God Of football - Chapter 431

Chapter 431: Arrival In Belgrade
The sun dipped lower as the Spanish national team jogged their final lap around the training ground in Las Rozas, shirts clinging to their backs and voices rising in bursts of friendly taunts and laughter.

The atmosphere was light but laced with the kind of sharpness that came when competition loomed close.

Luis de la Fuente called time on the session, gesturing with a simple wave, and the players peeled off toward the shaded benches near the sideline.

Ice towels, cold bottles, and banter awaited.

Izan peeled his shirt off in one motion, dragging it across his forehead as he dropped beside Pedri and Nico.

A camera crew hovered discreetly near the fence line—RFEF’s internal media, filming the usual behind-the-scenes content.

But this time, their lenses lingered a little longer on Izan than usual.

Not that he minded.

Still, when they were finally dismissed, and the players began retreating to the locker room, Pedri nudged him with an elbow.

“You’ve seen what they’re saying online, right?”

Izan snorted. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About you. About how people thought you weren’t gonna show.”

Nico leaned over from the next bench, grinning.

“One guy had a whole thread convinced you ditched us to go play couple goals in London.”

“I was playing couple goals in London,” Izan replied, tossing his towel into the basket.

“Didn’t mean I wasn’t gonna show.”

“Still,” Pedri said, “they were worried. You know how it is—’too famous, too big, too soon.’ That kind of talk.”

Izan gave a light shrug. “I’m here. That should be enough.”

It was. But it didn’t stop the buzz from growing louder as the days ticked toward matchday.

RFEF’s social media posted a photo of Izan in training—tight shot, his boots off and his legs in an ice bucket while he grinned at something off camera.

The comments exploded.

@spanishgoals: The king is back. We’re winning the Nations League, tell the others to go home.

@futbolfanatic: Can’t lie, thought he’d skip this one. Respect for showing up.

@madridismo_real: Man really pulled up like he didn’t just break Aston Villa in half a couple of weeks ago.

@liv.xox: Olivia flew to Spain and HE followed. Let’s be real.

On the third morning, the travel itinerary dropped.

Departure to Belgrade: 11:30 AM sharp. Team meeting at 8:30. Bags tagged and ready in the lobby.

The message had been posted on the group chat the night before—clear, concise, non-negotiable.

But when morning came, the Las Rozas residence was anything but calm.

Someone’s alarm was blaring down the hallway.

A towel-wrapped Balde sprinted past one of the nutritionists with a toothbrush still wedged between his lips.

Pedri emerged from a room down the corridor wearing mismatched socks and asking aloud if anyone had seen his passport—again.

Yamal sat on his suitcase in the hallway, trying to zip it shut with his knee, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse aimed at the laws of Zipping.

In contrast, Izan stood by the reception lounge downstairs, already in travel gear, earphones in, arms crossed.

He had already completed his check-in with Pablo Amo and their player liaison, Raúl.

Even managed to fit in a light breakfast. And it was still only 8:17.

Raúl passed him the final list. “All set. You’re good to go.”

“I figured,” Izan replied, glancing at the clock on the wall.

“Let me guess—Yamal and Nico are still upstairs?”

As if summoned, the two of them burst around the corner—Nico with his hoodie half-on, dragging a duffel bag behind him that was clearly overweight, and Yamal yelling, “Don’t let the bus leave without me!” like this was a school field trip and not international duty.

Izan raised an eyebrow.

“It’s the same every time.”

Amo, still ticking names off the manifest, looked up and sighed. “Every. Single. Camp.”

Izan shifted his weight and called out, voice flat but amused, “You lot know this isn’t club level, right? The plane doesn’t wait.”

“Don’t start,” Nico shot back, still breathless.

“Not all of us are built like you, Mr. Done-With-Breakfast-Before-Sunrise.”

Yamal pointed an accusing finger while trying to sling his backpack over his shoulder.

“Yeah, stop trying to flex your discipline. We already lived that nightmare in Germany.”

Cubarsi, now fully dressed but visibly disoriented, skidded into the lobby behind them. “Wait. What about Germany?”

“Don’t remind me,” Pedri groaned, joining the group with his passport finally located and held above his head like a trophy.

“I still have trauma from that morning training session.”

“He wasn’t even sweating, bro,” Nico added, pointing to Izan like he was an exhibit in a museum.

“We were all half-dead after the two-a-days, and he was over there eating oranges and asking for another round.”

Yamal jabbed a thumb in his direction.

“And then people compared us to him. I nearly called my mum and told her I was switching to basketball.”

That drew a laugh from half the lobby.

Amo shook his head but couldn’t hide the grin.

“Alright, alright. Save the therapy session for later. Everyone accounted for?”

Raúl gave a thumbs-up. “Let’s roll.”

They boarded the charter flight a little past 11, and the bus ride to the airport filled with music, banter, and periodic reminders from staff about seat numbers and match schedules.

Once in the air, the cabin began to settle.

Veteran players like Morata and Rodri flipped through match notes on their tablets while Raya was passed out with a neck pillow too large for his head.

The younger ones—Yamal, Nico, Balde, Cubarsí—huddled in the back with their phones, bouncing memes around.

Occasionally, one of them would poke their head into Izan’s row and try to goad him into joining.

He didn’t bite. He just sat beside Pedri, earphones in, watching a film on the screen without really watching.

At one point, Nico leaned into the aisle and muttered, “He’s doing it again.”

Yamal nodded. “Locked in,” he said with a smile.

Cubarsí raised a hand like he was asking a teacher. “Should we be worried?”

“He’s always like this,” Pedri replied without looking away from the screen.

“Means he’s ready.”

Touchdown in Belgrade came just before sunset, with the September light dipping low across the runway.

As they disembarked, Serbian officials and security detail greeted them with polite nods and practiced hospitality.

Still, the hush that fell when Izan stepped off the plane was tangible. A few staffers exchanged looks.

A younger airport worker did a double-take and whispered something in Serbian to his colleague—pointing at Izan even amid all the Spanish players.

Even inside the terminal, the atmosphere shifted.

A handful of local fans had managed to slip past barriers.

Some held up their phones. A few waved. One of them, wearing an old Valencia kit, tapped the badge and smiled in Izan’s direction.

He simply nodded back and followed the group to the team bus.

Izan looked out the window, where chants were already rising from a modest crowd.

Spain shirts, club shirts, even a homemade banner with his name scrawled across it.

“Serbians are having at us online,” Pedri said, showing his screen to Izan.

“Let them talk,” the latter said finally.

“We haven’t even played yet.”

Pedri’s gaze lingered on Izan for a while before turning his attention back to his phone.

After a while, the team bus pulled into the circular driveway of the hotel—a towering slab of tinted glass and steel that caught the waning sunlight just enough to make everything look dipped in gold.

A few local fans waved from the far side of the barricades.

The moment the bus doors opened, a soft wall of sound met them: clicks, camera flashes, quiet murmurs.

Respectful, but present. Even here, even now, Spain’s arrival meant something.

Luis de la Fuente stood as the players filed off, arms behind his back, eyes scanning them like a headmaster watching his star pupils enter a final exam.

“Alright,” he said, voice calm but direct once they were inside the cool marble lobby.

“Check your room assignments, drop your bags, shower if you need—but be back down here in thirty minutes.”

Some of the younger players glanced at each other. “For what?”

“Light dinner,” De la Fuente replied with a faint smile, nodding toward the restaurant across the lobby.

“After that, we’ll go check out the sports complex next door.”

Izan blinked, a petty smile on his face while Pedri, beside him, cocked his head slightly.

“Check out?” he repeated, looking for a response.

But the coach had already turned, hands still behind his back, walking toward the reception desk like that had been a perfectly normal thing to say.

“Thirty minutes,” he reminded them.

Pedri turned towards Izan with a resigned expression before following along.

A/N: Okay, Guys. This was supposed to be the second of yesterday. So here it is. Sorry if you waited for it. I haven’t been feeling well, honestly, and I went to change my contacts today. It might sound like I’m giving excuses, but I’m not. Sorry if it feels like that. Anyway, have fun reading, and I will see you in a bit.