Before Izan could even make it to the tunnel, a tap on the shoulder stopped him.
"¡Izan! Quick word?" came the voice, firm but respectful.
One of the traveling Spanish reporters had beaten the rest to him, already live with a mic in hand and a cameraman trailing close behind.
He offered a wry smile, raking his hair back with one hand as he nodded.
"Sure."
The reporter, a young woman in a red blazer and earpiece, didn't waste time.
"2–0 tonight, Izan. First match back with the national team since the Euros, my first match wearing the number 10… and your first touch was a goal. What does this night mean to you?"
Izan exhaled slowly, eyes flickering to the stands one last time before meeting hers.
"It means a lot," he said. "Every time you wear this shirt, it should mean something. I've always believed that. The 21… it carried memories. But the 10? That's a responsibility. I wanted to honor that the right way."
"And you did," the reporter agreed, smiling.
