The Spanish players walked forward as one.
The noise from the Spanish fans had reached something indescribable—a wall of sound, a force of nature, a nation's heartbeat pounding in unison.
Izan took it all in.
The endless sea of red and gold. The flags waving madly. The raw, unfiltered euphoria crackling in the air.
And at the very front—the trophy.
The Henri Delaunay Trophy.
The pinnacle of European football.
Izan exhaled, tightening his grip on his medal as he stepped forward alongside Rodri, Spain's captain.
The UEFA president handed the trophy over, shaking Rodri's hand. There were words exchanged, but Izan barely registered them.
Because in that moment—the weight of everything hit him.
Everything.
The heartbreak of not being selected at first.
The frustration of being an afterthought.
The doubt, the critics, the endless questions.
The moment Asensio got injured, and the door finally opened.
