Chapter 506: Absence [GT ]

Chapter 506: Absence [GT chapter]

The room was packed.

Cameras blinked like restless eyes behind the clusters of microphones, and journalists leaned forward like a wave on the verge of crashing.

Spain’s national team manager, Luis de la Fuente, sat calmly at the podium, shoulders squared and eyes sharp behind the modest frames of his glasses.

Behind him hung the embroidered crests of the Spanish federation, red and gold banners rich with the gravity of tradition.

The press conference had gone as expected at first.

Questions about training intensity, selection balance, and squad cohesion.

He answered them with the usual blend of coach-speak and charm—clear, measured, experienced.

But the mood shifted as a hand went up near the front.

It belonged to an older reporter from Marca, whose reputation preceded him.

“We’ve seen the list. Izan Hernandez was called up.”

His tone was casual, but there was a glint beneath it.

“Yet he hasn’t been in any of the pictures from training. No footage. No sightings. Can you confirm if he’s arrived at camp?”

De la Fuente didn’t flinch.

“He will join us soon,” he said plainly.

“There are personal matters he is attending to with the full knowledge of the federation.”

The next reporter was from El Desmarque, who came off a bit aggressive from the onset.

“Is he injured? Or is this just another case of a golden boy being protected too much?”

Luis raised a brow but said nothing.

Then came the third one.

Catalunya Ràdio.

“Coach, some sources have told us Izan delayed his arrival for personal reasons. But doesn’t this send the wrong message? That maybe… maybe he feels he’s too big for this national team?”

The silence that followed was sudden, brutal.

De la Fuente stared at the man like the room had frozen over.

His hands slowly came off the table, and he leaned forward, gaze unwavering, voice grave.

Pablo Amo, who stood on the side, just put his head in his hands before looking back up and staring at the reporter who had asked the question.

“Say that again.”

The reporter shifted but didn’t retreat.

“I said, some people think Izan believes he’s—”

“Too big?” Luis interrupted, his voice rising.

“Too big for what? For his country? For this shirt?”

His hand tapped the Spain crest stitched over his chest.

“Do you know who you’re talking about?”

The cameras zoomed in, reporters drawing back slightly, sensing something rare—the old lion baring his teeth.

“Izan Hernandez has represented this country with humility and pride. He played for our youth teams when no one knew his name.

He bled for us in the Under-17s and Under-19s. And now, you sit here—without facts, without compassion—and throw baseless accusations at a 16-year-old who’s going through something that for his sake, I can’t say until he says it himself?”

A quiet ripple of stunned breath passed through the room.

Luis de la Fuente stood up, jaw locked. “This press conference is over.”

He pulled off his microphone, muttering something under his breath that the broadcast mics barely picked up, but viewers online swore was, “Miserables.”

Then he was gone.

Within a few hours, the internet was on fire.

Clips from the press conference flooded social media.

Luis de la Fuente storms out after defending Izan Hernandez.

Trending. Tweets were split into two factions.

One camp said the coach overreacted, while others said he did exactly what a real leader should do.

A few attempted to resurrect the “Izan is arrogant” narrative, but they were drowned out by voices reminding the world that football wasn’t all there was to a footballer’s life.

@CarmenFutbolista: “You don’t have to like Izan Hernandez. But you do have to respect his coach for drawing the line. He didn’t have to say anything. But he did.”

@LaRojaReigns: “Coach defending his boy like a dad. That’s how you protect your players. That’s what leaders do.”

But others weren’t as kind.

@FootballFirst: “If he’s too young for pressure, maybe he’s too young for people to be on his neck, then he should go to school. Can’t have it both ways.”

@Soccergeek: @FootballFirst, are you dumb? All the coach said was that he had something personal going on, and you are talking about people being on his neck. Have you seen Izan react to those accusations before? Read the room you retard.

……..

In the meantime, somewhere far from the media chaos, the training ground in Las Rozas buzzed quietly beneath the cool spring sun.

The national team players moved across the pitch like a well-oiled machine.

Sharp passing drills, rondos, and finishing sessions.

But there was a noticeable gap in the mood.

It wasn’t low, per se, but it lacked its usual spice.

Lamine Yamal jogged back into position beside Nico Williams, a sheepish grin on his face as he caught his breath.

“Not the same without him, eh?” he murmured.

Nico glanced at him. “Who?”

Lamine rolled his eyes. “Who do you think? Izan. The senior devil. He’s usually silently instigating stuff, throwing fake nutmegs, and annoying the keepers.”

Nico chuckled. “True. I’m sure Pedri misses him,” he added before they both turned to Pedri, who sat on a ball in the corner, looking at the sky like an old man who had gone fishing.

Amo Pablo, assistant coach, stood on the sideline, observing.

He had a clipboard in one hand but wasn’t writing anything.

Instead, he watched the players with a patient smile, noting the subdued energy.

When Luis de la Fuente walked back out onto the training grounds, Amo turned and nudged him with an elbow, his voice light, teasing.

“Coach,” he whispered, “you didn’t yell at me like that when I asked about Izan.”

Luis gave him a sideways look. “That’s because I like you, Pablo.”

Amo grinned. “So… what is the situation, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Luis hesitated. “He’ll arrive tomorrow evening. Misses the warm-ups. But he’ll be ready.”

Pablo tapped the clipboard. “Jet lag might be tough.”

Luis sighed. “I know. But he’s tougher.”

Pablo smiled. “Still, it’s been a bit quiet. Even Lamine and Nico have been behaving.”

Luis’s gaze wandered back to the pitch, where Lamine was helping Gavi up after an accidental clash.

“Well,” he murmured, “that tells you everything, doesn’t it?”

The day rolled on, drills intensified, and behind closed doors, media representatives kept polishing angles and headlines.

But inside that tight-knit bubble of players, coaches, and quiet loyalty, there was a waiting space left open for one of their own, whose absence they’ve felt, both on the pitch and in how they interacted with each other.

………

The Valencia sun was already beginning its slow, golden descent when the front door opened for the last time that day.

Out by the car, Miranda stood leaning against the driver’s door, her arms crossed with a pair of sunglasses pushed atop her head and the glint of patient amusement in her eyes.

In front of her, Komi cupped Izan’s face in both hands, her thumbs brushing gently across his cheekbones like she was trying to memorize the weight of his face all over again.

“Comes back with less cheek every time,” she said softly in Spanish, her voice somewhere between proud and joy.

“I won’t,” Izan replied with a cheeky smile, though he squirmed a little under her grip.

“Ma… seriously—people are watching.”

“You think I care?” Komi scolded, giving his cheek a light slap before pulling him in for a firm hug.

He let it linger this time.

A sudden whack caught him by surprise.

Hori had snuck up from behind and swatted him on the butt.

“Behave, idiot. You’re not too grown for us to drag you back home.”

“Ow—what was that for?” Izan turned, half-laughing, half-wounded.

“Let that woman caress you more before she downs it all on me when you’re not here.”

Hori eyed him for a long second, then nodded.

She stepped back.

That was when Olivia stepped up, sliding her arms around his waist before planting a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Try not to get all broody without me.”

Hori immediately made a loud, dramatic gagging sound from behind them.

“Oh, come on,” Izan said, rolling his eyes. “You’re just mad because I heard there’s a boy you’ve been—”

Olivia’s eyes widened in horror.

“Izan!” she gasped, betrayed, pointing at him as Hori’s expression morphed into slow, dawning fury.

“You told him?!” Hori shouted.

Olivia didn’t wait—she bolted for the other side of the driveway, sandals slapping against stone as Hori gave chase, shouting, “You’re dead, traitor!”

“I was joking!” Izan called out, trying not to laugh as Olivia screamed his name like a curse.

Eventually, Miranda tapped the roof of the car with her knuckles.

“If we don’t leave now, you’ll miss the flight.”

Izan turned one last time.

Komi waved with her apron still on.

Hori had caught Olivia and was mock-wrestling her to the ground, both of them laughing uncontrollably.

He smiled and lifted his hand in a final wave.

Then he slid into the front passenger seat, closed the door beside him, and Miranda started the engine.

A/N: Ah, Golden chapter. I might have to up the tickets to 50 per chapter cause damn, I’m tired. Anyways, have fun and I’ll see you in the evening with the last chapter of the day.

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