What ultimately doomed them was the burst of laughter that echoed across the lobby—loud, unfiltered, impossible to ignore.
And at that exact moment, De la Fuente arrived.
The air shifted instantly.
A sharp presence. A silence that cut through everything.
Izan, still holding a ball in his hands, locked eyes with the coach from across the room.
Time to run.
Without hesitation, he bolted, shoving Lamine and Nico ahead of him as they dashed toward the stairwell.
The younger players scattered like thieves caught in the act, slipping away into the shadows of the hotel corridors.
Left behind, Morata sighed. "Unbelievable."
Rodri turned slowly to face De la Fuente, resigned. "Before you say anything, just know… I told them this was a bad idea."
Carvajal folded his arms. "No, he didn't."
The coach exhaled through his nose, his gaze sweeping over the mess they had made.
"You'd better hope we win," was all he said.
Then, without another word, he turned and left.
...….
