Chapter 309: Euro Finalists

Maignan wasted no time.

The moment the decision was confirmed, he launched the ball long—bypassing Spain’s pressing lines, sending it deep into the opposition half.

Peter Drury’s voice sharpened with urgency.

"Oh, Spain have been caught off guard here!"

Olivier Giroud, the veteran substitute, tracked the ball’s flight, adjusting his position between Laporte and Rodri.

With a masterful read of the trajectory, he took it down with his chest, absorbing the weight of the pass before flicking it toward Mbappé.

And then, he moved.

Like a striker who had done this a thousand times before, he peeled away, drifting into space between the Spanish defenders.

Mbappé saw it immediately.

A quick glance and a perfect understanding was formed. Mbappe, with the outside boot, sent the ball traveling.

The ball skidded across the turf with deadly precision, arriving at Giroud’s feet in stride.

The former Arsenal man took one touch—then a second.

And then, an explosion.

A left-footed rocket, struck with venom, curling towards the top corner.

Unai Simón had already saved Spain once.

Now, he had to do it again.

The entire stadium braced itself.

Giroud’s shot was a thing of beauty, bending violently through the air, destined for the back of the net.

Simón reacted.

A desperate dive.

Fingertips stretched to their absolute limit—

And hopefully-Contact.

A glancing touch, barely there, but just enough to divert the ball over the crossbar.

"UNAI SIMÓN—WITH A SAVE FROM THE HEAVENS!" Peter Drury erupted.

The Spanish fans exhaled in sheer disbelief.

Jim Beglin let out a breath. "Oh, what a save. Spain owe him everything right now."

But the danger wasn’t over.

The ball had been parried, but it was still in play.

And Kanté was already reacting.

Like a hunter stalking wounded prey, he stormed into the box.

Before any Spanish defender could recover, he lashed a right-footed drive towards goal. AGAIN!

A blur of movement.

A desperate block.

The Spanish left-back threw himself into the shot, his outstretched leg deflecting the ball away before it could test Simón again.

The stadium roared.

Cucurella, still on the ground, pounded the turf in sheer determination.

Peter Drury’s voice thundered over the noise.

"Cucurella—WITH A BLOCK THAT COULD VERY WELL WIN SPAIN YHE EUROS!"

Jim Beglin whistled. "Spain’s defense, by sheer willpower, refuses to fall!"

But France weren’t slowing down.

The corner was coming.

And Spain were under siege.

Minute 75’—

As Theo Hernandez placed the ball for the corner, the French players gathered near the penalty area.

Mbappé. Giroud. Saliba. Tchouaméni. All waiting.

The Spanish defenders braced themselves.

Rodri barked orders, directing Laporte and Cucurella.

Izan and Nico Williams took up positions just outside the box, ready to launch a counter if the chance presented itself.

The referee blew his whistle.

Theo’s delivery swung in.

A wicked, curling cross—aimed directly at the heart of the Spanish box.

Bodies collided.

Saliba rose—

But so did Laporte.

A brutal aerial battle—elbows, shoulders, sheer power—

And Laporte won it.

A strong header sent the ball looping away from danger—

But only as far as Rabiot.

The Juventus midfielder lined it up from twenty yards out.

One touch.

And then—

A ferocious volley.

"RABIOT—OH, IT’S STRUCK WELL—!"

Peter Drury’s voice hit a fever pitch as the ball streaked towards goal once more.

Unai Simon tensed but Rodri— again—

A last-second lunge, a perfectly timed block, sent the ball spinning out for another corner.

Spain breathed.

But only for a second.

Because France weren’t stopping.

Jim Beglin shook his head. "Spain are surviving by inches. But how long can they hold out?"

MINUTE 76’—

The France corner curled into the box, bodies rising, jostling— but the clearance sent the ball looping out.

It dropped toward the far side of the box, toward the edge of the area—toward Izan.

He read it in an instant.

A perfect chest trap— soft, controlled.

Then a flash of movement.

Kanté charged. Rabiot closed in. But Izan?

He was already gone.

A swift turn, a flick to his left boot—and the escape began.

Pedri saw it immediately, peeling away from his marker.

Izan didn’t hesitate. A quick pass—then he sprinted.

Spain was on the counter.

Pedri’s return ball was instant, cutting through the press like a knife through silk.

Izan, in full stride, latched onto it.

The French backline scrambled. Theo Hernandez tracked back. Saliba braced himself.

But Izan wasn’t going for glory alone.

He spotted movement—Yamal.

A perfectly weighted slip pass—cutting through France’s defense.

And Yamal met it first time.

A quick shift onto his left—and a curling strike.

The ball glided through the air, past Rabiot—the same Rabiot who had spoken before the match.

Now?

Now he could only watch as Yamal’s shot curled with perfection.

It had pace. It had precision. It had venom.

Maignan dove—arms outstretched, body fully extended.

But it didn’t matter.

The ball whipped past him—

—AND STRUCK THE INSIDE OF THE POST!

A split second of silence.

Then—

THE NET BULGED!

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!!!

Lamine Yamal wheeled away, arms outstretched, pure electricity in his veins!

Spain’s bench erupted! De la Fuente punched the air!

The Spanish players swarmed their 16-year-old prodigy, shaking him, and shouting into his ears.

"LAMINE YAMAL—A STAR BOY FOR SPAIN! HE HAS ARRIVED ON THE BIGGEST STAGE! AND FRANCE—HAVE NO ANSWERS!" Peter Drury roared into the mic.

Jim Beglin exhaled in disbelief. "What a strike. What a moment. And Rabiot? Oh, you just know he’s regretting everything he said before this match."

The camera panned to Rabiot, his expression frozen in disbelief.

Izan jogged over, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

He clapped Yamal on the back. "Perfect."

Yamal grinned, breathless. "You gave me the chance."

Izan exhaled, looking towards the French players gathering at the center circle.

He met Kanté’s gaze.

The Frenchman didn’t smile this time.

Spain had them on the ropes.

And Izan?

Izan stood amid the Spanish celebration, now smiling at the Frenchman.

But for a split second, his gaze drifted.

The stands.

Hori had said she had a surprise for him—something he’d see in the stadium.

He had assumed it was her.

After all, she was in Japan before the match and Miranda had told him to expect something of that sort.

But then—

His eyes locked onto a familiar face.

Not Hori.

Olivia.

She was there. In the crowd.

Her auburn hair, unmistakable even beneath the stadium lights. Her green eyes, bright with excitement, focused only on him.

She was beaming.

A sudden rush of emotions hit him.

Surprise. Disbelief. Something warmer.

For a moment, the game, the stadium, the roaring Spanish fans—all of it faded.

It was just her.

And then—

A soft, knowing laugh escaped him.

Hori.

So this was her surprise.

Izan exhaled, shaking his head, a smirk creeping onto his lips.

Of course.

But he couldn’t think about it for too long.

Because France had already restarted play.

And the battle wasn’t over yet.

.........

Luis de la Fuente had seen enough.

It was time to kill the game.

With a sharp wave of his hand, the fourth official raised the board.

Three changes simultaneously.

Off came Morata, Pedri, and Nico Williams.

And on came Fabián Ruiz, Mikel Merino, and Martín Zubimendi.

Spain wasn’t hiding it—they were shutting the door, bolting the locks, and welding them shut.

Pedri clapped Izan on the shoulder as he walked past. "Finish it off, yeah?"

Izan nodded, rolling his shoulders as the substitutions were completed.

Morata, the captain, also stopped beside Rodri before heading off. "Lead them. Keep them focused."

Rodri clenched his jaw and gave a single nod.

Time-wasting had begun.

Every throw-in, every restart—slower.

Every foul—a few extra seconds on the ground.

And then— minute 87, De la Fuente played his last card.

Lamine Yamal—off.

Dani Olmo—on.

The 16-year-old had run himself into exhaustion, and as he walked off, the Spanish fans rose to their feet.

A standing ovation.

Yamal raised a hand in acknowledgment, before turning to Izan.

"Close it out, then let’s play some smash bros after this.."

Izan smiled, "We will."

Except—

France had one last trick left.

MINUTE 89’-

The ball looped into the Spanish box—seemingly harmless—until Theo Hernández went down.

The whistle blew.

The stadium froze.

Izan’s head snapped to the referee. "No way."

The official pointed to the spot.

Penalty.

For France.

The protests were immediate.

Rodri, hands in the air. "That’s too soft! He barely touched him!"

Cucurella shook his head, furious. "VAR needs to check this!"

But the decision stood.

"France have a way back. Could this be the start of a comeback"

Kylian Mbappé stepped up.

Unai Simón bounced on his line, arms spread wide.

The stadium held its breath.

The whistle blew—

Mbappé struck it cleanly.

Goal.

4-3.

France was back within one.

After the restart, France threw everything forward.

Griezmann. Mbappé. Theo. Kolo Muani—all attacking.

Spain dug in.

Bodies on the line.

Tackles. Clearances. Time bleeding away, second by second.

92’—Giroud’s header—saved.

94’—Mbappé’s volley—blocked by Laporte.

96’—A final long ball into the box—Rodri rose highest.

Cleared.

The referee checked his watch.

Then—

Fweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

FULL-TIME.

Spain had survived.

SPAIN— we’re finalists of the Euros 2024 edition.

Izan bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

He turned—Rodri grabbed him.

"We did it."

They did it.

Peter Drury’s voice soared.

"SPAIN MARCH TO BERLIN! A NIGHT OF GRIT, OF FIRE, OF YOUTH—AND THEY WILL PLAY FOR GLORY!"

Izan closed his eyes, letting it sink in.

And then—

He opened them.

"Espana! Espana! Espana" the crowd roared.