Chapter 300: Out Of It

The day after France’s win over Portugal, the Spanish camp fell into a routine—recovery, media duties, tactical briefings—but a new kind of tension had settled in.

The semi-finals were here. They were two games away from something historic.

Izan followed the motions, going through his recovery drills in the gym, soaking in the ice bath, stretching under the watchful eye of the physios. But his mind wasn’t in it.

Valencia. The financial situation. The inevitable storm waiting for him when this tournament ended.

He exhaled, rubbing a towel over his face as he stepped out of the ice bath.

"Man, you look dead," Lamine Yamal muttered, leaning against the wall nearby. His legs were submerged in the ice, his face twisted in discomfort.

Izan forced a small smirk. "Speak for yourself."

Nico Williams walked over, tossing a water bottle at Lamine. "He has a point though. You good?"

"Yeah." Izan ran a hand through his damp hair, shaking off the fatigue. "Just thinking about the game."

It wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Nico grinned. "Bro, if you’re worried, just send Rüdiger’s ghost after them. France won’t stand a chance."

Izan let out a short laugh, shaking his head while still engaging in the banter with the two of the youngest aside from him.

Across the room, Pedri stood drying himself while looking at Izan. The others might have let it go, but Pedri, who had been watching from across the room, didn’t look convinced.

By midday, most of the squad had migrated to the lounge, where the physios worked on them while they bantered and rewatched their highlights from the Germany game particularly Izan’s moves against Rudiger.

Morata sat with his feet propped up, scrolling through his phone. "They’re still debating the penalty shout on Carvajal," he muttered.

Dani Olmo scoffed. "Bro, if that was given, we’d be in prison for some of the stuff we’ve done on set-pieces."

Laughter rippled through the room.

Rodri, who had been getting his thigh massaged, looked up. "Izan, did you see that debate on El Chiringuito?"

Izan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. "Huh?"

Rodri frowned. "You good, man? You’ve been zoned out all morning."

Heads turned toward Izan. Even Pedri, who had been quiet, set his phone down.

"I’m fine," Izan said quickly, shifting in his seat. "Just focused."

Morata studied him for a moment. "You sure? You’re not usually like this."

Izan nodded, forcing a small smirk. "Big game coming up. Just getting in the zone."

The answer seemed to satisfy most of them.

"Understandable," Rodri finally said, stretching out. "France is a different kind of opponent. But don’t stress it, man. We’ll be ready."

Pedri, however, wasn’t convinced. He knew Izan too well. This wasn’t nerves. It was something else.

But if Izan wasn’t saying anything, then maybe he wasn’t ready to.

So Pedri just nodded, leaning back in his seat.

"Yeah," he murmured. "We will be."

...…..

Luis de la Fuente had seen enough.

He wasn’t the type to interfere with the players’ moods unless necessary, but Izan’s demeanor wasn’t something he could ignore. The boy wasn’t himself. Not completely.

It wasn’t nerves—De la Fuente had been around too long to mistake it for that. Izan was young, yes, but he was made for these moments.

He had seen him in the biggest games of his career already, had watched him dismantle defenses without an ounce of fear.

No, this was something deeper.

So the day before the France game, just as the team finished their final training session, De la Fuente pulled one of his assistants aside.

"Tell Izan I want to see him in my office."

Izan wiped sweat off his forehead as he walked down the hallway. He had been expecting this.

Wordlessly, he knocked on the door.

"Come in," De la Fuente’s voice called out.

Izan stepped inside. The room was simple—just a desk, a few chairs, and a tactical board covered in scribbled notes about France’s movements.

De la Fuente didn’t waste time. He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."

Izan obeyed, sitting down with his hands clasped.

For a moment, there was silence. De la Fuente studied him carefully. Izan didn’t squirm under the gaze, but he didn’t quite meet it either.

Then, finally—

"You’ve been different."

Izan stiffened slightly, but De la Fuente continued.

"I’ve watched you in training, in the gym, in the lounge with the others. You’re still working hard, still doing everything right—but your head isn’t here, is it?"

Izan exhaled slowly. "It’s nothing, míster. Just a lot on my mind."

De la Fuente leaned forward. "I’m not here to push. But I need to know if it’s something that will affect you tomorrow."

"It won’t," Izan said quickly.

De la Fuente studied him. "Because if it does, I need to know now. The semi-finals aren’t just another match.

This is France. This is the game that defines whether we fight for the trophy or go home."

Izan’s jaw tightened. "I know."

A pause.

"Is it Valencia?"

Izan’s fingers twitched slightly, but he masked it well.

De la Fuente caught it anyway.

He sighed, leaning back. "I don’t know what’s happening over there, but I do know this—whatever it is, you can’t carry it onto the pitch with you. Not tomorrow. Not in a game like this."

Izan exhaled. "I won’t."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

De la Fuente watched him a moment longer, then nodded.

"Good. Because Spain needs you at your best. You’ve done something special in this tournament, Izan. Everyone sees it. But you need to finish what you started."

Izan nodded, the weight in his chest still heavy but just a little lighter.

De la Fuente glanced at the tactical board. "Go get some rest. You’ll need it."

Izan stood up. Just as he reached the door, De la Fuente spoke again.

"One more thing."

Izan turned.

"If you ever need to talk about anything—not as a coach, but as someone who’s been around this sport long enough to understand—I’m here."

Izan held his gaze for a moment.

Then, with a small nod, he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

...…..

Izan didn’t go straight to his room. Even though he had promised De la Fuente he’d rest, sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon.

So instead of heading to bed, he walked through the quiet corridors of the training facility, eventually finding himself outside.

The air was cooler at this hour, the night calm except for the faint hum of crickets in the distance.

A voice broke the silence.

"Couldn’t sleep either, huh?"

Izan turned to see Pedri leaning against a railing, arms crossed before sighing. He wasn’t surprised.

Pedri had always been the type to notice things others didn’t, and after the way he had been watching him all day, it was clear he wasn’t going to let this slide.

Izan let out a breath, stepping forward. "Just thinking."

Pedri arched an eyebrow. "That’s what you said earlier."

Izan huffed a quiet laugh. "And it was true."

Pedri didn’t push right away. Instead, he gestured to the spot beside him. "Sit."

Izan hesitated for a moment before joining him.

For a while, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, gazing out at the dimly lit facility.

Pedri finally broke the silence.

"You know, you don’t have to tell me. But you also don’t have to carry everything alone."

Izan exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to talk about it but.....

"It’s Valencia," Izan admitted after a long pause. "The situation there… it’s bad."

Pedri nodded slowly. "I figured. You’ve been off ever since we got past Germany."

Izan chuckled dryly. "Yeah, well… it’s not something I can fix right now."

Pedri tilted his head. "Then why let it eat you up the night before a semi-final?"

Izan looked down at his hands. He knew Pedri was right. He knew that none of this would matter once the whistle blew tomorrow—that, for ninety minutes, all that existed would be the pitch, the ball, and the fight for the final.

But knowing that didn’t make the weight disappear.

Pedri sighed, nudging him lightly. "Listen, man. I don’t know what’s gonna happen with Valencia, but right now, you’re here. With us.

You’ve been unreal this whole tournament, and tomorrow, we need you locked in. Whatever’s waiting for you after, deal with it then."

Izan glanced at him, lips curling slightly. "Is this your way of saying you love me?"

Pedri snorted. "Shut up."

A beat of silence. Then Izan sighed. "Thanks."

Pedri shrugged. "Anytime."

Just as Izan was about to say something else, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, glancing at the screen.

Olivia

Pedri saw the name and immediately grinned. "Ohh. Now it makes sense. The real reason you’re not sleeping."

Izan rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

Pedri stood, stretching. "Nah, I’ll let you two have your little moment." He gave Izan a teasing pat on the shoulder before heading back inside.

"Just don’t start whispering sweet things too loud. Some of us actually need sleep."

Izan shook his head, waiting for Pedri to disappear before answering the call.

"Hey," he said, his voice softer now.

"Hey," Olivia’s voice came through, warm and familiar. "I figured you’d still be awake."

Izan exhaled, the tension in his chest easing just a little. "Yeah… just had a lot on my mind."

Olivia hummed knowingly. "Want to talk about it?"

He didn’t, not really. But just hearing her voice made everything feel a little less heavy.

So he leaned back against the railing, looking up at the night sky.

"Not right now," he murmured. "Just… stay on the line for a bit?"

Olivia smiled on the other end. "Of course."

And for the first time all night, Izan let himself relax.