Chapter 534: Final

Chapter 534: Final Chapter

Up on stage, Gullit reached out first.

They shook hands—firm, mutual.

“You’ve got something special,” Gullit said, low enough that only Izan heard.

Izan nodded once, jaw set, eyes clear.

And the trophy—sleek, golden, shaped like a future unfolding—was his.

He paused a moment, glanced out into the darkened crowd, and inhaled—just once.

Then he began.

“I grew up dreaming about moments like this. But even in those dreams, it never looked quite like this.”

His voice was steady and soft, but the mic caught the edge of emotion curling just behind the words.

“I want to thank my family first—my mom, Komi, for always believing in me before anyone else did. My sister Hori, even when she’s annoying, and even more when she’s proud. My agent, Miranda, and Olivia—for being there before and after every game, every time.”

He shifted the trophy slightly.

“I want to thank the club that gave me my first real chance. Not just a team—but brothers. Valencia. That badge will always mean something different to me.”

A few camera flashes went off in the crowd. He smiled slightly.

“This is for all of you. For the nights we didn’t think we’d make it. For the dressing room jokes. For the belief when no one was watching.”

Then he glanced down once, lips curling faintly.

“And to anyone back home wondering if I’m watching the comments? Yeah. I saw that one about my entrances. I’m working on it.”

Laughter bubbled through the audience.

He closed simply.

“Thank you for this. I’ll keep working. I promise you that.”

Applause rose, and Izan nodded once, then stepped back from the mic.

……

Valencia, Spain

The room was dim, the TV brightness turned up too high.

A few of the Valencia players had stayed behind after training, curled around the screen like kids watching a film they knew all the words to.

As Izan’s speech ended, José Gayà leaned forward from his place on the couch, chuckling.

“Did you hear that?”

“Of course,” came Pietro’s voice from across the room.

Gayà turned toward him. “He thanked us, Pietro.”

Pietro, arms folded and chin lifted, said without blinking:

“He was thanking me. You all just happened to be on the same squad.”

Someone threw a pillow at him.

“He’s just saying what we already know,” Pietro insisted with a grin.

“Izan was forged in my shadow.”

Gayà rolled his eyes, laughing. “You’re unbearable.”

“Gifted,” Pietro corrected. “Unbearably gifted.”

But beneath the teasing, every player in that room wore the same thing: pride.

Their boy had made it.

And he hadn’t forgotten them.

……..

As Izan stepped off the stage, the weight of the Kopa Trophy still warm in his hands, a member of the event staff met him at the stairs with a small nod.

“Want us to hold that for you?”

He handed it over gently, then made his way back to his seat beside Lamine.

The two exchanged no words this time—just a simple fist bump, the kind that said more than a paragraph could.

The lights shifted again, and the stage pulsed with a soft, icy blue glow.

A new name appeared on the screen:

LEV YASHIN TROPHY

Best Goalkeeper in the World.

Drogba’s voice returned, rich and reverent.

“The one who stands alone. The final wall. The voice in the back who sees the whole field, and sometimes… saves more than just the game.”

The montage was immediate.

Gloves meeting the ball with thunder. Stretch saves fingertip flicks, penalty heroics.

A slow-motion replay of pure instinct made real. And at the center of it—one man.

Emiliano Martínez.

His stops for Aston Villa. His World Cup and Copa America -winning saves still echoing. The penalty kick saves. The stare-downs. The fire.

His name came up again.

And the room broke into applause.

Martínez rose with a grin and strode toward the stage, swagger in every step.

He shook Drogba’s hand, accepted the silver-green trophy with a glint in his eye, and stepped to the mic.

“I play the game with my chest out,” he said, smiling wide, “but I carry a whole country behind it.”

A few laughs, some nods.

“I’ve always said—goalkeepers don’t win you games, they save your life. So thank you to my teammates, my coaches, my family… and anyone who’s ever screamed my name in a shootout.”

Applause sounded, stronger now as he walked off the podium.

The stage turned white.

Clean. Imperial.

CLUB OF THE YEAR.

The footage began before anyone spoke—trophies lifted, confetti, locker room celebrations, white kits moving in a seamless rhythm.

Real Madrid.

From LaLiga dominance to their continental dominance, the montage did all the speaking.

Players high-fiving under stadium floodlights. Carlo Ancelotti giving a calm smile from the bench. Vini. Bellingham. Mbappé.

But when the screen shifted to the audience, there was only an empty row.

Drogba stepped back out, clearing his throat.

“Real Madrid—winners of the 2024 Club of the Year. But, as many of you know… the team has chosen not to attend tonight’s ceremony.”

A flicker of unease passed over the room. Not judgment. Just the awareness of absence.

“We respect their decision,” Sandi added quickly.

“But we still honor their excellence.”

Applause came—polite, professional, pointed.

Then, just like that, the screen shifted again.

The gold returned.

The music lifted.

BALLON D’OR FÉMININ.

Sandi stepped forward, her voice softer now.

“And now we move to one of the most anticipated awards of the night. Where dominance, grace, and relentless brilliance come together…”

……

The Ballon d’Or ceremony was still unfolding on stage, but elsewhere—in living rooms, bedrooms, cafes, airports, subway platforms—the second screen experience was alive and loud.

On X (formerly Twitter), threads piled high with wild takes and hot reactions:

@FootballFiend:

“Martínez again? Blud is still living off the final save against France. How has he still won it.”

@GOATWatch:

“Kane accepting a shared award solo is peak Kane energy.”

@IzanEra:

“Man just picked up the Kopa like it was his second breakfast. Calm as hell. What’s next, the main prize?”

Memes flew, side-by-sides of Izan in his velvet suit next to 2010s Messi.

Fans were arguing who looked more relaxed under pressure.

But then, a post from a quiet account broke through.

@BarcaEyesOnly:

“Wait. Natalie Portman just presented the Ballon d’Or Féminin to Aitana Bonmatí???”

At first, it barely made a ripple.

But within minutes, the quote tweets took over:

@WomenInTheGame:

“Natalie Portman. Oscar winner. Activist. Angel City FC owner. Standing there handing the crown of women’s football to the queen herself? YES.”

@USWNTLore:

“That’s a whole moment. Women lifting women. And it wasn’t forced. It felt like legacy being handed off in real-time.”

@SpanishFooty:

“Bonmatí deserves it. She ran the World Cup like she had the cheat codes. And now she’s got the trophy to prove it. What a year.”

Clips surfaced of Aitana’s walk to the stage, her arm brushing Natalie’s as they exchanged words no one could hear—but everyone tried to imagine.

On TikTok, a soundbite emerged:

Natalie’s voice, soft and calm: “This year, greatness had a name.”

Set over a slow montage of Aitana’s Euros performances.

It hit a million views in under an hour.

While the stage prepared for the next award, the internet had already claimed its highlight.

And they weren’t even halfway through the night.

….

Back at the Théâtre du Châtelet, the applause for Aitana Bonmatí still lingered like a warm afterglow as she stepped gracefully down from the stage, Ballon d’Or Féminin in hand.

Cameras tracked her as she returned to her seat—smiling, composed, history written in every line of her movement.

As she settled, the house lights dipped once more. A new silence took hold—not gentle, not reverent.

Heavy.

Anticipating.

From opposite wings, Didier Drogba and Sandi Heribert returned to center stage, the full screen behind them now glowing molten gold.

Sandi’s voice rang clear.

“And now… we arrive at the final chapter.”

Drogba glanced at the audience, his expression equal parts excitement and solemnity.

“The award that stops the world. That rewrites careers. That lives longer than any single goal ever could.”

The theatre pulsed with silence.

The screen behind them shifted—now a rapid, stylized montage.

Haaland, rising like a thunderstorm above defenders.

Mbappé, finishing at impossible angles in Ligue 1 and Europe.

Kane, ruthless in red.

Rodri, the metronome of Manchester.

Unshakable. Irreplaceable.

Jude, rising from midfield like a myth made flesh.

Vinícius, dazzling. Fierce. Furious.

And finally—Izan cradling the top scorer award and best player of the tournament in the Euros awards.

The screen pulled back, showing their faces—each nominee, still and sharp, surrounding the golden orb.

Drogba turned toward the crowd, voice low and precise.

“This year’s Ballon d’Or… brought one of the tightest races in recent memory. The battle wasn’t only of goals, or trophies—”

Sandi picked up seamlessly,

“—but of meaning. Of impact. Of how a player bent the game to their will in the moments that mattered most.”

They stepped closer now, toward the envelope that sat waiting on its pedestal.

“And now…” Drogba said.

Sandi opened the envelope and glanced inside. Her brow lifted ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth just hinting at a smile.

Drogba turned to the screen one last time, where the nominees’ photos now shimmered in stillness.

He looked out over the sea of football’s past, present, and future.

Then back to the audience.

“And the Ballon d’Or… goes to—”

He paused.

A beat.

A breath.

“Winning for the first time… Spaniard—”

Everything held its breath.

And then—

A/n: Massive Valleyhanger. Sorry for that guys. Have fun reading and I’ll see you tomorrow with the 2nd and probably last chapter of the day. BYEE

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