God Of football

Chapter 325 325: Individual Honors[Golden tickets]

And then, the fourth award.

The one that was never in doubt.

"With 9 goals, equaling Michel Platini's all-time record for most goals in a single Euros… the Golden Boot goes to—IZAN!"

The stadium detonated.

The Spanish players shoved him forward, slapping his back, pushing him toward the stage with laughter and disbelief still written across their faces.

"Go on, Pichichi!" Nico Williams grinned, practically launching Izan forward.

Izan exhaled, his breath still unsteady from everything that had just happened. His boots felt heavier than before, his body, drenched in sweat.

His heart pounded, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer reality of this moment.

The cameras zoomed in.

And then—

A figure stepped forward, a trophy in his hands.

Michel Platini.

A legend. A relic of history. A man whose record had stood untouched for four decades.

Until tonight.

For a moment, the two of them just stood there.

Platini stared at him, eyes measuring, scanning,

The Spanish players moved forward, one by one, the gold medals shining under the stadium lights.

Izan walked up the stairs, his heartbeat steady but strong.

He greeted each official politely, accepting the congratulations with brief nods and firm handshakes.

Then—

He reached the president of the Spanish Football Federation.

The man smiled, his expression composed, and professional.

But Izan hesitated.

It lasted a second—maybe less.

But in his mind, time-stretched.

This man hadn't wanted him here.

He hadn't been in the original squad. He had watched Spain's preliminary list come out—Rodri, Pedri, Lamine, Nico, Morata, Cucurella—one name after the other.

But not his.

Not Izan's.

His name had only been called after Asensio got injured.

Would he have ever been picked if that hadn't happened?

If there was no need for him, would they have just let him watch the Euros from his couch?

Would he still be 'just a promising talent' instead of the best player in the tournament?

Izan forced the thoughts down.

Not here. Not now.

He extended his hand.

A quick shake. A polite nod. No words.

Then he moved on.

The UEFA president greeted him next.

"Incredible tournament, young man," the older man said warmly as he placed the medal over Izan's head.

"One of the finest performances we've ever seen in a European Championship. Spain has a bright future with you."

Izan nodded. "Thank you."

As the Spanish players stood together, gold medals draped around their necks, the King of Spain and the royal family stepped forward.

The cheers from the crowd somehow grew louder.

The King greeted each player with warmth, shaking their hands, and offering words of congratulations.

When he reached Izan, the air shifted.

The cameras zoomed in.

Because while Spain had a king—the people had crowned another.

"Ah," the King mused, shaking Izan's hand. "The hero of the night. The Golden Boot. The Player of the Tournament."

Izan bowed his head slightly. "Your Majesty."

The King smiled.

Then, with perfect timing— too perfect—he added:

"You know, Infanta Sofia was watching this match very closely."

Izan froze for a fraction of a second.

His grip on the medal tightened.

The Spanish players around him barely stifled their grins. Lamine Yamal was practically vibrating with unspoken commentary.

The King noticed.

And he laughed—a deep, amused laugh—before giving Izan a knowing look.

A look that said: Relax, I'm only joking.

Then a raised brow.

As if saying: Or am I?

Izan let out a slow breath, forcing a small chuckle. He glanced at the Queen, who was smiling way too politely, and then back at the King, who was enjoying himself way too much.

"Well then," the King said lightly, patting Izan's shoulder. "Congratulations, campeón. Enjoy your night."

And with that, he moved on, leaving Izan standing there—his mind catching up with what had just happened.

Nico Williams elbowed him. "Man… You just got set up by the King himself."

Izan exhaled through his nose. "Shut up, Nico."

Lamine Yamal finally broke. "Bro, you looked like you saw your whole career flash before your eyes."

The laughter echoed.

But Izan shook his head, refocusing.

Because ahead of them—it was waiting.

The trophy.

And it was finally time.

The Spanish players walked forward as one.

The noise from the Spanish fans had reached something indescribable—a wall of sound, a force of nature, a nation's heartbeat pounding in unison.

Izan took it all in, face painted with a smile like a king, looking at his subjects

The endless sea of red and gold. The flags waving madly. The raw, unfiltered euphoria crackled in the air.

And at the very front—the trophy.

The Henri Delaunay Trophy.

The pinnacle of European football.

Izan exhaled, tightening his grip on his medal as he stepped forward alongside Rodri, Spain's captain.

The UEFA president handed the trophy over, shaking Rodri's hand. There were words exchanged, but Izan barely registered them.

Because in that moment—the weight of everything hit him.

A/n: Okay guys. Keep the tickets coming.