"GOOOOOAAAAL!"
The commentator exploded, voice caught in the roar of disbelief.
"There it is! With his first real touch! Of course, it's him! Of course, it's Izan!"
The players mobbed him. Pedri, laughing like a lunatic. Nico, throwing both arms around his neck.
Yamal with both hands on his head, yelling "No way!" before shoving him toward the crowd.
From the touchline, de la Fuente only nodded. Calm. But behind that, a glimmer.
The replays rolled. Again and again. Izan's movement.
And in the commentary box, the voice softened for just a beat.
"He wore 21 when he became a legend," he said.
"Now he wears ten—and it's like he was always meant to."
The scoreboard read:
Serbia 0 – 1 Spain.
Spain's knight had arrived.
⸻
The Serbian players barely gave themselves a second to mourn Izan's goal.
The ball was plucked out of the net, marched to the center circle, and reset with a determination only desperation could shape.
