God Of football

Chapter 481: Whole Different Ballgame

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.

……….

Inside the Connaught, beneath soft lighting that spilled like honey across glass tabletops and leather-backed booths, the Nike reps sat in a private suite tucked away from the hum of the main restaurant.

Their voices were low but intense tones sharpened by anticipation and strategy.

“If we are able to close out this deal, you can say hello to promotion and a huge bonus at the end of this quarter,” one of them said, a man in his mid-forties with a Rolex tucked under his cuff and a Nike pin on his lapel.

“He’s that good a narrative. A marketable myth in the making. Adidas got in early, sure. But we can own what comes next.”

Another exec, a younger woman with cropped hair and an iPad open in front of her, nodded, scrolling through stats and brand analytics.

“The Saint Laurent winter campaign sold out in three days. Three. And the Hyperion Seiko line—designed around him? IH17 moved eight figures in preorder revenue alone. And they made just 17 of those. The kid is barely out of school and already flipping luxury watch margins like he’s in finance.”

“And yet we’re the ones still watching from the outside,” said a third, shaking his head with a dry laugh.

” Adidas has him in boot deals. YSL has him behind the clothes. Seiko has a custom timepiece named after him. Everyone is feasting—except us.”

The woman with the iPad glanced at the clock, lips curling into a grin.

“Not for long.”

Their conversation fell quiet as the suite door opened.

In walked Miranda first, the manager at her side, gesturing toward the semicircular booth.

Izan followed just behind—tall, elegant, the custom black suit hugging his frame with that casual precision only he could pull off.

His expression was unreadable, almost bored, but it didn’t fool the reps.

They all stood instinctively, the room shifting with the gravity of his presence.

Izan didn’t say anything at first.

Just nodded once, polite, cool.

At the end of the day, he was just a kid, although this kid had some potential worth betting on.

Miranda greeted the reps with brief handshakes, then slid into her seat beside Izan as the manager closed the door behind them.

The mood inside the private suite shifted subtly as the formalities melted into something looser.

Wine glasses were filled—sparkling water for Izan—and menus closed as the maître d’ vanished with a practiced nod.

Still, the air remained laced with purpose.

These weren’t just people enjoying a meal.

Every gesture was weighted.

Every smile had strategy and some calculated wants behind it, and it bored Izan.

“So, Izan,” began the younger Nike executive, casually setting her iPad aside.

“How’s life treating you these days? Must be a bit wild, yeah? Sixteen and already setting stadiums on fire.”

Izan didn’t lift his eyes from the glass in his hand.

“It’s alright,” he said flatly, rolling the rim of the glass between his fingers.

“Busy and tired but fun in a way.”

The table chuckled politely, but Miranda didn’t.

She shifted slightly in her seat and gave Izan a subtle nudge with her knee beneath the table.

Not harsh, but firm enough. A reminder.

Izan gave a small sigh.

Then he sat up straighter.

“I guess things haven’t really slowed down since it started,” he added, his voice more focused now.

“It’s been non-stop. New team, new city. A lot to adapt to. Plus, I just wrote my final exam in high school a couple of weeks ago, so I’m waiting for the results.”

“That’s understandable,” said the older exec, smiling with mild approval.

“And yet, you’ve made it look easy. That goal at the Etihad? I mean, you don’t just train that—it’s instinct. Headlines everywhere. Even our office group lit up.”

The server returned, lifting the silver lids off porcelain plates: wagyu steak, grilled seabass, truffle pasta, seared scallops.

Everything carefully curated. Plates like canvas. Tasteful extravagance.

As the plates were placed, conversation picked up.

“We actually wanted to ask,” the iPad exec leaned forward, slicing into her pasta, “how involved are you with your off-pitch ventures? Like the Seiko line—the Hyperion watch. That launch was insane.”

Izan glanced toward Miranda briefly before answering.

“I try to be. I mean, they asked me about the design. The strap. What kind of dial I’d wear? It wasn’t just them slapping my brand on it.”

“That’s what sets you apart,” the older man said. “You’ve got vision beyond just goals and assists. And frankly, that’s why we’re here. What we’re offering… isn’t just a boot deal.”

More like Miranda’s got good vision, he thought, looking at the older man in front of him.

Miranda nodded once, eyes on Izan, calm but alert.

He set his fork down. Wiped his mouth.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Let’s talk.”

The plates clinked softly as the last remnants of the starters were cleared, replaced by steaming mains laid out with delicate ceremony.

But the mood had already shifted.

The small talk was done.

The air inside the private suite at The Connaught had taken on a new density.

The senior Nike executive—a man with slicked-back silver hair and a voice smooth from years of corporate politicking—laid a matte black folder on the table like it was a chess piece.

Miranda’s eyes sharpened.

Izan watched the folder with that same disinterested look he wore when he didn’t want to give anything away.

The younger Nike representative, the one with the long, straight hair and carefully polished nails, smiled and began to speak as Miranda opened the folder.

“So, what we’re offering you, Izan, is something very few athletes get at your age. Hell, very few athletes get—period.”

She gestured subtly as Miranda skimmed the contents.

“A base annual endorsement of twenty-two million,” she said.

“This includes exclusivity—boots, apparel, campaign appearances, and digital promotion.”

Izan didn’t move, almost tuning out the terms, only for Miranda, who didn’t blink.

“With performance-based bonuses,” the woman continued, “you could realistically hit thirty-five to forty-five million per year, depending on team and individual accolades—league titles, European success, personal honours, things like that. The numbers have been tiered to escalate if your market value continues to grow. And it will.”

The older executive took over.

“We’ve looked at your current impact metrics. The Saint Laurent campaign—global reach across all platforms. Sales spike of eighteen percent quarter-over-quarter since your launch ad.

The Seiko IH17 Hyperion line? Already back-ordered in multiple markets. Your effect on Adidas boots alone? That’s what we’re paying attention to.”

He smiled thinly. “They’re going to have a hard time keeping up.”

Miranda closed the folder softly. Her voice was calm but cool, like the surface of a frozen lake.

“This is a strong start,” she said.

“Better than most, but Izan isn’t most. And with respect, this base annual is barely over what you’re paying Haaland. You’re offering him legacy money. But Izan’s already redefining the scale of what legacy means. At sixteen.”

“You could make the argument that he hasn’t won anything as compared to Haaland, but your man wasn’t doing this at 16.”

The younger woman glanced down, recalibrating slightly.

“There’s flexibility,” she offered.

“We’re willing to lift the royalty rate on signature lines—say, up to 12.5% on all Izan-branded gear. And if he hits the Ballon d’Or or wins a Champions League within the next two years, that escalator clause would activate. It’d bump his annual to the 45 million range.”

“And the long-term vision, should we sign with you?” Miranda pressed.

The older executive leaned back, folding his hands.

“If targets are met—Ballon d’Or, global dominance, a string of club and international accolades—we’re willing to move toward a lifetime endorsement deal.

The terms would depend on growth, but they would be modeled after our legacy athlete packages. Think 1.5 to 2.0 billion lifetime value, depending on reach and continued dominance. Not three billion, we’re not building a monument. But we are backing an era.”

“And honestly,” he added, staring at Izan, “Still some time before you reach those heights, so let’s just stay in the present.”

“And let’s be honest,” the younger exec added with a glint in her eye, “brands like ours? We move things. Narratives. Visibility. Presence. It’s not rigged—but being with Nike opens doors. Magazine covers. Award campaigns. Influence in the right places. The Ballon d’Or isn’t won just on the pitch anymore.”

Miranda looked sideways at Izan, who finally seemed engaged.

He didn’t say anything.

Just picked up the juice he had called for in the middle of the talk before taking a sip.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“So what you’re saying is… just showing up changes the game.”

The younger rep smiled. “With you? Yes. That’s exactly what we’re saying.”

Miranda sipped her wine with a subtle smile on her face.

They were in a whole different ballgame

A/n; First of many for the day. Have fun reading

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