God Of football

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.

Luis de la Fuente was already standing, one hand resting on the edge of his desk, the other adjusting the cuff of his crisp white shirt.

The office was exactly as Izan remembered it—no frills, no clutter.

A framed tactical board leaned against one wall, and two sets of boots on the floor beneath the window.

A thick folder sat open on the desk, filled with scouting notes, match reports, and player data. It was standard, methodical. All business.

"Izan," the manager greeted, stepping around the desk with a calm nod.

"Gaffer," Izan replied, returning the gesture.

They shook hands firmly—nothing prolonged, nothing showy. Just a mutual grip and a brief flash of eye contact that said everything else.

"Long summer," De la Fuente said simply.

Izan smirked. "Didn't feel long enough."

"Winning tends to make things fly by."

The manager motioned to the chair opposite his desk. Izan sat without hesitation

"You have settled in alright?" De la Fuente asked, easing into his chair.

"Yeah I am but I just arrived so I don't really know yet. Just hope Breakfast tastes better."

That earned a faint chuckle. "You look sharper than good. Amo tells me you're top of the fitness charts."

"Had a long preseason. Played catch-up after LA. System gave me some upgrades too."

"System?" the manager asked, brow slightly raised.

Izan blinked, quick enough to cover it. "My routine. Personal stuff. You know."

De la Fuente nodded slowly, letting it slide without digging.

"Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it. You've come back leaner, and quicker. And your match rhythm with Arsenal's looked… refined."

"I'm finding my spots better."

"You've always had that," De la Fuente said. "But now you're trusting the timing. The game's slowing down for you."

Izan didn't answer. He wasn't the type to agree with praise out loud.

The manager leaned back in his chair slightly, studying him across the desk—not with scrutiny, but with something quieter.

Curiosity, maybe. Or assessment.

"You know why I wanted to speak with you first?"

Izan tilted his head. "Because I'm punctual?"

De la Fuente cracked a smile. "Because I'm making you captain on the pitch if Morata's or Caravjal's not starting. And that might happen sooner than later."

That gave Izan pause.

"You're not just the poster boy anymore," the manager continued.

"You're the fulcrum. Players look at you like they used to look at Xavi or Ramos. That changes how you carry yourself. And how you speak."

"I'm not much of a talker."

"No. But when you do speak, they listen. That's the part that matters."

Izan rested his forearms on his knees. "Is this gonna be permanent?"

"I don't hand armbands out for fun, Izan. But I've been watching. Last season, Euros, preseason.

The maturity's there. And with Pedri still building match fitness, and Gavi just returning… I need leadership from the front."

There was a quiet beat, heavy with something that wasn't pressure—but maybe the beginning of something close.

"I can do it," Izan said, finally.

"I know."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. Just settled. Comfortable.

De la Fuente flipped open a page in the folder, tapping the sheet with a capped pen.

"We're running some attacking drills this afternoon, shape rotations and progression between the lines.

I want you with the first unit. Nico, Dani, Lamine—your triangle. I need it humming by Friday."

Izan gave a sharp nod. "Understood."

"Good." The manager stood again, offering his hand once more. "Welcome back, Izan."

This time, the shake had weight to it.

Izan stood and nodded once more before turning toward the door.

But just as he reached it, the manager's voice stopped him.

"And Izan?"

He glanced back.

"You've already won the Euros. You're not here just to relive it. You're here to make sure it wasn't a one-off."

Izan met his eyes. "Then let's win more."

And with that, he stepped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him—his place in the camp no longer a question, but a responsibility.

...…..

The hallway outside the manager's office was quiet, save for the soft hum of air conditioning and the occasional shuffle of equipment bags being rolled across the tiled floor.

Izan followed the familiar path through the training facility's residential wing, his footsteps echoing against the hollow space.

Room assignments had gone up earlier that morning, and he already knew where he was headed.

Room 214.

He knocked once—more out of courtesy than necessity—then pushed the door open.

Pedri was already inside, lounging on one of the twin beds with his phone above his face and his left leg draped over a rolled-up recovery ball.

The curtains were half-drawn, letting in the midday sun without flooding the room.

"Look who it is," Pedri said, lowering the phone but not sitting up. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"Our humble abode," Izan said as he dropped a small bag on the opposite bed and toed off his sneakers.

"Good to see you, bro."

Izan smirked and sat at the edge of his mattress, stretching his back.

"You good though?" he asked, voice a little quieter. "De la Fuente said you were still recovering."

Pedri rolled the recovery ball under his calf and nodded, slow and deliberate.

"Yeah. Took a knock-in training last week. Nothing major."

"Hammy?"

"Knee. Just a knock, though. We're fine. If it was serious, Barça wouldn't have let me come. The new Coach is just… intense."

Izan raised an eyebrow. "Intense how?"

"Double sessions every other day. High-intensity drills with no rest windows. And he's obsessed with playing a high line. Cubarsi and Inigo are not having it easy"

Pedri dropped his phone on his chest. "I'm telling you, it's like Simeone's ghost got hired at La Masia."

"Sounds like hell."

"It kind of is. But we're fitter than we've ever been. And if we survive till October, I think we might actually be good. We've already won all our three matches."

Izan leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched out, arms crossed behind his head.

"So you're telling me you came to the Spain camp for a vacation."

"Exactly." Pedri grinned. "Thought I'd rest by chasing through rondos against you and Nico all week."

Pedri tilted his head thoughtfully. "It's weird, yeah? You've only been in this setup what… a year?"

"Barely," Izan said. "Feels longer though."

"Because you act like you run the place."

"And you don't?"

Pedri shrugged with a grin. "I've earned my stripes."

"You've earned a knee brace."

Pedri rolled his eyes. "Still more useful than you during lights-out when your alarm goes off at 6am and you sleep through it."

Izan smirked. "Olivia says I don't snore, so it balances out."

"Oh?" Pedri raised an eyebrow. "So we're quoting her now?"

"Shut up and get your knee iced."

Pedri just laughed, letting his head sink back against the pillow.

Izan turned toward the window again, watching a few teammates jog across the courtyard below.

Same rhythm—arrival, check-ins, quiet banter before the grind.

As the two stood the, a knock sounded—three short taps, brisk and unmistakable.

"Let's go," came a voice from the other side.

"Míster wants everyone downstairs."

Pedri groaned softly. "No rest for the chosen ones."

Izan was already moving, tugging on his training top and sliding into his sneakers.

"Come on, old man. I'll carry your knee down the stairs if I have to."

"You know I was starting for Spain before were eligible to even play first-team football?"

They snickered as they stepped into the corridor, the soft hum of conversation growing louder as more doors opened down the hall.

Players—some veterans, some new—filed out one by one, forming a steady stream toward the conference room just past the dining hall.

The hallway buzzed with a quiet energy that only international camps carried: that mix of pride, competition, and something almost reverent.

Inside, the room was already filling up. Long tables had been moved to the sides to make space for chairs in neat rows facing a small podium.

At the front stood Luis de la Fuente, calm as ever, arms folded, eyes scanning his squad like a man counting every tool in his shed before a job.

Izan and Pedri slipped into two empty seats near the middle, nodding to Nico and Yamal as they sat down. Conversations faded fast.

De la Fuente stepped forward.

"Bienvenidos," he began, voice steady. "It's good to see so many familiar faces—and a few new ones. That's the nature of this shirt. It grows. It evolves."

He paused just long enough for the words to settle.

"You're here because of your quality. You're here because of your mentality. But above all, you're here because you've earned it.

Whether you've lifted trophies with us already… or you're here to chase your first."

Izan sat still, watching closely.

"There are expectations," the coach continued. "Always. We are not the underdogs anymore. We are the standard."

A few of the veterans—Rodri, Morata—nodded faintly.

"And with that," he said, glancing down briefly before lifting a folded paper, "come changes. First—on the armband."

Murmurs rippled through the room.

De la Fuente unfolded the sheet, scanning the names.

"With the natural transition of leadership, it's time we formalize the next cycle.

Morata will remain captain for this break. Rodri will take vice.

But moving forward—should either not be available—we'll begin introducing others into the leadership group."

Eyes shifted subtly.

He continued, "Pedri will be third in line."

There was a quiet round of acknowledgment—soft claps, shoulder taps.

Pedri, beside Izan, didn't say anything. Just nodded once.

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."

A/n: Damn. I'm tired. Anyways this is five. Have fun reading and i'll see you soon with the next one