God Of football - Chapter 442

Chapter 442: Old And New [Pistacho031_3]
The rain had long since stopped being a backdrop.

It was now part of the match—a fifth element woven into the tempo, clinging to skin, shirts, and blades of grass alike.

Every footfall sent water splashing; every pass skidded faster than intended.

It was miserable weather for most—but for Spain, it was a canvas.

And they were painting with fire.

The game had barely resumed from Lamine, almost equalizing, yet Spain’s intent was clear.

There was no panic. No reckless reaction. Just a slow, tightening coil of possession, as they squeezed Switzerland further up their pitch.

Rodri, ever the anchor, stopped Switzerland trying to come back into the game with a perfectly timed interception. After escaping a press, he turned and recycled the ball to the left flank.

The ball found its way to Izan.

Rainwater beaded off his brow as he stared down Widmer.

The Swiss fullback waited in a low stance, cautious—he’d seen the replays and knew what Izan could do when squared up.

And Izan was smiling.

He opened up his body, took the ball in stride, and started rolling the ball with the sole of his foot as he tried to glide away with it.

Akanji, seeing the situation between Izan and Widmer, stepped to meet the former this time—no more leaving him to the fullback—but Izan stopped dead.

One touch with the instep, pulling the ball backward.

Then a burst forward again, leaving Widmer for dead.

Akanji was also left a half step behind, scrambling to get a hold of Izan in any way, but he could only watch on as Izan squared it low into the six-yard box.

Morata lunged, despite being between the two Swiss center-backs.

And so did Sommer.

They both collided —man, leg, ball, and gloves all tangled for a second that felt eternal.

“That’s brave from Sommer! He had to commit! Morata was inches from tapping it in!”

The rebound dropped outside the box.

And fell to Yamal again.

Wanting to avoid losing the ball due to the oncoming freight train of Swiss players, Yamal didn’t even let it bounce.

A volley, pure and sweet—sweet as a nut—whistled past the bodies. But Laporte, still recovering from his previous run into the box, couldn’t get out of the way in time.

The ball ricocheted off his back and rolled harmlessly wide of the post.

Goal kick.

“Unlucky! That had Sommer beaten all ends up—but Laporte just couldn’t vanish, could he?”

“¡VAMOS!” Izan clapped furiously anyway, urging his teammates back up the pitch. He wanted more. Demanded it.

Switzerland took the restart long —but barely reached their player before Rodri pounced again, intercepting a lazy sideways pass and feeding Pedri.

Spain surged forward again.

Another spell. Another crack at the dam.

Pedri to Yamal. Yamal to Morata. Back to Merino, who let it fly from range, but his shot was blocked.

The ball spun wildly toward the left corner flag.

Izan chased it down, skidding slightly as he reached it and flicking it off Rodriguez’s shin.

Corner.

Now he jogged over to take it.

The tension inside the stadium was almost tangible now, thick with breath and thunder, chants and nerves.

Izan wiped the rain from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, placed the ball carefully in the corner arc, and glanced once into the box.

Bodies jostled.

La Roja lined the six-yard box like soldiers waiting for the breach.

Le Normand again. Laporte too. Even Merino crept in, towering near the penalty spot.

And in the eye of the storm—Morata, backed into Akanji, nudging him left and right like a striker who’d studied a lifetime of chaos.

Izan raised his left arm.

The signal.

[Pinpoint Accuracy Lv 3 Activated],

Izan hit it low this time, the ball whipping at pace, near post, flat and hard.

And the moment it came in, Morata broke free.

Akanji had his hands up as he chased the former, but not to play the ball—to hold. The contact was clear.

His arm reached across Morata’s shoulder, dragging him slightly. It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

Morata got his head to the ball anyway—but only just.

It skimmed the side of his scalp and deflected away.

Yamal rushed to keep it in, but Widmer beat him to it and knocked it safely into touch.

And then the Spanish players turned.

“¡Oye! ¡Míralo, míralo!” Izan shouted, pointing to the spot where Morata had fallen, already pleading with the ref.

Morata stayed down for a moment, then pushed himself up, arms raised in exasperation.

“He had his arm around my neck!” he said as his teammates approached.

Although most hadn’t noticed, they still joined to debate the offense.

“Now then! That’s a huge shout for a penalty! Spain are surrounding the referee, and there’s plenty of pointing going on inside that box,” the commentator said as the referee got away from the Spanish players.

The ref—cool, composed—shook his head, No Penalty!

Play on, he seemed to say.

The crowd reacted instantly.

BOOS exploded from the Spain end. Arms waved. Fans pointed at the replay being shown on the big screen above the stands.

🎙️ “Let’s take a look ourselves… hmm, there is contact. Akanji’s got his arm across Morata… you’ve seen those given.”

Luis de la Fuente was up from his seat, fingers spread in protest.

He didn’t storm the fourth official, but his expression said it all: That was soft, maybe—but that was also a foul.

And then the ref paused.

Hand to ear.

He was listening.

“Wait a minute… wait a minute… I think we’ve got a review coming!”

Chants rose again. Thunder rolled across the roof of the stadium. A split second later, the referee jogged to the sideline.

Morata stood still, arms folded, watching the screen intently.

The crowd watched too—silent now.

Like the whole world had pressed pause.

The VAR footage played. Slow motion. Morata making the run. Akanji reaching across. Contact. Shirt stretch. The fall.

The referee then turned back and ran back onto the pitch as the stadium looked on.

Whistle. Arm extended.

PENALTY.

The Spanish fans erupted. Drums thudded. Horns blasted.

“¡VAMOS!” came the cry from Izan.

Even in the rain, his teeth flashed.

🎙️ “It’s given! Penalty to Spain! And finally—finally—a reward for the pressure they’ve piled on since the first minute!”

Akanji shouted in disbelief, pleading his innocence as Swiss Captain Xhaka jogged to the referee, hands raised in argument.

But it was done.

Yann Sommer, calm but drenched, pulled his gloves tighter. His eyes scanned the crowd once.

Then settled on the ball.

Except… the ball wasn’t at the spot yet.

Izan had it.

He picked it up off the grass like it was routine.

Tucked it under his arm. Walked toward the penalty spot.

But just behind him, Morata stepped forward too.

And for a split second, there was a pause.

A stutter in the rhythm of the match.

The cameras zoomed in, thinking they got something Juicy.

Two men. A storm. A penalty.

Was Izan taking the penalty?

Morata, older and captain, had scored dozens in this shirt. But Izan—electric, fearless, chosen—had been at the heart of everything since coming on.

The commentators caught the moment immediately.

“Hold on a second… is Izan taking this? That’s Morata’s role, no? There seems to be a bit of discussion here.”

“We haven’t seen a change in Spain’s takers publicly, but Izan has taken penalties at club level, and—well, he’s certainly not shy.”

In the stands, Spanish fans exchanged glances.

One leaned over the rail, shaking his head.

“Nah, come on. I like the kid, but that’s Morata’s ball. He’s the captain.”

Another shrugged. “Maybe they’ve changed it. Or maybe he’s just confident?”

But before any heat could spark, Izan broke the tension.

Grinning, he lobbed the ball softly toward Morata.

Morata caught it mid-air and laughed, shaking his head.

Izan gave him a light slap on the back, then muttered just loud enough for lip-readers and cameras to catch it:

“You’re old. Might be your last one.”

And then, with a wink—

“I’ve got a lot more coming.”

“Ohh, brilliant! That’s not a challenge at all—it’s a gift. Izan was never going to take it. That’s class from the youngster. Looks like he just picked it up while Morata was gathering himself. And what a line—’I’ve got a thousand more coming.’ You love to see that kind of respect between generations.”

“That’s the future of Spanish football right there. And right now, the past and present steps up.”

Morata placed the ball carefully on the spot.

The crowd dipped into silence again, anticipation buzzing under every breath.

The rain fell harder now, creating ripples in the puddled penalty area.

Morata exhaled.

Behind him, Izan stood just outside the box, hands on hips, watching—not as a taker, but as a brother in arms.

“This is it. After everything—after the post, the saves, the missed chances… Álvaro Morata from twelve yards. To bring Spain level.”

The whistle blew.

Morata ran up—

And struck it.

A/N; Hello guys. Sorry for the irregular updates and not keeping up with the daily ones. Just finished my last paper today and it went awry but no worries, i’m a bit smart so i did well, i think. Anyways, Have fun reading and i will start updating regularly from tomorrow. Byeee.