God Of football - Chapter 439

Chapter 439: Group Survival [Pistacho031_3]
The boys around him all turned to glance across the room where De la Fuente was calmly stirring sugar into his tea, eyes scanning over the front page of a Swiss newspaper.

He looked up—just briefly—and gave a small, knowing smile in their direction.

Izan sat back, smirking. “Yup. He definitely saw us.”

A ripple of laughter echoed through the room, the atmosphere lighter now. Whatever tension had crept in with the morning sun had been flicked away with that gentle prod from the boss.

And somehow, it felt like it brought them even closer—because nothing screamed “team chemistry” quite like getting caught sneaking out together by your manager… and living to tell the tale.

……….

The crisp morning chill had barely lifted as the Spanish squad stepped out of their hotel, tracksuits zipped to the chin, boots slung over shoulders.

The sky above Geneva was a pale shade of blue, the kind that promised a warm midday but still bit at your cheeks in the early hours.

The walk to the nearby sports center wasn’t long, but the players kept their pace brisk, chatter rising between them in spurts—snatches of last night’s antics, predictions about training, and whispers about whether De la Fuente would mention their little escapade again.

But when they stepped onto the pristine turf of the training ground, everything fell quiet.

Luis de la Fuente was already there, clipboard in hand, a line of cones and mannequins set out with surgical precision.

Behind him, the assistant coaches moved about with quiet efficiency, setting up poles, adjusting zones, and placing small goals at odd angles.

It looked, in a word, intentional.

“Alright,” De la Fuente called out as the players circled around him, “Today we’re going to sharpen a few things. With Switzerland next, I want us thinking quicker. Smarter. Every run, every pass—make it count.”

He gestured toward one half of the pitch, where a defensive formation of five stood waiting—coaches and a few of the natural defenders already in place.

“You lot—” he nodded to the attacking group, “—you’ll go first. Treat that set up like it’s Switzerland’s backline. Your job is to find gaps, exploit transitions, and break down a system that thrives on compactness and recovery.”

Pedri, Olmo, Nico, and Izan stepped into position, joined by Yamal, Morata, and a rotating cast of midfielders feeding balls from deep.

“And defenders—pay attention. You’ll be them next. I want full awareness of what they do to stop us so we can flip it.”

The first drills started with low tempo, movement patterns without pressure. Then the whistle blew, and it turned live.

It didn’t take long for Izan to drift into his free-roam zone.

He cut between the lines like smoke, dragging a shadow defender across the field, opening space for Pedri to slide into.

Yamal, on the other hand, hugged the touchline wide before darting in with an electric pace while Olmo orchestrated short combinations like a chessmaster two moves ahead.

Luis clapped sharply.

“More intent! Visualize their block—tight, high-line when in control, but retreating the second it breaks. Exploit that moment!”

They ran it again. Izan let a pass go through his legs, flicked the return with his heel, and suddenly Nico was sliding through into the zone between the center-backs.

A snapshot finish.

From the sidelines, Rodri and Le Normand watched, nodding.

“That’s what they’ll try,” Rodri murmured.

“Close space, force us wide, swarm the second we enter the box.”

Then came the switch.

“Defensive line, get in there,” Luis called.

“Now you’re the Swiss. Attacking unit—make them bleed.”

Rodri dropped between the center-backs, Cubarsí and Le Normand resetting their spacing, while Balde and Mingueza set out to cover the flanks.

Yamal and Izan looked at each other, grinning.

“Should we go easy on them?” Yamal joked.

Izan snorted. “Nah. Let’s see if they can stop perfection.”

Pedri sent the first ball into the mix, and the game-like scenario burst to life.

Olmo received it on the half-turn, darted into space, and looked to slip in Morata, but Cubarsí had read it, stepping up with the timing of a veteran and cutting the pass.

“Good ball stopping! Pau,” Luis barked.

“Stay tight, don’t follow the ball, and read it!”

They went again. Nico switched play from deep to Izan on the opposite wing.

One touch to kill the ball, one to dart inside.

He ghosted past his first marker, feinted toward Pedri, and sent a disguised pass to Olmo arriving late into the box.

This time, Rodri intercepted with a full-stretch slide.

Luis blew the whistle.

“Reset! That’s how we build sharpness.”

The session pushed into another phase. Set-piece drills. Coordinated counters. Structured chaos designed to mimic the real pace and intensity of their next opponent.

But through it all, one thing stood out—no one coasted. There were no passengers.

Whether they were playing like the Swiss or trying to unpick them, the tempo never dropped.

By the time the sun stood directly overhead, shirts clung to backs, and sweat traced lines down necks and temples.

The players gathered at the touchline for water, chests rising and falling like bellows, eyes scanning each other with the kind of gleam that only came when competition got serious.

Luis de la Fuente walked over slowly, eyes narrowed against the sun.

“That,” he said, voice even, “was better.”

A few players exchanged glances.

“But not enough.”

Groans and laughter mixed, but it was the kind that came from a squad that understood—training wasn’t just about movement.

It was about memory. About simulating every inch of the war they were about to fight.

Izan, still catching his breath, looked toward Olmo. “Switzerland, better be ready.”

Olmo grinned, sweat dripping down his jaw. “No, bro. We better be.”

Because at the top, it was tighter than ever.

Spain and Denmark—neck and neck.

Identical records. Identical goal differences.

Only fine margins, the tiniest of cracks, would separate those who advanced and those who slipped.

And everyone in the Spanish camp knew it.

As they trudged back toward the hotel, boots muddy, socks sagging around their calves, the laughter had faded into a more grounded kind of focus.

Not grim—just dialed in.

Every player felt it humming beneath their skin: the stakes weren’t theoretical anymore.

One misstep and Denmark would be the ones pulling ahead in the table.

……..

Back in the team lounge, screens flickered with game footage and scouting clips—Swiss pressing patterns, passing lanes, Zeki Amdouni’s last goal slowed down frame by frame.

Le Normand sat with Rodri near the back, their conversation quiet but intense, fingers tracing defensive shifts across the screen.

Yamal bounced a ball gently against the wall while Nico lay back on a couch, eyes closed but headphones in, probably replaying training scenarios in his head.

Izan hovered by the buffet, half a banana in hand, half an eye on the TV.

A graphic flashed up: Group A4 Standings – Matchday 2 Incoming.

Denamrk were first but only in name as ‘D’ came before ‘S’ since both teams had the same number of points as well as goal difference.

Nico smirked. “Ain’t that poetic?”

“What’s poetic?” Pedri asked, appearing beside him with a protein shake in hand.

“That we’re top of the table too… but placed second only because ‘D’ comes before ‘S’.”

Pedri chuckled.

“Well, we should be glad we won because ‘Spain’ comes after ‘Serbia.'”

Izan laughed through a bite of banana.

“Fair,” he said before glancing at the screen in front of him.

His eyes lingered on the table a moment longer.

Group A4

1.Denmark – 3 pts – GD: +2

2. Spain – 3 pts – GD: +2

3. Switzerland – 0 pts – GD: -2

4. Serbia – 0 pts – GD: -2

It was clean, symmetrical… and suffocating.

The tiniest slip could send them tumbling. Even a draw, depending on goal margins in the other matches, could dent their chances.

And goal difference? It wasn’t just a number now. It was currency.

Izan chewed slowly, his jaw tightening a little. “This next one’s gonna be a war.”

Rodri looked up from his analysis with Le Normand. “We’ll need goals,” he said plainly.

“And clean sheets.”

Olmo wandered in, ruffling his damp hair with a towel, clearly fresh from a shower. “So… just perfection, then.”

“Basically,” Pedri said, leaning back onto the couch beside Nico.

Yamal stopped juggling the ball and caught it on the bounce, letting it rest on his foot.

“I can give you two goals. Might let Izan score the third for charity.”

Izan grinned and pointed his banana at him like a sword. “You better score first. That Swiss backline’s got dogs in it.”

“Dogs, we’ll walk,” Yamal shot back, earning a few laughs.

But beneath the banter, there was a tension—light-hearted, but charged.

Luis de la Fuente entered the lounge then, casual in his training gear, a folded notepad in one hand.

“Lads,” he said, his voice even but firm. “This shouldn’t be interrupting, but you have a little media session, so I will leave you to it.”

The atmosphere in the room rose a notch after De La Fuente’s words before he killed it off again, “Also, be back here 10 minutes after that.”

Groans rose in unison.

“I know, I know,” he added with a tired smile.

“But these clips won’t study themselves. And if you want to beat Switzerland without breaking a sweat, we’ve got to win this game before kickoff.”

He turned and walked off again, leaving the players to gather themselves.

Izan glanced back at the screen as they left the room, the standings shifting to the preview of the next fixture.

Spain vs Switzerland – Stade de Genève – September 8, 20:45 CET

Then he looked ahead, toward the hallway where the media session was about to begin.

A/N: 9 out of 12. Have fun reading.