God Of football-Chapter 432: Flames Of Football

Luis de la Fuente stood as the players filed off, arms behind his back, eyes scanning them like a headmaster watching his star pupils enter a final exam.

"Alright," he said, voice calm but direct once they were inside the cool marble lobby.

"Check your room assignments, drop your bags, shower if you need—but be back down here in thirty minutes."

Some of the younger players glanced at each other. "For what?"

"Light dinner," De la Fuente replied with a faint smile, nodding toward the restaurant across the lobby.

"After that, we'll go check out the sports complex next door."

Izan blinked, a petty smile on his face while Pedri, beside him, cocked his head slightly.

"Check out?" he repeated, looking for a response.

But the coach had already turned, hands still behind his back, walking toward the reception desk like that had been a perfectly normal thing to say.

"Thirty minutes," he reminded them.

Pedri turned towards Izan with a resigned expression before following along.

Upstairs, the players exploded into their rooms in pairs and trios, the corridors suddenly alive with the thumps of luggage being dropped and showers blasting on.

Yamal stepped out of the lift and looked around, mock-suspicious.

"So… 'check out' the complex, huh?"

Nico leaned against his door.

"I bet he means we're training."

Cubarsí, freshly traumatized from his last unpacking panic, raised his arms in defeat.

"We just landed!"

"He did say 'light dinner,'" Pedri added, emerging from his room already in a tracksuit.

"Not heavy. Suspicious."

Izan was the only one already halfway changed into the team tracksuit.

"You're already ready?" Yamal asked in disbelief.

"Just a guess," Izan shrugged. "This isn't a vacation."

With that said, he began grabbing his duffle bag which held the football boots as well as other stuffs before heading down.

Dinner was efficient—grilled chicken, rice, steamed vegetables, and more hydration packets than a desert mission.

The players sat at circular tables beneath warm lighting, their chatter low but lively.

Just the team, the staff, and the soft clatter of silverware.

When De la Fuente stood, fork resting on the edge of his plate, silence fell almost naturally.

"Good flight. Good focus. And tomorrow, good football," he said, his tone lighter now.

"But before that…"

He looked around, and his lips curved into that same faint smile.

"Let's go check out the complex."

Half the room groaned.

"I knew it!" Yamal said, pointing across the table at Izan.

"Of course you did," Izan replied, sarcastically.

"That geezer has been dropping hints like it's Christmas."

"Okay, run along for your boots if you haven't got them," Pablo Amo said, shooing the players toward their room.

The sports complex beside the hotel wasn't a sprawling stadium, but it was impressive nonetheless—modern, well-lit, with a hybrid of natural and synthetic turf that looked freshly laid.

The Serbian federation had arranged private access for Spain's training block, and as the team walked across the short path in travel jackets, it felt like the world had paused just long enough for them to settle in.

The floodlights flickered on as they stepped inside the dome, casting silver light over the field.

Amo clapped once. "Trainers, prep. Quick stretch, rondos. Low tempo. Decompression session."

The squad broke into stations, scattered across the pitch.

Some groaned, others rolled their shoulders, but no one complained.

It was familiar now—this rhythm. Country. City. Hotel. Turf. The smell of damp boots and menthol muscle gel.

Izan jogged out next to Pedri and Nico, spinning a ball on his fingers.

"'Check out the complex,'" he echoed under his breath.

Pedri smirked. "Classic."

Nico cracked his neck. "Better than a press conference."

From the sidelines, Luis de la Fuente watched it all with his arms still folded and a glint in his eye.

They were here. Focused. Ready.

And tomorrow, Belgrade would see what this team had brought with them.

.........

By the time the team finished their "light session" and walked back to the hotel, the night air had turned cool, threading through their damp shirts and half-zipped jackets.

The sports complex's floodlights disappeared behind them, swallowed by Belgrade's skyline.

Inside the lobby, the players drifted toward the elevators in twos and threes, yawning and stretching, their legs pleasantly heavy.

Everyone knew the drill: tomorrow was matchday. No video games. No random room visits.

Ice, shower, lights out.

Except Belgrade had other plans.

It started faintly.

A distant beat from what sounded like a drum echoing between the buildings.

Then came the horns. The chanting. The stomping.

Izan rolled over in bed and blinked at the ceiling. "No way."

Across the room, Pedri was motionless.

Only his slow, even breathing betrayed that he was still awake.

Outside, the noise got louder—suddenly rowdy and chaotic.

Izan threw his blanket off and padded barefoot to the window, peeking through the heavy curtain.

A small army of Serbian fans had gathered outside the hotel's gates, drums thundering in sync with chants.

Flares hadn't been lit—yet—but the voices were loud enough to echo off the hotel walls.

Flags waved. Someone had a megaphone.

Another kept smacking a plastic chair against a light pole like it owed him money.

Across the hallway, a door opened with force.

Yamal stepped out in a training top, sleep in his eyes and fury on his face.

"This is psychological warfare!"

"I thought you could sleep through anything," Izan muttered, poking his head into the hall.

"I could!" Yamal snapped.

"Until they started shouting somethin' about my mother!"

"I haven't heard anything about my mom and the right question I should even be asking is how did you know. They are not speaking serbian or english which im pretty sure you did bad at" Izan said at Yamal.

Other doors creaked open. A few players muttered, mostly amused.

Pedri finally emerged, hair still flat on one side, expression unreadable.

"Think they're doing this for fun or they actually think it'll work?" he asked.

"Bit of both," Izan replied, scratching the back of his head. "It's not working, though."

"It is," Yamal insisted, pointing dramatically toward the source of the chants.

"I was dreaming about ice cream. Now I'm dreaming of war."

"Ice cream?" Pedri blinked.

"I'm sixteen—shut up!"

"I think you're seventeen."

"DOESN'T MATTER."

Izan stifled a laugh. "Come on. If it's that bad, let's go find someone else who's awake."

They moved down the corridor, feet silent on the carpet, Yamal grumbling like a pensioner.

They knocked once on Nico and Cubarsí's door.

Nothing.

Yamal knocked again, louder.

"Bro. We need backup," he said aloud.

Still silence.

Izan turned the knob—it was unlocked.

Inside, the lights were dimmed, and both Nico and Cubarsí were flat on their beds, fully knocked out.

Nico had one arm flopped over his face like a dramatic painting while Cubarsí was face-down in a pillow with a faint line of drool trailing from the corner of his mouth.

Neither stirred.

"Are you kidding me?" Yamal hissed.

"Are you KIDDING ME?"

Izan stepped in and clapped twice. Loud.

No reaction.

Yamal picked up a sneaker off the floor and tossed it at the wall.

Cubarsí didn't even twitch.

"Okay," Izan said, backing out.

"I take it back. Serbia might win this one."

Yamal threw up his hands. "There's no justice."

Back in their own room, Izan closed the curtains tight, shoved a pillow over his head, and sighed.

"You want earplugs?"

"No. I want a megaphone to yell back." Yamal retorted.

"Tomorrow," Pedri mumbled from his bed, already half asleep again. "Yell with your feet."

Yamal groaned. "I'm filing an official complaint with UEFA."

Updat𝒆d fr𝒐m freewebnσvel.cøm.

Izan just chuckled, adjusting his pillow and letting the muffled chants fade into the background.

............

Belgrade pulsed the next day with anticipation long before kickoff.

From early afternoon, the streets around Stadion Rajko Mitić began to thrum with life.

Fans poured in from every direction—locals in red-and-white jerseys, waving Serbian flags and chanting national songs, mingled with Spanish supporters draped in La Roja scarves, faces painted in yellow and red.

Vendors lined the pavements, selling everything from grilled ćevapi skewers to knock-off team merchandise.

The air was rich with the smell of smoke, meat, and adrenaline.

Children clutched miniature footballs. Teens blasted air horns.

A few elderly fans sat quietly outside cafés, sipping bitter coffee, watching the procession with pride in their eyes.

The closer they got to the stadium, the louder the drums became, beating in time with the growing chants.

Every few steps, someone broke into song.

Firecrackers snapped in the distance. A flare briefly lit up a side street in crimson light.

Spanish fans stuck together near the entrance gates, a few shouting "Vamos, España!" in defiance to the surrounding sea of Serbian noise.

They were outnumbered, but not outvoiced.

Up above, the towering concrete of the stadium loomed like a coliseum, floodlights already humming to life against the fading sky.

Police were present but calm, guiding traffic, waving through media vans, and watching the bubbling energy with sharp eyes.

And in every direction, there were people who kept coming—footsteps like moths drawn to football's flame.

A/N: First of the day. It's like 5 now and i havent slept an ounce. Have fun reading and I'll see you with the Golden Gacha chapters after i wake up.