest. His mind was clear. Focused.

Beat Rüdiger. Beat Neuer. Win the game.

Behind him—the storm followed.

Kimmich, Havertz, and Gündoğan as well as Sane in the lead were closing in, sprinting with everything they had left in their legs, their lungs, their hearts.

They knew. If they didn’t stop him now, it was over.

Izan kept running.

Rüdiger was ready, his wide stance cutting off the path to the goal. His arms spread, and his body tensed like a wall of muscle and steel.

The two locked eyes for a fraction of a second.

Izan moved first. A sharp feint to the right.

Rüdiger reacted—just a little and that was all Izan needed.

A swift flick of the boot sent the ball to his left, the movement lightning-fast, razor-sharp.

But Rüdiger didn’t lunge. He wasn’t an amateur. He kept his balance, his stance strong.

Izan smiled.

Good.

Another feint—this time to the left. His body shifted. His hips turned.

Rüdiger followed.

And then—

Snap.

Izan dragged the ball back with his sole, twisting in the opposite direction, his movement liquid, effortless.

Rüdiger’s balance wavered. His feet tangled.

His body tilted.

Then—

He fell.

Flat on his back. Arms flailing. Legs giving out beneath him.

Rüdiger—the unbreakable warrior, the fortress of Germany—was broken.

The Stuttgart crowd exploded.

"RÜDIGER IS ON THE FLOOR!"

Fabregas’ voice cracked. "HE’S DOWN! IZAN HERNÁNDEZ JUST SAT DOWN AN ELITE DEFENDER!"

The German bench froze.

Nagelsmann’s eyes widened, his lips parting in shock.

On the pitch, Kimmich, Gündoğan, and Sane were still chasing—but it was too late.

Izan was gone.

And now—

It was only him and Neuer.

One-on-one.

The greatest goalkeeper of his generation against the boy who had the world at his feet.

Neuer stepped forward, arms stretched wide, his towering presence cutting down the angles.

Izan slowed. His chest rose and fell, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Neuer didn’t flinch. His icy blue eyes locked onto Izan’s every movement, waiting for him to make the first mistake.

Izan took another step.

Fifteen yards.

Neuer adjusted his stance.

Ten yards.

Neuer lunged forward.

Izan saw it. A trap. Neuer wanted him to panic. To take the shot early. To hesitate.

But Izan wasn’t a kid anymore.

[Well technically, he still is]

He was a killer.

Neuer dived—

And Izan chipped him.

Soft. Perfect. Effortless.

The ball sailed over the German’s outstretched gloves, floating like a whisper in the night.

Neuer twisted in midair, eyes following the ball, hands stretching—

Too late.

The net rippled.

And then—

Chaos.

"GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!"

The stadium detonated.

Spain 4. Germany 3, the scoreboards displayed.

Izan didn’t think. Didn’t stop.

He ran.

Past the corner flag. Past the advertising boards.

And then—

He jumped Into the crowd.

A sea of red swallowed him whole.

Fans reached for him, screaming, crying, shaking him, their hands gripping his jersey, his arms, his shoulders—pulling him into their euphoria.

His teammates weren’t far behind.

Pedri was the first to leap over the ad boards, his face a mix of disbelief and pure joy.

Lamine Yamal followed, Nico Williams right behind him. Rodri, Cucurella, and Morata stormed in, crashing into the chaos.

Bodies clashed. Arms wrapped around shoulders. Hands grabbed heads. Izan felt himself being crushed, lifted, shoved, and celebrated.

This wasn’t a goal.

This was an exorcism.

Spain had conquered Germany. In their own country. With a kid who was supposed to be too young for this moment, too inexperienced for this pressure.

And yet—

He had done it.

The boy had shattered them.

Martin Tyler was shouting into his mic, voice cracking. "IZAN HERNÁNDEZ HAS JUST—HE HAS JUST WON THIS GAME ON HIS OWN! LOOK AT THESE SCENES! LOOK AT THE TEARS IN THE CROWD!"

On the giant screens, German fans were shown weeping.

Young boys with painted faces, their dreams crushed.

Older fans with hands on their heads, silent in disbelief.

A woman in a Germany jersey, tears streaking down her face, shaking her head slowly as if she couldn’t accept reality.

Because this was the end.

The final whistle hadn’t even blown, but they all knew.

Germany were out.

Luis de la Fuente was sprinting down the touchline, arms in the air, roaring like a man who had just witnessed the impossible.

The Spanish bench emptied. Subs, coaches, staff—everyone ran to celebrate.

And still—Izan was in the crowd.

Tangled in the arms of people who didn’t know him personally but loved him now as if he were their own.

Security guards tried to break through, but even they knew—this was his moment.

.....

Izan finally stumbled back onto the pitch, breathless, his jersey nearly torn from the wild celebrations.

His teammates were still yelling, still hugging, still trying to process what had just happened.

Germany had barely even reset when the referee put the whistle to his lips.

A sharp blast.

Game over.

Spain had done it.

The moment the whistle blew, the Spanish bench erupted again. Players stormed onto the pitch, some collapsing to the grass in pure exhaustion, others running straight to Izan.

Pedri tackled him first, shouting something he could barely understand.

Lamine Yamal grabbed his head with both hands, shaking him while laughing while Rodri pulled him into a tight hug, his voice barely audible over the deafening stadium.

On the other side, the German players stood frozen.

Havertz looked toward the referee, hands slightly raised in frustration. Kimmich let out a breath, running a hand through his hair.

Rüdiger, still wiping sweat from his forehead, turned to the officials, his expression unreadable.

The final seconds of extra time had stretched far past what was expected.

And now, the German players were quietly debating whether the referee should have blown the whistle before Izan even touched the ball.

But it was too late.

Spain were in the semifinals.

And Izan Hernández was the hero.

—

After the celebrations had settled slightly, an official guided Izan toward a small podium set up near the touchline.

The Man of the Match award was already waiting.

The trophy gleamed under the stadium lights, and as Izan stepped forward, the stadium announcer called out his name.

A fresh wave of cheers erupted from the Spanish fans still celebrating in the stands.

Izan took the trophy, his grip firm but his mind still struggling to process everything.

Then—the interview.

A journalist held up a microphone, still buzzing with excitement.

"Izan, congratulations! A last-minute goal to send Spain to the semifinals. How are you feeling right now?"

Izan exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair. He was still catching his breath.

"I don’t even know what to say," he admitted, shaking his head with a small laugh. "It’s unbelievable. We fought so hard, and to win it like this… it’s just crazy."

The journalist nodded eagerly. "Walk us through that moment. You had Rüdiger in front of you, Neuer in goal, and the pressure of the entire stadium on your shoulders. What was going through your mind?"

Izan smiled slightly, replaying it in his head.

"I knew I had to keep my cool. Rüdiger is one of the best defenders in the world, so I had to be smart. I just reacted.

And then with Neuer… I saw him come out, and the chip felt like the best option."

"Did you know it was going in the moment you hit it?"

Izan chuckled. "I hoped so."

The journalist grinned. "Spain are in the semifinals now. What’s the mindset heading into the next game?"

Izan’s expression turned serious.

"We’re not done," he said firmly. "We came here to win the Euros. We’re going to keep fighting for it."

Behind him, his teammates were still celebrating, and the cameras caught every moment.

Pedri and Lamine Yamal pointed at him, laughing and shouting his name. The Spanish fans were still singing.

The moment belonged to him.

————-

The press room was packed. Journalists from across Europe had filled every available seat, eager for their questions.

Luis de la Fuente sat at the table, still looking slightly overwhelmed by the match that had just unfolded.

The first few questions were expected—about Spain’s performance, about the team’s resilience.

But it didn’t take long for the conversation to shift.

A journalist leaned forward. "Coach, can you talk about Izan Hernández’s performance tonight?"

De la Fuente smiled. "Izan was incredible. He’s a special player, and we’re lucky to have him.

Not just because of his talent, but because of his mentality. He thrives in big moments."

Another journalist jumped in. "Is this the best individual performance of the tournament so far?"

De la Fuente didn’t hesitate. "For me, it is. 2 goals and an assist against Germany for a child barely 17, yes. Yes it is"

More questions followed.

"What does this mean for Spain’s chances going forward?"

"How do you manage the expectations on such a young player?"

"Has Izan proven he’s the future of this national team?"

But then—a shift.

A German journalist raised a hand. "Coach, there are debates already forming about the referee’s decision.

The game had gone well past the expected time when Izan got the ball.

Some believe the whistle should have blown before he even had the chance to score. What’s your response?"

A slight murmur went through the room.

De la Fuente kept his expression calm. "We trust the referees," he said simply. "They make the decisions, and we respect them.

If there is anything that needs to be clarified, I’m sure they will address it."

The German journalist pressed. "So you don’t think the timing was controversial?"

De la Fuente’s lips twitched in a small smile. "I think the controversy would be different if Germany had scored, no?"

A few reporters chuckled. The tension eased.

The press conference continued, but one thing was clear—

Spain had won.

And nothing would change that.