God Of football

Chapter 480: Worth Of His Football.

Izan leaned back into the couch, his voice low and relaxed, phone pressed against his ear.

Olivia’s voice filtered through, bright with end-of-day energy as the sounds of a busy street hummed in the background.

“You’re walking again, aren’t you?” he asked, already picturing her weaving through students and street vendors, probably with a lopsided tote bag hanging off her shoulder.

“Yeah. My stupid class ran late and I missed the bus. Again,” Olivia groaned.

“And then I stopped to grab a croissant, which I immediately dropped. So now I’m tired, hungry, and very close to throwing hands at the next person who breathes near me.”

Izan chuckled, the sound light in his throat.

“You’re dramatic.”

“No, I’m starving and dramatic. There’s a difference.”

“You’ll be home in fifteen,” he said, glancing at the time.

“I’ll heat up something.”

There was a pause, then a smile in her voice.

“You’re actually going to cook for me?”

“I didn’t say cook. I said heat up,” he corrected.

“Don’t get excited.”

Olivia laughed.

“Alright, I’ll see you soon,” she said eventually, the gentle sound of her footsteps slowing.

“Get off your phone and stretch or something.”

He smiled, quieter now. “Safe walk, yeah?”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you.”

He ended the call with a soft tap and a fading grin—just in time for his phone to vibrate again.

Miranda.

“Always on point.”

He sighed, then answered. “Yeah?”

Her tone was brisk, businesslike.

“Congratulations. Ballon d’Or shortlist. You’re in. Youngest ever.”

He scratched the back of his neck, voice unchanged.

“Cool.”

For a moment, no sound came from Miranda’s end.

Then, a scoff.

“You’ve got to stop pretending this doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“I’m not pretending.”

“Izan. You’re sixteen. Sometimes you have to act like it.”

He didn’t reply.

“You’ve seen it already, haven’t you? The announcement?” Miranda asked.

He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Just now.”

She sighed. “Right. Well. You’ll want to mark this too—the Nike meeting’s been scheduled for the 25th.”

He groaned.

“Ugh. Can’t we just stick with Adidas? Hear them out, let them counter, whatever—without going and playing dress-up for Nike?”

Miranda didn’t even flinch.

“We’re not committing to Nike, Izan. It’s just a meeting. But if they’re putting serious numbers on the table, we need Adidas to see that. This is leverage. Pure negotiation. We walk in wearing their shoes, we walk out with Adidas writing a golden contract.”

“Still sounds like a circus.”

She smiled through the line. “Welcome to the business side of greatness.”

He exhaled, resigned.

“Fine. I’ll be there. Arteta said I’m not playing the Carabao game anyway. He wants me rested.”

“Perfect. I want you to be sharp too. Not just on the pitch—but for the cameras, the brand, the interviews. Nike wants more than a contract. They want a story.”

“Of course they do,” he murmured, voice laced with dry amusement.

“They want you, Izan,” Miranda said.

“Now put the phone down and go touch some grass.”

“It’s 6:27. And don’t tell me to touch grass. That’s what I do literally every week.”

Miranda chuckled at the other end as Izan ended the call quietly, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.

“I need to get a real Job,” he muttered jokingly before waltzing into the kitchen to heat up the food before realising they didn’t have any left.

“I miss my mom,” Izan uttered before picking up his phone from the counter, entering his chat with Olivia.

Dinner out or Takeout.

He checked the message again and hit send before slipping his phone into his pocket.

……..

The balcony door was cracked open, letting in the soft hum of London at night—cars passing faintly, the occasional bark of a dog, and the whisper of wind brushing through the trees around Colney.

A takeaway bag rustled between them, warm cartons opened on a small table.

Olivia sat cross-legged in one of the low chairs, a fork in hand, grinning through a mouthful of noodles.

Izan, curled sideways on the adjacent chair with a can of sparkling water resting against his thigh, looked at her with exaggerated betrayal.

“You knew,” he said flatly, eyes narrowed.

“I did,” Olivia admitted, chewing smugly.

“And I thought about texting you. I really did.”

Izan shook his head, scoffing.

“I was halfway to microwaving nothing. An actual plate of nothing. Like some sad performance artist.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” she said, bursting into laughter.

“I walked for a bit after our call, and then I remembered there was nothing in the fridge. And I pictured you opening it, blank face, that little frown you do—”

“—It’s not a frown.”

“Whatever,” she said, waving him off, “—and I just knew it’d be funnier if I let it happen. And guess what? It was.”

He groaned, covering his face with both hands.

“This is a betrayal of the highest order.”

“You’ll survive, dear,” she teased, scooping more noodles onto his plate before nudging it toward him.

They sat in the quiet that followed, not tense or awkward—just comfortable.

The kind that wrapped around you like a warm bundle of cloth. From below, headlights swept across the pavement.

Izan took the plate and glanced sideways at her.

Olivia’s eyes met his, and for a split second, she saw a look.

That look.

“Izan, no. Izan no, please, I’m full,” she said with a smile while trying to get away from her spot.

“Sit down. I won’t chase you,” Izan said, but Olivia knew better than to trust Izan in such situations and kept backing away.

The grin Izan made as he stood caused the Olivia to turn and bolt to the makeshift closetroom they had made together but she was no match for Izan’s speed and determination as the latter launched himself and caught her, both falling onto the couch.

“Izan stop, please” Olivia cried out, laughing as Izan tickled her but her cries entered his ear and went out the other into the night breeze.

…….

Wednesday, 25th.

The knock came sharply against the door—no buzz, no message, just Miranda in her usual style. Direct. Punctual.

Izan opened it to find her standing there in a tailored black pantsuit, the jacket worn confidently with nothing underneath.

Her chest bare beneath the lapels, collarbones catching the hallway light, and a thin gold chain hanging loose.

Her hair was pinned back tightly, her heels clicking as she walked in like she owned the floor.

“Evening,” she said, holding up a thick black garment bag.

“Brought the suit. You’re not showing up to a Nike meeting in joggers and a hoodie.”

Izan blinked, stepping aside. “What if that’s my brand?”

“It’s not,” she deadpanned, dropping the suit on the arm of the couch before collapsing into it herself.

“Now get dressed. We’ve got Connaught at half past.”

Izan gave her a look but didn’t argue.

As he disappeared into the bedroom with the suit, he unzipped the bag.

The fabric was clean, expensive, and satiny to the touch.

Black, double-breasted, with subtle gloss on the lapels.

Minimalist but cut to perfection.

From the living room, Miranda called out, “Text Olivia before she thinks I kidnapped you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, slipping into the trousers.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and typed:

Heading out with Miranda for that meeting thing. Back soon. You want anything sweet?

He paused.

Added a small x and then hit send.

When he stepped out, adjusting the cuffs on the blazer, Miranda gave him a once-over, then nodded slowly.

“Better.”

“You’re not exactly overdressed yourself,” he said, eyeing her suit again.

“Meetings like this are a mirror,” she said, standing.

“You walk in, showing them how much they should be paying you.”

She didn’t bother with a purse—just a slim black folder in one hand as they stepped out.

The black car was already waiting by the curb, windows tinted, paint slick under the soft early evening light.

Inside the backseat, the world dimmed.

The city buzzed past in softened streaks—Chelsea to Mayfair, stone to steel, brick to glass.

“You know,” Izan said eventually, “this whole thing… we could’ve just talked to Adidas. Cut all this drama.”

“We will,” Miranda said, smoothing a wrinkle in her suit.

“This isn’t about choosing Nike. It’s about making Adidas sweat. You don’t win the game by playing one side. You win it by making them compete.”

He didn’t reply, but he understood.

Soon, The Connaught came into view—elegant, timeless, sitting like a palace at the edge of the city’s heart. The driver pulled to a smooth stop.

Miranda stepped out first. Izan followed, adjusting his cufflink with a breath.

Time to talk.

Not just about football.

But what football was worth!

A/N: So, this is the road to catching up with my readers. I will try to release all the chapters we missed out on so stay tuned and as usual, thanks for reading. Have fun and I’ll see you in about 7 hours b’cus i have to sleep.

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