Luis de la Fuente strode to the edge of his technical area, clapping his hands forcefully.
"¡Cabeza arriba!" Head up.
The Spanish players stood frozen for a second, the weight of the goal pressing down on them.
Their eyes flicked to the giant screen as the replay played again—Mbappé's run, the cross, Kolo Muani's finish.
De la Fuente didn't let them dwell.
"¡Olvidadlo! ¡Sacudidlo!" Forget it! Shake it off! His voice was firm, controlled. "We start again! Stick to the plan!"
Rodri inhaled sharply, nodding. He turned, motioning to Pedri and Izan to reset.
Izan exhaled through his mouth, hands on his hips for a brief second. Then he straightened, his gaze locking onto Morata's.
Then Nico's.
Then Pedri's.
No words were said but a silent agreement formed in their midst.
France jogged back with quiet confidence. Mbappé and Kolo Muani exchanged grins. The French bench clapped, Deschamps, giving a small nod of approval.
They thought they had control.
But Spain weren't rattled.
