God Of football-Chapter 308: Fantastic Four [Golden ticket]

Izan escaped.

For the first time since the second half began, he had shaken off Kanté—not by brute force, not by pace, but by pure instinct.

The murmurs in the crowd transformed into roars.

He was back.

Spain’s number 21 didn’t hesitate. The moment he turned away from Kanté, he accelerated, driving straight at France’s defensive line.

Pedri surged forward in support. Nico Williams sprinted down the left while Lamine Yamal hugged the right touchline, waiting.

Izan was spoilt for choice—

But then, Kanté recovered.

Spain’s young star had won the first battle, but the war had just begun.

Like a shadow reborn, Kanté chased, his movements eerily fluid, almost unnatural.

His small frame barely seemed to touch the ground as he covered impossible distances in seconds.

Izan sensed it—he had seconds before the Smiling Reaper struck again.

He feinted left—then cut sharply to his right.

Kanté followed.

Izan stopped abruptly, shifting his weight in a fraction of a second.

Kanté adjusted—

But it was just enough.

Izan dipped his shoulder, dropped his hips, and—exploded forward, leaving Kanté reaching for air.

The French bench reacted immediately. Deschamps clenched his fists.

"¡Vamos!" shouted De la Fuente, urging his players forward.

The game had shifted.

MINUTE 59’—

Izan played a quick one-two with Pedri, sliding the ball through the tightest gap before receiving it back on the turn.

Kanté came again.

But Izan was ready this time.

A sharp body feint. A flick of his left foot to evade Kanté’s outstretched leg.

The Munich-bound teenager was heating up.

Peter Drury’s voice surged with excitement.

"IZAN! OH, HE’S FOUND HIS FEET AGAIN! SLIPS PAST KANTÉ LIKE WATER THROUGH FINGERS—AND NOW SPAIN COME ALIVE!"

Izan threaded a pass to Nico, who immediately whipped a cross toward Morata but—

Saliba intercepted.

The French center-back sent the ball launching forward, straight to Mbappé.

Danger.

Carvajal rushed in but he was too aggressive and Mbappé didn’t let that chance go. He toyed with him.

A roll of the ball under his studs. A flick to his left and now he was gone.

The entire Spanish backline scrambled as the French captain tore into open space, his acceleration defying logic.

Rodri lunged—too slow.

Laporte shifted across, the last line of defense.

Mbappé didn’t hesitate.

A strike—ferocious as it streaked towards goal.

The whole stadium watched on as the ball moved with momentum.

Unai Simón however pulled out a save he would be happy about for the rest of his life!

A fingertip stop, the ball pushed just wide of the post.

The Spanish fans exhaled. Another high threat escaped.

Jim Beglin sighed in relief. "And breathe, Spain. Breathe."

But Spain knew.

France wasn’t letting this go.

MINUTE 63’—

Spain now with the ball, built again, their Fantastic Four moving in tandem.

Izan, Pedri, Nico, Yamal—each touch sharper, faster, weaving through the French midfield like threads in a masterpiece.

Yamal danced past Rabiot.

Nico burned Koundé down the left.

Yamal toyed with Theo Hernandez on the right.

And Izan?

He was everywhere.

Dropping deep to receive. Gliding forward with elegance. Dragging defenders into places they didn’t want to be.

Peter Drury could hardly contain himself.

"OH, THIS IS SPECIAL FROM SPAIN! A DISPLAY OF PURE FOOTBALLING ARTISTRY! PEDRI, NICO, YAMAL—AND IZAN, THE PUPPET MASTER, PULLING STRINGS!"

Jim Beglin chuckled. "They’re toying with France. But will they finish it?"

Kanté wasn’t beaten yet.

A miscontrolled touch from Izan—only slight, but that was enough.

Kanté struck.

A lightning-fast poke. A shift of his body.

Gone.

The ball was his.

Izan groaned, spinning immediately to press, but Kanté had already released it.

To Tchouaméni.

To Mbappé.

To Dembele—breaking into the box!

The pass was perfect, slicing through the Spanish defensive shape.

Dembele squared it across goal—

Griezmann lunged—

And Rodri, OUT OF NOWHERE!

A last-ditch slide tackle, sent the ball spiraling into the night sky.

The stadium roared.

Peter Drury gasped. "RODRI! OH, RODRI! THE WALL OF SPAIN REFUSES TO FALL!"

Izan turned, chest heaving.

The duel continued.

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MINUTE 68’—

Spain’s Fantastic Four linked up again.

Izan received from Pedri—instantly spun past Rabiot and came face to face with Kanté.

The latter lunged, legs like pincers, clawing at the ball.

Izan felt it and anticipated it.

A disguised backheel flick—sending the ball back to Pedri in a split second before Kanté could touch him.

Pedri immediately slotted it to Yamal, who darted down the right. The La Masia graduate came one-on-one with France’s left back but it seemed all too easy for the 16-year-old.

Theo Hernandez lunged— and missed and now, Yamal was free.

The 16-year-old raised his head, eyes scanning, and found Morata, near post, immediately settling on the striker.

The pass was perfect.

Low. Driven. Deadly.

Morata met it first-time— and all France could do, was watch as the ball streaked past the outstretched legs of Maignan.

A CLINICAL FINISH!

GOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

Munich exploded.

Spain’s players erupted.

Peter Drury ROARED into the mic.

"MORATA!!! THE CAPTAIN DELIVERS! SPAIN, RELENTLESS! SPAIN, IRRESISTIBLE! AND SPAIN’S FANTASTIC FOUR—OH, THEY CARVED FRANCE APART!"

Jim Beglin shook his head in admiration.

"Izan, Pedri, Nico, Yamal—these kids are terrifying. And the veteran? Morata? He’s just finished off a move straight out of La Masia’s textbooks. Well at least it’s half from there with Yamal’s input"

Izan didn’t celebrate wildly.

He stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes locked onto Kanté.

The Frenchman looked at him.

Then smiled.

A quiet, knowing smile.

Izan exhaled sharply, pressing his lips together.

Kanté wasn’t done.

France wasn’t done.

And this match?

It was far from over.

...….

Fweeeeeeee, the official signaled his whistle, urging the French players to restart the match h.

"Spain smell blood. France, teetering. Can they survive this storm?" Peter Drury’s voice hummed with tension as the half began.

The ball barely left the center circle before Spain swarmed France again.

The tiki-taka team now had no interest in sitting back.

Tchouaméni received a pass—bad idea.

Izan pounced.

A flick of the boot. A sharp read and now the ball was stolen.

Jim Beglin barely had time to react.

"Oh, that’s a disaster for France—IZAN TAKES IT!"

A roar from the Spanish fans.

Izan drove forward like a man possessed.

Rabiot came in—too late.

Kanté filled up after Rabiot, the veteran Frenchman lunging for the ball but—too slow.

"IZAN! HE’S SLALOMED PAST ONE, PAST TWO—HE’S STILL GOING!" Peter Drury’s voice soared in the midst of it all.

Saliba stepped up looking to end Izan’s run but Izan didn’t even hesitate.

A sharp drop of his shoulder and he was—gone.

Jim Beglin let out a breath.

"Oh, this kid! This kid is unreal!"

Now the goal was in sight.

Izan set himself—

And let it fly.

The shot was pure venom, swerving towards the top corner.

The stadium gasped at Izan’s shot as it flew towards the goal.

Maignan reacted on instinct.

A desperate stretch.

Fingertips grazing the ball and it was just enough.

The ball deflected, spinning away from its destined glory.

Peter Drury bellowed.

"MAIGNAN—WITH A SAVE WORTH ITS WEIGHT IN GOLD!"

The French fans exhaled—relief flooding their faces.

But they exhaled too soon.

Jim Beglin saw it first.

"WAIT, WAIT—YAMAL! YAMAL’S THERE!"

Lamine Yamal had already reacted.

A flash of red.

A simple touch.

A simple finish.

GOOOOO— the fans roared but.

No.

The whistle.

The stadium’s eruption turned into confusion.

Peter Drury hesitated.

"Hold on… no, no…"

The referee had his hand up.

Offside.

The Spanish celebrations died mid-motion.

Yamal stood there, hands slightly raised, eyes wide.

Then, slowly, he dropped them, shaking his head in frustration.

Maignan picked himself up, exhaling deeply.

Jim Beglin chuckled.

"That… that was close. That was so, so close."

Peter Drury’s tone was rich with promise.

"Spain have sent a message. France are still standing, but for how long?"

But Spain wasn’t convinced.

The moment the offside was called, red shirts surrounded the referee.

Yamal turned to the assistant referee, his voice urgent. "¡Pero no estaba en fuera de juego! I wasn’t off!"

Izan ran a hand through his damp hair, eyes narrowing as he scanned the replay on the big screen. "That’s tight. That’s really tight."

Nico Williams shook his head, frustration evident. "If they disallow that, we need to see the lines. Where’s VAR?"

Morata, ever the captain, stepped in calmly. "Señor, at least check. It was close."

The referee gestured for patience, placing a hand in the air. The VAR check was underway.

Pedri folded his arms, muttering under his breath. "This always happens. Always when we have momentum."

Rodri, ever the composed leader, pulled Izan aside. "If they disallow it, we don’t let up. We go again. Understand?"

Izan nodded, jaw tight. "Of course."

The referee pressed his earpiece, listening to the VAR officials. The stadium was silent.

Then—

Decision confirmed.

No goal.

Groans erupted from the Spanish players and fans.

Yamal clapped his hands together in frustration. "Ridículo."

De la Fuente gestured wildly from the touchline, but there was no changing it.

Peter Drury sighed.

"Oh, Spain will feel hard done by. A matter of inches. A matter of moments."

Jim Beglin exhaled.

"But what a warning. What a warning to France that this young Spanish side is far from done."

Maignan, with the ball in hand, looked up and saw a hand. Without much hesitation, he launched the ball towards the Spanish half.

"Oh, Spain have been caught off guard here," Peter Drury roared as the ball found Giroud who had come on earlier.