God Of football-Chapter 320: England’s Knight [Golden Ticket]
The Spanish locker room wasn’t silent, but it wasn’t loud either.
It was a controlled hum of focus—heavy breaths, the occasional murmur of conversation, the sharp hiss of water bottles being squeezed.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and grass, bodies still pulsing from the war waged in the first half.
Izan leaned against his locker, rolling a cold bottle against his ribs.
Stones had caught him hard earlier, and though the pain wasn’t enough to bother him, he could still feel it beneath his fingertips.
His goal had put Spain ahead, but that wasn’t enough. Not yet.
Across from him, Rodri sat on the bench, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees.
His face was unreadable, but his mind was working through the patterns of the game—spaces, movements, the subtle shifts in England’s approach.
He was already in the second half before it had even started.
Lamine Yamal, tying and retying his boots, finally spoke.
"They came on relentlessly towards the end but I don’t think that will be all.," he muttered, eyes down.
Carvajal, adjusting his shin pads, nodded. "Yeah. They’re desperate now."
De la Fuente clapped his hands, pulling everyone’s attention.
"They will change something," the coach started, his voice calm but firm. "They’ll go direct. Jude Bellingham is growing into the game. If he starts dictating, we suffer."
Baraja, standing with his arms crossed, glanced at Izan.
"You’re stretching them well," he said. "Don’t force it. If you see Nico or Lamine in space, trust them."
Then he turned to Morata. "Hold your runs a second longer. We’re pulling them apart, but we need to make it count."
Rodri straightened, his voice sharp. "They want a battle. We don’t give it to them. We control this game. We kill their rhythm."
A murmur of agreement sounded. This wasn’t a game they could let slip.
As they stood, Carvajal exhaled, muttering under his breath, "Forty-five minutes from history.
Stay tough for me guys, I need to win something with Spain before I hang up my worn boots."
His old man antic caused the locker room to ease but the focus was still there.
Meanwhile, in the England Locker Room…
The mood was different—tense, but not defeated.
Declan Rice wiped sweat from his forehead, his jaw clenched. Across from him, Jude Bellingham sat forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.
His mind was racing. He had come inches away from scoring. Inches.
Gareth Southgate walked to the center of the room, his voice measured but urgent.
"We’re still in this," he started, sweeping his gaze across the squad. "Spain have had control, but we’ve had our moments.
We hit the post. We forced them into mistakes. We are one goal away."
Kyle Walker cracked his neck. "We know what we need to do."
Southgate nodded. "We need to be direct. Jude, keep driving at them. Force them into situations where they have to react."
Bellingham exhaled sharply, nodding.
Southgate’s eyes scanned the room. "This isn’t over. It’s never over until we say it is."
As the players stood, claps echoed through the locker room.
This was it.
The Spanish fans waved their scarves, the red and yellow a sea of flickering color under the Berlin night. Some were jubilant, others restless.
A group of older fans, veterans of past tournaments, watched with cautious optimism.
They had seen too much heartbreak over the years to celebrate early.
In the English section, it was different. A storm was brewing.
A father and son, both draped in St. George’s flags, exchanged nervous glances. The son, no older than ten, asked, "We can still win, right?"
His father forced a smile. "Of course we can. And you’ll see it soon"
But in truth, he wasn’t sure.
Across the world, in London, pubs overflowed with fans. The streets were alive with tension, every big screen displaying the words: HALFTIME – SPAIN 1-0 ENGLAND.
Pints were sipped anxiously. Some fans debated Southgate’s tactics, while others muttered prayers into their drinks.
In Valencia, at a packed viewing area in Alboraya, Izan’s hometown, the atmosphere was different. His name was being chanted.
He had given them the lead.
But no one dared celebrate too early.
BBC Pundits Set
Gary Lineker adjusted his earpiece as the cameras panned across the stadium.
"Well, if you’ve just joined us, Spain lead England 1-0 at halftime in this gripping Euro 2024 final," he said, his voice carrying the weight of the occasion.
Rio Ferdinand shook his head. "This has been a proper game, a real final. We’ve seen quality, we’ve seen fights, and we’ve seen some breathtaking moments.
Spain deserved their lead, but England are right in this."
Ian Wright leaned forward. "Jude Bellingham has been England’s best player. He’s carried them forward, hit the post, and you feel like if something’s gonna happen, he’s the man to make it happen."
Micah Richards, never one to hide his emotions, grinned. "But let’s talk about Izan, lads.
What a player. Yet to be Seventeen years old, biggest game of his life, and he’s playing like he’s been here for years. That goal, that confidence—unbelievable."
Lineker nodded. "Spain’s golden generation is forming before our eyes."
Then he turned serious.
"Forty-five minutes remain. A half of football that will define careers. Will Spain hold on, or can England claw their way back into this final? Over to you Peter and Alan "
As he spoke, the players emerged from the tunnel, hot and ready for the second half. The fans of each nation roared behind their men as they settled into positions.
After that, the referee blew his whistle.
And just like that, the battle resumed.
England, aggressive from the first touch, pushed forward.
Declan Rice, demanding the ball, shifted it wide to Walker. Spain pressed, but Walker launched a deep pass toward Kane, trying to bypass the Spanish midfield.
Kane rose, meeting it with a flicked header—
Bellingham stormed forward, taking it on the bounce.
A sharp touch. A shift in weight. A surge of power.
He danced past Pedri, shrugged off Cucurella, and bore down on goal.
The English fans roared, sensing it.
Bellingham shot—low, driven—
Simón saw it late, diving—
The ball clipped the outside of the post.
Agonizingly close again.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
On the England bench, Southgate clenched his fists, exhaling sharply.
From the Spanish technical area, De la Fuente shouted at his players, urging them to regain control.
Spain responded.
Rodri, always calm, gathered possession and played out from the back.
Izan dropped deep, took a sharp turn past Rice, and accelerated.
He saw Nico sprinting down the left and threaded a perfect pass into his path.
Nico cut inside, spotted Morata peeling away from Stones, and sent in a curling cross—
Morata dived—
Pickford reacted—
A save!
The England keeper palmed it away desperately.
The stadium shook with noise.
Spain were relentless. England were defiant.
A final that would be remembered forever was unfolding before the world’s eyes.
...
The match was tilting. Spain could feel it. The tide had shifted, and the red shirts were being pulled backward, deeper into their half.
Every clearance now was a breathless attempt to hold on. Every English attack was another hammer striking at the door.
And then—England found their moment.
Jordan Pickford, standing at the edge of his box, caught a lofted cross and wasted no time. The English fans behind him sensed it before it even began.
A drop-kick—launched into the night, high and searching.
Harry Kane, battle-worn and relentless, was already moving. Laporte grappled with him, an arm across his chest, but Kane knew this duel.
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He jumped, the muscles in his neck tightening—
A flicked header.
The ball spiraled through the air, and there—like a shadow cutting through the night—Jude Bellingham arrived.
"Jude Bellingham—Jude Bellingham! He’s carried England, he’s driven them, and now—" Peter Drury’s voice rose above the stadium, alive with fate.
A touch to steady. The stadium held its breath.
Rodri lunged, too late. Cucurella twisted, reaching for the ball—
But Bellingham was already striking through the ball, a shot bursting with power and destiny.
It rocketed past Unai Simón, a bullet of pure conviction—
And crashed into the net, faster than the fans could react. Then suddenly-
BOOOOMM
GOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL
"WHO WAS IT THEY ASK. WELL WHO ELSE? JUDE BELLINGHAM! ENGLAND ARE LEVEL!"
The English half of the stadium erupted. A roar, a wave, a storm of white shirts and lifted arms.
Alan Smith barely had time to exhale.
"It had to be him! He has willed England back into this final!"
Bellingham sprinted away, chest heaving, fists clenched. His teammates flooded toward him, dragging him to the ground in a heap of ecstasy.
The Spanish players stood frozen, stunned.
On the touchline, Southgate pumped his fist.
De la Fuente turned away, lips pressed together.
In the commentary booth, Peter Drury’s voice soared again.
"This young man, this force of nature—he refuses to let England fall!
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"This final—this war—is not over yet! It’s all Level here at the Olympiastadion."
