Chapter 321: King Harry

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Olympiastadion, Berlin

Peter Drury: "And now the storm rages on! England, fueled by Bellingham’s brilliance, come again!

There is no pause, no breath—just white shirts flooding forward, hammering at Spain’s walls and we are here for it."

England pushed immediately after the restart.

A quick throw-in—Walker to Saka. A return pass. The ball moved like lightning.

Alan Smith: "Spain need to weather this, Peter. England are relentless now. This is where the game tilts—can Spain hold firm, or will England drive the dagger deeper?"

Rodri, ever the general, roared at his teammates. "Tighten up! Hold the line!"

Spain compressed, but England didn’t wait for them to organize.

Walker, seeing the gap, launched a diagonal pass over the top.

Peter Drury: "It’s Walker! Sending it long—oh, and Kane is there! Kane rising—"

Harry Kane, England’s captain, muscled past Laporte, planting his feet and launching into the air.

He met the ball cleanly, flicking it backward-

Straight into Bellingham’s path.

Alan Smith: "Bellingham again! He’s storming through!"

Bellingham took it on the bounce, his touch immaculate. Pedri lunged—too late while Cucurella tried to recover—too slow.

One stride. Two. Then—

A thunderous shot.

Peter Drury: "Bellingham… STRIKES—!"

The stadium held its breath—

Unai Simón, full stretch, barely got a hand to it! The ball rocketed off his fingertips, smashing the post before spinning away!

Gasps erupted across the stadium.

Alan Smith: "Oh my word! That was inches from sending England ahead! What a hit from Jude Bellingham!"

On the England bench, Southgate clapped his hands sharply. "Keep pushing! We have them now!"

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But Spain weren’t dead.

Rodri, unfazed, gathered the loose ball from Cucurella’s throw and instantly dictated the response.

Peter Drury: "And Spain, like the champions they dream to be, refuse to stay down! Rodri… cool, composed, orchestrating!"

A sharp pass to Izan, who turned under pressure to face the English midfield. Declan Rice lunged— but met air.

Izan shifted left, letting the ball roll, then spun away in one smooth motion.

The crowd gasped.

Alan Smith: "Oh, that is elegant! The youngster, with a turn that belongs in football’s grandest galleries!"

Izan accelerated, burning past Rice and threading a pass to Nico Williams on the left.

Nico, quick as ever, squared up Walker, dipped his shoulder, and exploded past him!

Peter Drury: "Here comes Nico Williams! Blistering pace! Walker’s beaten!"

The cross came—curling, wicked, dangerous.

Morata lunged. Stones lunged. Everyone looked on-

Alan Smith: "IT’S MORATA!!"

The ball met his forehead cleanly— streaking towards goal.

Pickford, tensed, staring at the ball coming his way before he reacted on instinct! A reflex save!

The ball ricocheted loose— both colors fighting for the ball but it ultimately went to a red jersey.

Lamine Yamal pounced— and let one rip but-

Peter Drury: "Yamal! BLOCKED BY GUEHI! Bodies on the line! My goodness, England survive!"

The English defense scrambled, clearing desperately.

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On the touchline, two men barked orders—two minds waging war from the sidelines.

De la Fuente: animated, urgent. Southgate: poised, commanding.

De la Fuente: "Rodri! We need control! Slow it down!"

Southgate: "Declan, squeeze higher! Don’t let them breathe!"

Spain adjusted, cycling passes, and controlling possession while England pressed harder, forcing errors.

Tactical moves, subtle but decisive, were unfolding in real-time.

Peter Drury: "And this, Alan, is where managers earn their legacy. Southgate urges his men forward, knowing the tide is with them.

De la Fuente counters, calling for calm. Two philosophies, two identities, colliding on football’s grandest stage!"

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Every duel became personal. Every tackle left echoes in the stadium.

Rice lunged at Pedri—won the ball, but sent him tumbling causing the Spanish fans to groan.

On the other side, Rodri met Bellingham in midfield—neither backed down, shoulders crashing like warriors in battle.

Alan Smith: "Oh, it’s feisty now! This isn’t just football—this is a war of will, of grit, of heart!"

On the left, Cucurella fought Saka for possession—arms locked, legs tangled. Saka went down, screaming for a foul but the referee waved play on!

Saka jumped up, furious, and went straight at Cucurella but the two sides were quickly separated by their teammates who couldn’t afford to lose a man in the middle of an intense war.

Peter Drury: "Oh, it’s boiling now! Saka is furious! The referee says play on!"

On the other end—

Izan charged into a loose ball, but Walker met him hard. A brutal shoulder-to-shoulder collision!

Izan hit the ground but bounced up instantly, shoving forward.

Walker snarled something at him. Izan, eyes burning, shot words right back.

Alan Smith: "No fear from the youngster! This boy—he belongs on this stage, and he knows it!"

The game was still open. Wild. Dangerous.

England, patient, struck again.

Rice stole possession, looked up, and saw Saka peeling wide.

A quick switch—beautifully weighted.

Saka took a touch, cut inside, and spotted Kane making a run between defenders.

Peter Drury: "Harry Kane… ghosting into space… THIS IS THE MOMENT—"

Kane met the ball and struck it first-time—

A bullet of a shot—

Rodri lunged. Laporte lunged. But it was Unai Simón—diving, stretching—

FINGERTIPS TO IT!

The ball deflected just enough to miss the post by inches!

The England fans had half-risen from their seats—then collapsed in pure agony.

Alan Smith: "So, so close! How is this still level?!"

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75th Minute —

Tension suffocated the stadium.

The next goal felt like it was coming.

Would it be England, riding the wave? Or Spain, refusing to fall?

Both teams knew—the next moment, the next action, could define history.

Peter Drury: "Fifteen minutes remain… fifteen minutes for immortality."

.........…

For the last ten minutes, England had been relentless. Their attacks were not just waves but a storm, crashing again and again against Spain’s defense.

The red shirts scrambled, cleared, and blocked, but they could not breathe. Even Izan was forced to defend.

"That thing isn’t helping. I thought my title was good but how do they even have a title now? And why is Jude’s effect so hard to weather off." Izan thought as he glanced at Jude.

[ Frantic state: Activated ]

: Teammates experience a boost in abilities towards the latter stages of the game.

Izan sighed standing from the ground before looking towards the English half where the ball was being zipped around.

Peter Drury: "And still, they come! England, relentless! Spain are teetering, barely holding the line! The dam can only hold for so long!"

Rodri was shouting, organizing, and dragging his teammates into position, but the Spanish legs were heavy.

The game had been a war, and England could smell blood.

Declan Rice, an engine that refused to tire, won the ball off Pedri in midfield and instantly launched another attack.

Alan Smith: "It’s suffocating, Peter! Spain just cannot get out! England are squeezing the life out of them!"

The ball was worked wide—Bukayo Saka, electric all night, faced up Cucurella again.

A feint inside saw Cucurella bite. And then, with a sharp burst to the outside, Saka was gone.

Peter Drury: "Saka! Brilliant! He’s past him! He cuts it back—KANE!"

Kane, always the predator, peeled away from Laporte and touched it past him. The ball spun loose, rolling toward the edge of the box.

And then—Bellingham.

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The boy England had pinned their hopes on. The boy who had led them here.

Storming in, with all the force of a nation’s will behind him.

Alan Smith: "BELLINGHAM! OH, HE’S TAKEN IT!"

Laporte lunged but he was too late.

And as if things couldn’t get any worse, Bellingham went down.

And then the whistle shrieked causing the Spanish players to freeze

Peter Drury: "PENALTY! OH MY DAYS. ENGLAND HAVE A PENALTY IN THE 85TH MINUTE! THIS COULD BE IT"

For a second, the stadium was frozen in shock—then came the eruption. England’s fans exploded in celebration.

Spain’s players, furious, swarmed the referee.

Rodri, eyes wide with rage, demanded a VAR check. Laporte shook his head, hands up in disbelief.

Carvajal pointed to the screen, pleading yet the referee stood firm.

Alan Smith: "Oh, you can see the fury, Peter! Spain are demanding a second look, but the decision has beenmade! The call stands!"

On the touchline, Southgate pumped his fists in the air while de la Fuente stared on. As if his soul had been sucked out of his body.

The stadium held its breath.

Harry Kane.

England’s captain. The man they trusted in these moments.

The penalty spot had seen legends made and broken. Kane stepped up, placed the ball down, and took a deep breath.

Peter Drury: "Harry Kane. From twelve yards. For England. For glory."

The whistle blew.

And Kane, with the run-up, struck it low. Hard. Precise.

Simón guessed right—he dived, fingertips grazing the ball—

But it wasn’t enough.

The ball clipped the inside of the post and buried itself in the net.

Olympiastadion ERUPTED.

Alan Smith: "HE’S DONE IT! KANE SCORES! ENGLAND LEAD!"

Kane sprinted away, arms outstretched, sliding on his knees as his teammates piled on top of him.

On the touchline, Gareth Southgate—so often composed—punched the air, a rare show of raw emotion.

Peter Drury: "Five minutes remain! Five minutes… for England’s immortality! Or is there another twist in this enticing fixture. I doubt it but football is never predictable "