Inside the Italian dressing room, the mood was tense. The air was thick with frustration, the echoes of Spain’s first-half dominance lingering like a bad taste.
Players sat scattered, some catching their breath, others staring at the floor. The only sound was water bottles being squeezed and the occasional deep sighs.
Luciano Spalletti stood in the middle, his voice steady but edged with irritation.
"We’re being played through too easily," he said, his hands cutting through the air. "Rodri, Pedri, and that kid—" His jaw tightened. "Izan. He’s dictating everything."
Barella, still catching his breath, wiped sweat from his brow. "He’s quick. And smart."
Spalletti nodded sharply. "That’s the problem. He’s not just some kid with flair—he’s a decision-maker. And we’re giving him too much space."
He turned to Jorginho. "You, cut off his passing lanes. Make him play sideways, make him hesitate."
Then to Cristante. "Be physical. He’s too comfortable running through us. Next time he gets the ball, make him feel you’re there."
The manager’s gaze swept over the team. "This is still 1-0. If we score early in the second half, the momentum flips."
Chiesa sat up, stretching his legs. "We need to be more aggressive. We’re letting them dictate."
Spalletti pointed at him. "That’s exactly it. We press harder, we win second balls, and we disrupt them. If we do that, we break their rhythm."
He exhaled, glancing around.
"This is still winnable. But we fight. Understand?"
A chorus of nods. The mood shifted slightly—not lighter, but sharpened.
Italy weren’t out of this yet.
........
In the other Spanish dressing room, the atmosphere was different. Not relaxed, but focused.
A sense of control, a feeling that the game was in their hands.
Luis de la Fuente stood before them, arms crossed, scanning the room before he spoke.
"Good half." His voice was even, but there was a weight to it. "We controlled the tempo. We played our game. And Izan—" He looked at him. "That was exceptional."
Izan, sitting near Pedri and Lamine, gave a small nod. He wasn’t one for over-celebration. There was still another 45 minutes to play.
De la Fuente’s expression shifted slightly. "But we should be up by more."
His gaze moved to Morata.
The captain already knew what was coming. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling.
"You had two clear chances," De la Fuente continued. "Maybe three. If even one of those goes in, Italy are finished. Instead, we gave them hope."
Morata nodded, lips pressed together.
"I want you sharp," the coach said, his tone firm but not scolding. "You’re getting the movement right. You’re in the right spaces. Now finish."
Rodri spoke up, voice calm. "They’ll come at us harder. We need to be ready."
De la Fuente nodded. "They’ll press, they’ll foul, they’ll throw everything at us. Stay calm. Stay precise. One more goal, and we kill this game."
He clapped his hands once. "Let’s go."
The players stood, grabbing their shirts, and adjusting their shin guards.
As the players filed out of the dressing room, Luis de la Fuente placed a firm hand on Izan’s shoulder, holding him back for a moment. The others moved ahead, their cleats clicking against the tunnel floor, but Izan remained, meeting his coach’s gaze.
De la Fuente’s voice was low, and calm, but edged with urgency. "Izan, listen to me. This game is in your hands now." His grip tightened slightly, not out of pressure, but as a reminder. "I need you to take charge out there. Don’t just play—dictate. Make them follow your rhythm."
Izan nodded, his jaw tightening. He had already been playing well, but this was different. This was an instruction. A demand.
The coach’s eyes didn’t waver. "No hesitation. No second-guessing. If there’s space, take it. If there’s a gap, exploit it. Be the player they fear."
Izan exhaled, feeling the weight of those words settles inside him—not as pressure, but as clarity.
Then De la Fuente patted his back and nodded toward the tunnel. "Go on."
Izan stepped forward, breaking into a jog as he caught up with his teammates. His mind was set. His pulse steady.
Time to take the game.
The teams lined up again, side by side in the tunnel. This time, the energy was different. Italy had a fire in their eyes, a new edge to their posture.
Izan rolled his shoulders, locking eyes with Barella.
No words. Just an understanding.
This wasn’t over.
The referee gave the signal.
The second half was about to begin.
......…
The teams emerged from the tunnel, stepping onto the floodlit stage once more.
The energy was different now—charged, volatile, like flint scraping against steel. Spain had control, but Italy had fury.
Izan didn’t need to look at De la Fuente to know what the message had been. Keep playing. Keep moving. Keep cutting through them.
On the other side, Luciano Spalletti had been far less composed. The Italian coach had barked at his players, his voice sharp and commanding.
"We are Italy! We do not wait. We do not watch. We hunt. The next time they pass, you bite."
And when the whistle blew, they bit.
Italy pressed forward immediately, their defensive line pushing up, their midfield squeezing Spain’s lungs.
The elegance of the first half was gone—now it was a war of attrition.
Izan barely had time to adjust before Barella slammed into him, an elbow nudging against his ribs, boots scraping his ankle as he spun away.
The referee let it go. The crowd roared in approval.
Chiesa was already in full sprint.
Cucurella tried to track him, but the Italian winger was moving like a man possessed, his strides long and effortless.
The ball arrived at his feet, and in one fluid motion, he shifted inside, leaving Cucurella lunging at air.
Izan recognized the danger instantly and darted in, cutting off the direct path. Chiesa didn’t hesitate. A flick of his boot, a sudden feint and he was gone.
The ball zipped past Izan’s outstretched foot as Chiesa accelerated again, pushing into open space.
The stadium gasped.
"Look at that from Chiesa! First Cucurella, now Izan—he’s skipping past challenges like they’re not even there!"
Laporte stepped up next, feet set, body braced. But Chiesa didn’t slow. He shifted right, then left, his balance perfect, sending Laporte into a moment’s hesitation.
That was all he needed. One more touch, a step into shooting range, and then, BOOM.
The shot ripped through the air, swerving violently toward the far post. David Raya flung himself at it, fingertips stretching—
CLANG.
The ball smashed against the post and ricocheted out, skimming across the grass before Rodri hacked it clear.
The Italian fans erupted in frustration. Spalletti punched the air on the touchline, furious.
De la Fuente, arms crossed, exhaled through his nose before screaming a set of instructions to Carvajal who was nearby.
The ball found Pedri who sent it back to Rodri. The latter restarted play quickly, cutting through the tension with a pass to Izan.
The moment the ball touched his boot, the field shifted.
Jorginho closed in.
Barella lurked nearby and Izan felt them before he saw them, his awareness sharp, honed. His first touch was soft, absorbing the pressure, inviting them forward.
Then—
A flick. A twist. A sudden roll of the ball through Barella’s legs again.
The Italian midfielder barely had time to react before Izan was gone, slipping past Cristante with a subtle body feint.
"Oh, that’s brilliant! Izan just glided through the press!"
The pitch opened before him. Lamine Yamal darted down the right, stretching the backline and Morata moved into position, peeling away from Bastoni.
Izan barely looked before slicing a disguised pass through the lines. It was weighted perfectly, rolling between the center-backs into Lamine’s path.
The Barca teenager took one touch, lifted his head— And squared it for Morata. The ball zipped through the Italian defense before finding Morata.
The striker lunged—
But Bastoni arrived with a desperate clearance, toe-poking it away at the last moment.
Spain groaned. De la Fuente turned away, muttering something under his breath.
Spalletti, on the other hand, clapped. "Faster! Don’t let them settle!"
Italy countered in an instant.
Chiesa, again.
The ball reached him in stride, and he wasted no time, flipping his first touch inside before charging forward.
Carvajal stepped in, trying to slow him down.
Chiesa didn’t stop.
A shimmy of his shoulders, a drag-back, and a sudden burst of acceleration, all one motion, so fluid it was almost hypnotic.
Rodri read it but reacted too late. Chiesa was already slicing through the gap, already bearing down on Laporte once more.
Spain’s bench tensed.
Izan tracked back, closing the angle. But Chiesa was relentless, shifting left, then right, keeping defenders guessing.
Then, he saw the gap.
A sharp cut inside left Laporte scrambling, and suddenly, he was in the box.
Le Normand suddenly lunged.
Chiesa didn’t stop.
He dragged the ball just as Le Normand’s knee clipped his ankle and before anyone could get to the loose ball, the whistle shrieked.
Penalty.
"Oh, what do we have here? Drama in Gelsenkirchen! Chiesa wins a penalty, and Italy have a way back into the match!"
The Spanish players erupted, surrounding the referee. Rodri’s voice was sharp. "He was looking for it! That’s soft!"
But the decision was made.
De la Fuente sighed, shaking his head. He turned to his bench, muttering, "We gave him too much space. That’s what happens when you don’t control a threat ."
Chiesa placed the ball down with deliberate calm, rolling his shoulders as if steadying himself for the moment that would change everything.
David Raya crouched low, his hands twitching and his eyes locked with an intensity that cut through the deafening roar of the crowd.
The whistle split the air, and in that suspended second, the world narrowed to the small patch of green between them.
With measured composure, Chiesa took his steps, his focus absolute, and struck the ball with a low, precise power.
The shot flew just out of reach; Raya dove desperately to his right, his body stretching in a final, futile bid to make contact.
The ball skimmed past, kissing the post before slipping into the net. The net rippled as the Italian fans exploded in a surge of blue jubilation.
"ITALY ARE LEVEL! Federico Chiesa delivers, and suddenly, it’s a brand-new game!" echoed around the stadium.
Meanwhile, Spain’s players sank in disbelief while De la Fuente rubbed his face, his mind already calculating the next move.
On the pitch, Izan exhaled slowly, rolling his neck to steady his racing pulse. The score was 1-1, and in that electrifying heartbeat, the war had just begun.