God Of football - Chapter 430

Chapter 430: More Responsibilities [ Pistacho031_3]
De la Fuente’s eyes moved again, then settled—just for a second—on Izan.

“And Izan will join that group. Not for age. Not for headlines. But for consistency, mentality, and professionalism.”

That earned a few murmurs.

“That doesn’t mean more pressure,” De la Fuente said. “It means more trust. And trust, here, is everything.”

He stepped away from the podium.

“Now let’s go to work.”

Chairs scraped back, chatter picked up again, but there was a sharper edge to it now.

The kind that always came after announcements like that. A new chapter didn’t need fireworks. It just needed clarity.

Izan stood beside Pedri as they joined the flow of players toward the training grounds.

The sun outside was warm but not overbearing.

The kind of weather that made you want to stretch further, run faster, stay longer.

“You good with that?” Pedri asked quietly as they walked.

“More than good,” Izan said as they stepped out.

The sun hovered just above the trees lining the edges of Las Rozas, casting that familiar soft gold over the training pitch.

The squad was still adjusting—getting reacquainted with national colors, national tempo—but it didn’t take long for old rhythms to return.

That was the nature of camps like these. Same setting. Same structure. Just the cast shifting slightly each time.

Now, they stood loosely gathered on the pitch, a semi-circle of navy and crimson vests forming around Pablo Amo like petals around a stubborn bud.

“Standard drills today,” Amo repeated, checking the names off his clipboard.

“No full scrimmage. Just movement. Touch. Decisions.”

He looked up, eyes scanning the group.

“But before that, we set roles. We’re not going into these matches without clarity.

I want no hesitation when there’s a whistle, and certainly no rock-paper-scissors on the pitch.”

Scattered chuckles rose, mostly from the younger end of the group.

“Dead balls,” Amo continued. “Free kicks, corners, penalties. If you had it last time, speak up. If someone wants it this time, speak louder.”

Pedri leaned slightly toward Izan and murmured, “Here we go again.”

Izan didn’t reply, arms resting easily over his chest. He had no real concern about this. Not after the year he’d had.

Before anyone else could respond, Yamal’s voice rang out from the back, all sharp amusement.

“Let’s not waste time. Just give everything to Izan already.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the group.

“Facts,” Nico added, arms raised as if surrendering.

“Give him the whole catalog. I’m not out here pretending I can out-curl that left foot.”

The focus shifted to the front line, where Morata stood with his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his training shorts.

He smiled, slow and deliberate.

“Corners and freekicks? He can have them. Makes sense.”

Then he added, casually, “But penalties stay with me.”

Silence. Not total—but enough to shift the air.

Rodri tilted his head slightly. Even Laporte raised a brow.

Izan glanced over—not aggressively, not arrogantly. Just… curious.

“You sure?” Pedri asked Morata, only half-joking.

“I’m captain,” Morata said, shrugging.

“Besides, I’ve been taking them longer than he’s been alive.”

“Barely,” Yamal muttered.

Morata grinned again, unbothered. “I’ve got the experience. No hard feelings.”

“Izan has the numbers,” someone else muttered behind Rodri.

Amo waited, watching the exchange unfold with the patience of a man who’d seen many of these little battles play out.

He raised the clipboard. “Three penalties each. One tiebreaker if it’s even. You both know the rules.”

“Referee?” Morata asked, lifting a brow.

“I’ll do it,” Amo said. “And don’t test me. I brought cards.”

The group laughed again, but it was more restrained now—respectful, eager.

This wasn’t a clash of egos. It was just football. Two players. One ball. Bragging rights and match duties on the line.

“Goalkeeper?” someone asked.

David Raya raised his hand and jogged toward the goalpost, already spinning his gloves on.

“Of course, it’s him,” Pedri muttered.

“Drama merchant.”

As the group backed away to form a half-moon around the penalty box, Izan rolled his shoulders, calm and unreadable.

Morata stepped forward, stretching once, twice. Neither of them spoke.

The pitch quieted.

A few birds chirped beyond the trees. A distant whistle blew from one of the academy fields. Otherwise—silence.

Amo pointed toward the spot.

“Morata first.”

The striker nodded, then turned and began his slow walk toward the ball.

Izan stood a few steps back, watching him with that still, measured focus.

Morata set the ball on the spot and took three steps back, shaking out his shoulders.

He didn’t overthink it—just exhaled and hit through the laces.

Boom.

Bottom right. No hesitation.

1–0.

Some claps echoed behind the semicircle of players.

“Vamos, capitán,” Fabián muttered.

Izan didn’t react. He stepped up calmly, placed the ball, and then took two short steps back. No deep breath. No drama.

Just a clean push—straight down the middle, ice cold.

Raya dove early. The ball rolled in untouched.

1–1.

Morata nodded with an approving squint. “Okay.”

Second round.

This time, Morata went left—hard, flat. It cracked against the inside of the post and ricocheted in.

The squad made a collective “Ohhh!”

2–1.

Raya grimaced. “I nearly had that one.”

Izan didn’t blink. He walked up the same pace as before. He eyed the keeper for a heartbeat, then sent it flying.

Whhhhp.

Top left. It clipped the underside of the bar before snapping into the net.

Gasps and grins followed instantly.

“Bro,” Nico whispered, “bro!!”

“Come on guys. Give it to him already,” Yamal said, eyebrows raised.

2–2.

Morata turned, grinning now. “So we’re doing art, huh?”

He jogged up for his third, aimed center again—lower this time.

Raya read it and got a leg to it, but the shot still squeezed past and rolled into the net.

3–2.

“Ay, lucky,” Pedri murmured.

Izan just smiled, ball already in hand.

He placed it again with, the same exact posture. No trick runs, no shuffle steps.

Just instinct.

He chipped it.

A soft, arrogant little panenka, rising gently through the air.

Raya had already committed low. His palms slapped the turf as the ball floated over his back and dropped neatly into the net.

3–3.

Silence.

Then—

“¡Nah!” Raya stood up, pointing at the goal.

“¡Fuera, fuera! I’m done. I’m out.”

Laughter erupted around the pitch.

“Unai!” Raya called toward the bench.

“Come get embarrassed. I’m not recovering from that one.”

Unai Simón was already walking up, shaking his head and grinning. “I’ve seen enough, hermano. You’re cooked.”

Raya sulked off dramatically, towel over his shoulder.

“Izan,” he said, passing the forward. “You need to warn people. That was criminal.”

The laughter was still simmering as Unai Simón pulled on his gloves, jogging into the box with mock seriousness.

“Let’s settle it,” Amo said, glancing between the two. “Tie-breaker. One more each.”

Morata exhaled. “Alright. Last one.”

He set the ball again and gave it a moment. The mood had shifted slightly—still light, but with a thread of pressure now.

He stepped up.

Planted.

And slipped.

His left foot gave out just enough to throw off the angle, and instead of sending it to the corner, the ball flew soft and centerline—straight into the arms of a bemused Unai Simón.

Gasps broke out, followed by immediate heckles.

“Ay, noooo!”

“¡Morataaa!”

“Grass too slick or what, capi?” Yamal called out, hands on hips.

Morata stared up at the sky, arms wide like he was appealing to the football gods. “¿¡En serio!?” he groaned. “One time I slip and it’s that one?”

Nico doubled over laughing while Yamal was already tapping out imaginary tweets on his palm.

Izan jogged forward wordlessly, trying and failing to hide his grin.

“Pressure’s off now, Hernandez,” Pedri called. “Just don’t fall.”

He lined it up.

He didn’t rush. One glance at Simón, who was already bouncing lightly on the line.

Then Izan struck it low and hard into the bottom right. No theatrics. No tricks.

Just cold execution.

The net rippled. 4–3.

It was over.

The squad erupted—not wildly, but with a kind of satisfied buzz as if they’d just watched something inevitable unfold.

Yamal tackled Izan from the side, shouting, “I told you we should’ve just given him everything!”

Amo blew his whistle, waving the team back to the center.

“Alright, alright—enough drama. Positions assigned. We’ll run set pieces in five.”

Morata was still shaking his head with a resigned smile, dragging a towel over his neck.

“Don’t worry, capi,” Izan said, brushing past him with a pat on the back. “You’re still handsome.”

“Yeah, well,” Morata sighed, “at least let me take throw-ins or something.”

Laughter followed them as they jogged back to formation.

Izan followed behind with Pedri, a satisfied expression drawn over his face.

“Most people like shirking responsibilities but you just love having more don’t ya” Pedri said after seeing Izan’s expression.

Izan didn’t say and just smiled more joining his mates who had started jogging around the pitch.

A/n: Okay. Halfway done with the Golden Gacha chapters. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a few hours with the remaining two or three chapters for the day, including 2 gacha bonus chapters.