Chapter 508: Trip to Murcia

The recreational room was buzzing with soft music, the hum of conversation, and the occasional clink of pool balls.

Izan approached the room doorway, the chatter and noise getting more as he got near.

He leaned against the frame like it was his dressing room, let a second pass, then cleared his throat—just loud enough.

Heads turned.

First Nico.

Then Pedri.

Then Lamine, who squinted for half a second, eyes widening before he blurted out, “Eh, look who finally remembered us! ”

In the blink of an eye, Lamine was up, jogged over, and wrapped Izan in a dramatic hug, his arms locking like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

“You’re late,” he said, pulling back.

“Was beginning to think you joined the Brazil camp by mistake.”

“I would have had better food there,” Izan deadpanned.

The others laughed, all approaching Izan, some whispering “Glad to have you back” and others just going in for a hug.

Pedri stood, folding his arms.

“What happened, bruh. We got so bored without all the chaos that we started placing bets, you know. Cubarsí thought you weren’t coming at all.”

“I didn’t say that,” Cubarsí said, lounging on a bean bag.

“I just said he was probably still combing his hair. You know how those model people get.”

Izan stepped into the room with a small smirk.

“Can’t help it if I want to look nice in front of the cameras. Unlike you, who bombs every photo.”

“Must be that Adidas money,” Nico muttered, kicking his feet up on the table.

“Your hairline’s glowing now.”

“Come on, Nico, my hairline’s always been good, but what you just said is wild coming from a guy with the same cut since U17s.”

“I’m loyal,” Nico shot back.

“You? You left us to go headline fashion week.”

Pedri chuckled, pulling them aside.

“Let the boy breathe. Man missed one training and y’all act like he retired.”

“Who’s acting?” Yamal said.

“We were already making a tribute video.”

They all burst into laughter as Izan dropped onto a couch nearby.

Lamine pointed at the PlayStation setup.

“We saved you a controller.”

“Don’t bother,” Nico said, raising his voice.

“He’s still terrible at FIFA. Watch him pick Arsenal and bench himself.”

“Real ones know how to rotate their squad, Izan shot back.

“I gotta keep the legs fresh.”

“Tell that to Arteta,” Pedri muttered.

“He’s been playing you almost every game.”

Izan stood up and made his way to the empty spot between Nico and Lamine, bumping fists with the former.

The room felt… right again. No pressure, no questions.

Just five boys who’d grown up through camps, matches, and more press than anyone their age deserved.

The screen blinked to life again, match already queued up.

“Don’t let him score,” Lamine warned.

“His ego’s already national-sized.”

“Score?” Izan tilted his head.

“You gonna talk that much just to lose?”

Nico looked at Pedri.

“Ten minutes in and he’s already louder than the TV.”

Pedri shook his head, smiling.

“This is the national team camp now. Izan’s back, so we’ve got chaos again.”

And just like that, the sadness of the last few days faded.

Not erased, but held gently in the background, where it belonged for now.

……

The match on screen had long ended, but the five of them kept rotating through games, shouting over each other like it was the final of the World Cup.

Cubarsí had one leg propped up on the armrest of the couch while Lamine sat back, hurling insults at his team in the game when they couldn’t do something.

After a while, the door creaked open and Pablo Amo stood in the frame, arms folded.

“Chicos…” he said in a deep voice, causing most of the younger players to halt what they were doing.

Everyone turned like schoolkids caught mid-heist.

“It’s past midnight,” he said, stepping inside.

“You’ve got a bus to Murcia at 9 a.m. I don’t want to see half-awake zombies at breakfast.”

A round of mock groans filled the room. Lamine muttered something about fascism, earning a look from Cubarsí.

“Off you go,” Amo waved.

“Brush teeth. Say your prayers. Goodnight.”

“Prayers?” Pedri raised a brow. “Are you praying we win or we sleep?”

Amo smiled tightly. “You’ll find out if you miss that bus.”

That did it.

The group started scattering, grumbling, but obedient.

Bags were slung back over shoulders, the console turned off.

Izan and Pedri walked out last, their footsteps soft along the dimly lit hallway.

They passed one turn, then another, neither in a rush to reach their rooms.

“Hey,” Pedri said suddenly, glancing sideways.

“Why were you late to camp?”

Izan glanced over, too, lips twitching, unsure if Pedri was genuinely asking or just making conversation.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Pedri added. “Just… figured I’d ask.”

“It’s not that deep,” Izan said quietly.

“It was my dad’s anniversary. Ten years.”

Pedri was silent for a second.

“I thought so,” he said. “First time I saw you—like properly, was back when Valencia played Barça. Then at the Euros. Your mom was there and your sister too. But no dad.”

He scratched his head.

“I remember thinking maybe he just wasn’t in the picture. Like… one of those stories. You know?”

Izan nodded.

He’d heard the assumptions before.

He didn’t mind.

“And then—” Pedri continued, chuckling now, “—then I had this stupid moment. I thought, ‘maybe his dad’s gonna come back.'”

Izan raised an eyebrow.

Pedri shrugged.

“You know, like the cliché. When you make it big, suddenly they all want to show up. Claim the success.”

He laughed to himself.

“I was waiting to see him on your Insta or something. Thought he’d pop up holding your jersey like ‘my boy!'” Pedri mimicked the pose, doing air quotes.

Izan tried to keep a straight face, but it crumbled fast.

A low chuckle escaped him, then another.

Soon, he was wheezing, bent slightly forward, trying not to cackle like a lunatic in the quiet hallway.

Pedri shoved him. “I’m being serious, man.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Izan wheezed.

“Yeah, well, you’re laughing, so.”

“I’m laughing because it’s so far off it’s actually funny.”

“Glad you’re alright though,” Pedri said, more sincerely this time.

Izan’s smile lingered, not huge, but honest.

Then, from behind them, like the voice of doom itself, came the unmistakable bellow of Pablo Amo.

“¿Qué estáis haciendo todavía aquí, chicos? ¿Debería perseguirte primero? (What are you guys still doing here. Should I chase you first?”

The two flinched like schoolboys caught sneaking snacks after lights-out.

“We’re going!” Pedri shouted back, already half-running.

“Sleepwalking!” Izan added, jogging after him.

Behind them, Amo’s voice trailed, muttering something about lost causes and teenagers with no sense of time.

Their laughter faded into the hallway as the lights above hummed gently, and the night settled again into silence.

…….

The morning sun had barely begun to warm the sprawling grounds of Las Rozas.

It cast a gentle sheen over the windows as the national team players filtered into the dining hall one by one—some with hoodies dragged over their heads, others already half-awake and joking like they hadn’t just rolled out of bed ten minutes ago.

Izan sat near the end of the long table, a half-eaten plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of him, already dressed.

Lamine and Nico had already started their daily squabbles while Cubarsí, quiet as usual, sipped at his coffee with the deadpan patience of someone who had already gotten used to the noise.

The doors pushed open again.

This time, Dani Olmo walked in, his head turning lazily as he scanned the room, eyes moving past faces until they caught Izan’s.

Then he stopped, blinked twice.

“Bro,” Olmo said, pausing mid-step.

“What the… when did you get here?”

Izan looked up, a faint smile creeping onto his lips.

“Late.”

Olmo blinked again. “No one told me. I thought you weren’t coming till matchday.”

“Which is today,” Izan said, amused.

Olmo didn’t waste time.

He grabbed a plate, loaded it up quickly, and made his way over to sit beside him.

He bumped shoulders with him slightly as he sat.

“You good now?” Olmo asked, his voice low and sincere.

Izan nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for asking.”

They exchanged a brief look—nothing over-the-top, just a silent agreement between teammates—and then returned to their food.

The conversation didn’t need to linger.

They were here now. That was enough.

A few seats down, Pedri was already on his second yogurt, while Cubarsí nursed what looked like his third piece of toast.

The breakfast table buzzed with casual banter and the occasional clink of cutlery.

A sudden tap on a glass echoed lightly through the hall.

It was Luis de la Fuente, standing by the side, eyes moving slowly across the tables.

“Alright,” he said clearly, “finish up and head to your rooms. Pack what you need—but only what you need. We’re in Murcia for one day and two nights, not a vacation.”

Some groans rippled across the table, but no one dared challenge the instruction.

“Be back down in forty-five,” he added.

The bus leaves from the parking lot. Don’t be the guy we wait for.”

Lamine raised a hand.

“Can we bring consoles?”

“No,” Luis said flatly.

“That was fast,” Nico chuckled, shoveling the last of his food.

Around the table, trays started shifting, chairs scraping gently against the polished floor as the players began to rise.

Izan downed the last of his orange juice and stood as well, Olmo following beside him.

This was business now.

Murcia awaited.

A/n: Okay guys, first of the day, have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with hopefully a bonus chapter and the last of the day.

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