Morata took his final breath, eyes locked on the ball.
Behind him, the rain fell in sheets, weaving silver threads across the emerald pitch.
Sommer shuffled on the line, gloves twitching, reading every muscle in Morata's stance.
Then came the whistle.
And Morata struck it.
Not with brute force, not with flair but with conviction.
The ball sliced through the air like it knew where it belonged—bottom left, low, and curling just outside Sommer's reach.
The Swiss keeper had guessed right but was a fraction too late.
GOAL.
The net rippled. The red away end erupted.
Morata didn't celebrate wildly. He turned, arms outstretched and pointed to Izan, who was already jogging toward him, grinning like he'd known the outcome all along.
Rain blurred the moment, but the emotion cut through like a blade.
Spain were level. 1–1.
The players swarmed their captain, their movements soaked in urgency.
There was no time for basking. They'd clawed back into the match but they weren't done.
