God Of football - Chapter 242

Chapter 242: Return Chapter 242: Return Baraja led him down a quieter hallway, away from the music and chaos of the locker room.

Then, he turned, facing Izan fully.

For the first time since the match ended, Baraja’s eyes softened.

“I just wanted to say… thank you.” Izan tilted his head slightly.

“For what?” “For giving everything.

For pushing yourself beyond what anyone thought possible.

For-” Baraja hesitated, exhaling.

“For making this happen.” Izan looked at him for a long moment before offering a small grin.

“You left me on, coach.

You believed in me.” Baraja chuckled, shaking his head.

“I don’t know if it was belief or recklessness.” A pause.

Then, he placed a hand on Izan’s shoulder.

“But I don’t regret it.” And neither did Izan.

“Well I’ve said all I had to say.

Lets go back now” Baraja said, Izan nodding to it as he was wheeled away.

……

The celebrations in the locker room raged on, but eventually, it was time to head back home.

Valencia had just won the Copa del Rey, but their night wasn’t over yet.

Club officials came in to usher the players toward the team bus, reminding them that they had a long journey ahead.

Some players were still soaked in champagne.

Others carried their jerseys in their hands, waving them like flags.

Izan, still in a wheelchair, was one of the last to leave.

As the players stepped out of the stadium, they were met by a crowd of Valencia fans who had waited long after the final whistle.

Fans had gathered Outside La Cartuja Hundreds had gathered, still buzzing from the victory.

Some held banners, others waved flags, and every single one of them was singing.

“Vaaaaalencia, club de fútbol!

És el millor de tots!” When the players emerged, the fans erupted into cheers.

Hugo Duro, with the trophy in hand, lifted it into the air.

“¡Campeones!” he shouted.

The crowd responded immediately.

“¡CAMPEONES, OLE OLE!” Izan wheeled out behind the group and couldn’t help but grin.

He had seen celebrations like this on TV.

But now?

Now, he was inside it.

The fans chanted his name-“Izan!

Izan!

Izan!”-as he was helped onto the team bus.

Before the door closed, a young boy pushed through the crowd.

“Izan!

Can I have your shirt?” Izan looked down at his mud-streaked jersey.

He could barely move, but he still managed to pull it over his head and toss it to the kid.

“Take care of it, alright?” The boy’s face lit up like he had just been given the world.

“The publicity team won’t be happy about that,,” Correira said as he claimed the bus.

“Well guess they won’t” Izan replied.

And with that, the doors of the bus shut, and the journey home began.

…

The inside of the bus was still loud, but it wasn’t as chaotic as before.

The exhaustion was finally creeping in.

Izan sat at the back, his head resting against the window.

Outside, the night stretched endlessly, the dark road illuminated only by streetlights and passing cars.

As he scrolled through his phone, the news was already flooded with Valencia’s triumph.

Headlines flashed across social media: “IZAN THE IMMORTAL!

The 16-year-old wonderkid defies pain to win the Copa del Rey for Valencia!” “A NEW LEGEND IN SPAIN: Izan’s goal seals a historic victory!” “MADRID, BARCELONA, LOOK OUT-IZAN HAS ARRIVED.” Even major broadcasters had interrupted their regular programming to talk about it.

On a Spanish sports channel, the pundits and analysts were still losing their minds: “I don’t think we’ve ever seen something like this before.

A 16-year-old, playing on one leg, scoring the winning goal in a cup final?

It’s absurd!” Another journalist chimed in: “This is beyond football.

This is pure cinema.

The kind of story that will be told for generations.” Izan sighed, locking his phone.

It hadn’t been long, but he had already made his mark, but this was just the start.

…..

The team bus rolled into Valencia just as the sun was rising.

But instead of an empty city, they were met with an ocean of people.

Thousands of Valencia fans had gathered, flooding the streets in orange and white, waving banners, and setting off flares.

It was a hero’s welcome.

As the bus crawled forward, fans banged on the sides, chanting and singing.

When the doors opened, the cheering became deafening.

Players stepped out one by one, and each was met with roaring applause.

At the center of the crowd, a small stage had been set up.

The players climbed up, one after the other, to display the Copa del Rey trophy to their people.

Hugo Duro lifted it first.

The fans exploded.

Then Gaya.

Then Javi Guerra.

But soon, a chant began: “IZAN!

IZAN!

IZAN!” Hugo turned and grinned at Izan, who was still sitting in his wheelchair below.

“You heard them,” he said, handing the trophy to Javi Guerra.

Javi bent down and placed it in Izan’s lap.

The fans went wild.

Izan, exhausted beyond belief, lifted the trophy with both hands.

It wasn’t just a trophy anymore.

It was proof that he had done something unforgettable.

A fan near the front of the crowd shouted up at him.

“We’ll never forget this, Izan!

Never!” Another yelled: “Sixteen years old, and you’re already a legend!” Izan couldn’t help but laugh.

Fans really are what make soccer, football [Small shade at American Rugby and MLS] After the celebrations with the fans, the players were taken to Paterna, Valencia’s training ground.

From there, most of them would go home to rest.

Izan, still barely able to stand, was about to get into a car when Baraja stopped him.

“Come back in the afternoon,” the coach said.

Izan blinked.

“For what?” “Assessment,” Baraja said simply.

“We need to know exactly how bad your ankle is.” Izan let out a slow breath.

He knew this was coming.

Still, he nodded.

“Alright.

I’ll be here.” Baraja patted his shoulder.

“Good.

Now go home.

You’ve earned it.” As Izan was driven away from Paterna, he finally let himself exhale.

The last 24 hours had been a blur.

The injury.

The goal.

The celebration.

Now, as he looked out at the streets of Valencia, filled with people still celebrating, he realized something.

He had made history.

And no matter what happened next-whether he stayed at Valencia or moved on to something bigger-this moment would always belong to me.

…..

As Izan’s car pulled up to the house, exhaustion finally sank in.

Komi was already waiting for him at the door, arms crossed.

“You scared me half to death, Izan.” Izan sighed as he was helped out of the car.

Hori stood beside Komi, grinning.

“You looked dramatic as hell lying on that pitch, though.

Like some tragic hero.” Izan rolled his eyes.

“Not now, Hori.” She smirked.

“No, seriously.

When you got injured, I was about to cry.

Then you scored?

I was screaming my lungs out.

But when you collapsed?

I thought, ‘Damn.

My brother’s broken forever.

Who’s gonna get me those Saint Laurent’s now?'” Komi smacked her lightly on the arm.

“Don’t joke about that.” Hori just laughed.

Izan shook his head.

As Komi led him inside, she sighed.

“You should rest, Izan.

You’ve put your body through enough.” Izan nodded, too tired to argue.

…

The next afternoon, Izan was back at Paterna for his medical assessment.

His body still ached, his ankle throbbed, but he had no choice.

Inside the medical room, Dr.

Luis Navarro-the club’s head physician-studied his swollen ankle with a deep frown.

Baraja stood nearby, arms crossed, waiting for the verdict.

After a few tests, Dr.

Luis finally looked up.

“Izan…

this is incredible.” Izan raised an eyebrow.

“That bad?” Ramos shook his head.

“No.

That’s just it.

It looked career-threatening last night…

but you’re only going to miss a few games.” Baraja’s eyes widened.

“Wait, what?” The doctor nodded.

“Your ankle is sprained, but there’s no break, no ligament tear.

Given the way you collapsed, we expected something far worse.” Baraja ran a hand through his hair, still in disbelief.

“Are you telling me he played through that much pain, on an ankle that wasn’t even fully broken?” Dr.

Ramos exhaled.

“Honestly?

The fact that he lasted that long…

it doesn’t make sense.” Izan, still seated on the examination table, smirked.

“Guess I’m just built differently.” Baraja shook his head with a chuckle.

“Or maybe you’re just insane.” The doctor added, “You’ll still need rest.

Three, maybe four weeks out.

No rushing back.” Baraja clapped him on the shoulder.

“Take the time to recover, Izan.

You’ve done more than enough.” Izan nodded, but deep down, he was already thinking ahead.

Four weeks?

That was nothing.

He’d be back before they even knew it.

Especially when he had a helper.

…..

[Dear readers, system speaking.

Please help me raise the petition that author Bro will put me more into the story by voting with your Golden tickets.

He started ignoring me ever since I started talking back to him.

Hel- He-] A/n: sorry for that interruption from that mechanical ass.

Have fun reading.

CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Art233 Your gift is the motivation for my creation.

Give me more motivation!