The day after France's win over Portugal, the Spanish camp fell into a routine—recovery, media duties, tactical briefings—but a new kind of tension had settled in.
The semi-finals were here. They were two games away from something historic.
Izan followed the motions, going through his recovery drills in the gym, soaking in the ice bath, stretching under the watchful eye of the physios. But his mind wasn't in it.
Valencia. The financial situation. The inevitable storm waiting for him when this tournament ended.
He exhaled, rubbing a towel over his face as he stepped out of the ice bath.
"Man, you look dead," Lamine Yamal muttered, leaning against the wall nearby. His legs were submerged in the ice, his face twisted in discomfort.
Izan forced a small smirk. "Speak for yourself."
Nico Williams walked over, tossing a water bottle at Lamine. "He has a point though. You good?"
"Yeah." Izan ran a hand through his damp hair, shaking off the fatigue. "Just thinking about the game."
