The sun dipped lower as the Spanish national team jogged their final lap around the training ground in Las Rozas, shirts clinging to their backs and voices rising in bursts of friendly taunts and laughter.
The atmosphere was light but laced with the kind of sharpness that came when competition loomed close.
Luis de la Fuente called time on the session, gesturing with a simple wave, and the players peeled off toward the shaded benches near the sideline.
Ice towels, cold bottles, and banter awaited.
Izan peeled his shirt off in one motion, dragging it across his forehead as he dropped beside Pedri and Nico.
A camera crew hovered discreetly near the fence line—RFEF's internal media, filming the usual behind-the-scenes content.
But this time, their lenses lingered a little longer on Izan than usual.
Not that he minded.
Still, when they were finally dismissed, and the players began retreating to the locker room, Pedri nudged him with an elbow.
