God Of football

Chapter 303: Cruel Start [2]

Mbappé was flying, his strides eating up the pitch with terrifying ease. Each step felt inevitable, every touch on the ball a declaration of his dominance.

The French fans roared, sensing danger, anticipation crackling through the air.

Carvajal, retreating with everything he had, angled his body, determined to slow the French captain.

He knew he couldn’t stop him alone—but he just needed to stall, just a second, just enough.

And then came the answer.

Izan.

A blur of red.

Like a missile locked onto its target, he surged forward, his electric pace igniting gasps from the crowd.

He was moving faster than anyone else on the pitch, slicing through space, closing the impossible gap with a terrifying inevitability.

The Spanish fans erupted in disbelief.

"Look at Izan! Look at him go! My word, he is flying!"

Peter Drury’s voice trembled with awe.

Mbappé felt the presence before he saw it. A shadow creeping into his periphery. He pushed the ball forward, one more touch to set up the strike—

But Carvajal lunged. A half-second intervention, just enough to force Mbappé slightly wider. It wasn’t much, but it was everything.

Because Izan was there.

Mbappé pulled back his foot—a fraction of space, just enough for the shot. He swung.

Then—

A red flash.

Izan, lunged, throwing his body across, his outstretched leg cutting off the shot at the last possible moment.

A deafening THUMP as the ball ricocheted violently off his boot.

Gasps. A collective shockwave rippling through the stadium.

"OH, WHAT A BLOCK!"

The French fans groaned in stunned disbelief. The Spanish fans roared in euphoric relief.

The ball spun wildly toward Unai Simón, who reacted sharply, diving forward to clutch it against his chest, cradling it like salvation itself.

Izan, chest heaving, pushed himself off the grass, his face unreadable, but his mind racing.

Mbappé stared at him, the usual confidence in his gaze flickering for just a second before walking away.

Izan had matched him. Step for step.

A new side of Spain’s golden boy had been revealed.

"He’s not just a magician going forward," Drury marveled. "That was defensive brilliance. That was warrior’s instinct. That was Izan proving he is a force at both ends of the pitch!"

And in the stands, thousands of Spanish fans chanted his name.

....

The match had found its rhythm—a tense, gripping battle where neither side could fully assert dominance.

Spain’s youthful exuberance clashed against France’s battle-hardened experience, creating a game of moments—sharp flashes of brilliance, defensive stands, and breathless transitions.

France, rigid in structure, absorbed Spain’s fluid attacks, waiting for the perfect chance to pounce.

Spain on the other hand, fearless and relentless, weaved their intricate patterns,

France weren’t just clearing.

They were countering.

And it was deadly.

Tchouaméni recovered the loose ball, lifting his head immediately. A single glance. That was all it took.

A raking, diagonal pass.

Mbappé—already on the move.

The stadium roared.

He controlled it on the run, an effortless touch that sent him flying into open space, like a predator released into the wild.

"Now it’s the French’s time to attack"

Carvajal sprinted, Rodri tracked back, but there was something inevitable about what was coming.

Like a predator sensing weakness, France pounced.

Mbappé, a blur of blue, devoured the space ahead of him. Carvajal lunged, stretching every fiber in his body—but he never stood a chance.

A simple touch. A devastating shift of weight.

Mbappé skipped past him like he wasn’t even there.

The stadium held its breath.

Rodri charged in—a desperate last stand—but Mbappé didn’t even look at him.

Because he had already seen the finish.

The pass.

One touch, perfectly weighted, slid through the seams of Spain’s unraveling defense.

The ball didn’t just reach Kolo Muani, It summoned him.

He arrived at full tilt, unmarked, unchallenged while the moment of silence stretched thin—

Then—

A clean, ruthless strike.

The ball flew.

Unai Simón dived—arms outstretched, fingertips grazing air—

He couldn’t reach it.

A sickening ripple.

The net bulged.

Goal.

1-0, France.

An explosion of sound.

French fans erupted, voices crashing together in a wild, deafening roar.

"KOLO MUANI!!!"

Peter Drury’s voice soared above the chaos.

"AND JUST LIKE THAT—FRANCE STRIKE FIRST! SPAIN WERE IN CONTROL, BUT FOOTBALL DOES NOT WAIT FOR PERMISSION! IT PUNISHES HESITATION! AND FRANCE—WITH ICE IN THEIR VEINS—HAVE LANDED THE FIRST BLOW! AND NOT OFTEN SEEN AS THAT BUT NICE ASSIST BY MBAPPE"

The Spanish players stood frozen.

Rodri, hands on his hips, exhaled sharply.

Carvajal buried his face in his sleeve.

Izan… stared at the ball inside the net.

Their goal was almost inevitable but now, under the bright Munich lights, they were the ones chasing.