God Of football

Chapter 482: The Stripes Or The Swoosh

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.”

………………

The hum of the ceiling vent was the only sound in the vast, minimalistic office on the top floor of Adidas’ global headquarters in Herzogenaurach.

Hans Webber, the head of Global Athlete Partnerships, sat behind his polished concrete desk, rifling through a digital portfolio on his tablet.

His blazer, navy and crisp, was folded neatly over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up as he scanned data on campaign traction, performance metrics, and social conversion rates.

He didn’t look up when the glass door hissed open, but the urgency in the assistant’s steps drew his eyes eventually.

“Sir,” she said, breath catching just slightly.

“Nike made contact.”

That was all she had to say.

Hans blinked once, his lips tightening into a faint line as he leaned back in his chair.

The corners of his mind flicked through the predictions his team had floated over the past few weeks—whispers about private meetings, sudden PR silence from Izan’s camp, and Nike’s uncanny ability to strike just before contract milestones.

So it was true.

He rested the tablet on the desk and steepled his fingers.

“Did they meet in London?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. Connaught Hotel. Word is Tyrell Greene arranged for it himself.”

Hans nodded, almost absentmindedly.

For a moment, he said nothing.

The assistant waited as his eyes lingered on the muted skyline beyond the window, his thoughts moving with the precision of a military campaign.

Then, slowly, Hans rose.

He reached for his coat, shrugging it on with casual authority.

“How’s the weather in London this time of year?” he asked, almost rhetorically.

“Cloudy. Rainy, I think,” the assistant replied, tone unsure.

Hans smiled faintly as he brushed imaginary dust from his lapel.

“Perfect. Then they won’t see us coming.”

He walked past her with calm purpose, then paused at the threshold.

“Bring in the team that’s been liaising with Miranda,” he said.

“I want everyone in the boardroom in ten minutes. No excuses. Every lead, every clause, every number. We should be in the Air in 2 hours.”

The assistant blinked. “Where are we going?”

Hans didn’t stop walking.

As he moved down the hallway, he spoke without turning around—his voice low, level, and charged with intent.

“We’re going to secure the future of football,” he said.

“And make damn sure it wears three stripes and not that goofy swoosh.”

His assistant smiled at Hans Webber’s declaration—sharp, ambitious, and perfectly him.

She turned on her heel, her heels clicking across the polished floors as she moved with purpose.

The machinery had started turning, and the response would be swift.

Adidas wasn’t going to be outmaneuvered—not on Hans’ watch.

……

Back in London, the polished glass doors of The Connaught rotated slowly as Izan and Miranda stepped out into the soft drizzle of the evening.

The rain gave a glistening shimmer to the pavement, and the low amber lights along the building’s facade painted a dreamy reflection on the wet stone.

Miranda’s heels clicked crisply, her posture precise as ever while Izan moved beside her in silence, still in the sharp black suit she had brought for him—bare-chested beneath, tailored to intimidation, his expression distant.

Behind the smoked-glass panels of the private dining area, the Nike team watched their silhouettes recede.

The older executive squinted thoughtfully.

“He looks shaken,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Izan’s unreadable face.

The younger woman leaned closer.

“Do you think we’ve done enough? It felt strong—like a pitch nobody turns down.”

The older man suddenly let out a low laugh, one polished from wealth and certainty.

“Nobody walks away from a deal like that,” he said, swirling the last of his scotch in the glass.

“Not even LeBron at sixteen. Not Cristiano. He might not have signed today, but you mark my words—he’ll be back. That offer will haunt him until he does.”

In the sleek black Mercedes pulling away from Mayfair, Izan still hadn’t said a word.

The city rolled past—wet, electric, distant—while the leather interior hummed with quiet luxury.

Miranda tapped her nails against her phone once before glancing his way.

“You alright?”

Izan blinked, as if surfacing from underwater.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just… forgot something.”

Miranda narrowed her eyes slightly.

“What’d you forget? Your phone’s in your pocket.”

He chuckled, sheepish.

“No, it’s not that. I forgot to get something for Olivia.”

Miranda tilted her head.

“Seriously? We just stepped out of what could become the most talked-about endorsement meeting in years, and your brain’s stuck on a sandwich?”

“I got distracted,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She joked earlier about me not knowing how to cook, and I thought I’d bring her something nice. Then the whole Nike thing happened, and… I forgot.”

Miranda exhaled a long sigh, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She leaned forward and hit the intercom.

“Driver, detour to Sandwich Sandwich—yes, the one near Westbourne Grove.”

A nod came from the front.

“Tell her to watch her weight,” she said, mock-warning in her voice.

“We already have you suffocating under all that weight in her front and back. That’s enough.”

Izan smiled at Miranda’s kind-of-jealous expression.

The drizzle streaked softly down the windows, the city murmuring outside.

………

The black Mercedes cruised smoothly through the damp streets of London, city lights streaking past the rain-speckled windows like liquid fire.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of rosemary and grilled cheese—Four

neatly wrapped sandwiches sat on Izan’s lap, warmth radiating through the paper wrapping.

Miranda scrolled casually through her phone beside him, legs crossed, unbothered by the long evening.

They had just pulled away from Sandwich Sandwich—the quiet, cozy shop where the staff had grinned awkwardly at seeing the Izan Hernandez walk in wearing a luxury suit with no shirt underneath.

The sandwiches had been paid for by Miranda without a word, her expression flat despite the amused glances from behind the counter.

As they turned past Paddington Green, Izan suddenly sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing.

“Wait,” he muttered, pulling out his phone. “I forgot about the game. What was the scores?”

Miranda glanced at him.

“What?”

“The Carabao Cup,” he said, unlocking his screen.

“I completely forgot. First clash of the season. I am not involved but—”

His fingers danced quickly over the screen.

“I wanna see how the boys are doing.”

Miranda chuckled.

“You’re hopeless. We just came from a potential billion-pound meeting, and your head is still at the Emirates.”

“No,” Izan replied, eyes scanning the scores, “technically it’s the Carabao that’s in my head.”

Miranda shook her head, looking at Izan, who maneuvered his way to his scores tab and checked the notification for Arsenal.

“Oh, we cooked but arteta had to bring on a few of the big guns.” he said showing the score to Miranda.

“Ethan scored two,” Izan added, retracting his phone from Miranda’s face.

“Saka won’t let me hear the end of it and will probably talk about how Ethan is the next me and is about to take my spot when the guy is older than me and……..”

The black Mercedes finally pulled to a gentle stop outside the apartment complex of Izan in North London.

The person in question stepped out into the brisk night air, the chill softened by the weight of the still-warm sandwiches in his hand.

Miranda gave him a knowing nod from inside the car, already typing something into her phone as he shut the door behind him.

He reached the apartment door and pressed the buzzer.

Moments later, footsteps padded softly toward the door before it swung open to reveal Olivia, hair tied up in a lazy bun, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies.

Her face lit up instantly.

“There he is,” she said, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his torso.

Izan leaned into the embrace, the fatigue in his shoulders easing at her touch. He held up the bag in one hand.

“For you,” he said.

“Still warm.”

Olivia laughed as she took it.

“You spoil me.”

He followed her inside, locking the door behind him.

The place was softly lit, the faint scent of vanilla and sandalwood hanging in the air.

As she dropped onto the couch and began unwrapping the sandwich, she looked up at him with a sly smile.

“So?” she asked, mouth already full.

“How’d it go? Did Nike pull out the golden contract?” she spoke, passing the remaining sandwiches to Izan.

Izan shrugged with practiced indifference, kicking off his shoes.

“You know. Talks. Nothing signed,” he said, taking one of the wrappers.

She smirked, chewing.

“Right. And nothing in your eyes says you spent the evening being paraded like a prince in a bare-chested Saint Laurent tux.”

He threw a cushion at her.

“You know too much.”

A/n: Second of 4 for the first half of the day. I’mma have to sleep after the 3rd cause Damn. Anyways, Have fun reading.

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