God Of football

Chapter 337: Lucrative Offer

Miranda’s voice was calm and professional. ”You’re done with training?”

”Just finished.”

”Good.” A brief pause. ”Get dressed. Something sharp.”

Izan frowned, grabbing a towel. ”Why?”

”Dinner meeting.” Another pause, deliberate this time. ”PSG.”

That made him stop. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. He had known this moment was coming—the first serious move in the transfer war.

But hearing it confirmed sent a different kind of rush through his veins.

He glanced at the time. ”Where?”

”Marina Beach Club. Private dining room. 9 PM.”

Izan nodded. ”Alright.”

Miranda’s voice softened slightly, a rare moment of familiarity breaking through. ”Wear something nice. You have a Saint Laurent deal—use it.”

Izan smirked. ”Got it.”

She hung up.

Izan stood there for a second, feeling the weight of it all settle on his shoulders. Then, without another thought, he headed for the showers.

Dressed in a slim black Saint Laurent suit, Izan stepped out of the car in front of Marina Beach Club.

The scent of the sea mixed with the faint aroma of expensive cologne as he adjusted his cuffs, the city lights reflecting off the sleek entrance.

Miranda was already waiting near the doors, effortlessly composed in a fitted blazer. She gave him a quick once-over and nodded in approval.

”Ready?”

Izan exhaled, glancing at the glass doors where the PSG entourage was waiting inside.

”Yeah,” he murmured, stepping forward.

.....

Izan entered with Miranda, the quiet murmur of the restaurant shifting as staff immediately recognized them.

The private dining room was set apart from the main floor, a dimly lit space overlooking the water.

A waiter guided them inside, where two men were already seated.

Luis Campos, PSG’s sporting director, rose with a polite smile. Beside him sat Nasser Al-Khelaifi, the club’s president, his expression composed yet watchful.

”Izan,” Campos greeted warmly, extending a hand. ”It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Izan shook his hand firmly. ”Likewise.”

Miranda took her seat beside him, her posture poised. Al-Khelaifi leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers.

”You had an incredible season,” he said smoothly. ”And an even more incredible summer.”

Izan nodded, keeping his expression unreadable. He had been in enough high-pressure matches to know that this was just another kind of game.

Campos took over. ”We’re here because we see your future, Izan. We see you as a pillar of our next great team.” His voice was measured, and persuasive.

”Mbappé is leaving. We’re reshaping PSG, and we want you to be at the heart of it.”

Miranda remained silent, letting Izan absorb the weight of their words. He knew what this was.

They weren’t just offering him a contract; they were offering him a throne.

Al-Khelaifi leaned forward slightly, his expression composed but his tone carrying unmistakable intent.

”Izan, we see you as a generational talent—not just for today, but for the long-term future of this club.”

Campos nodded in agreement, placing a sleek black folder on the table. ”That’s why we’re offering a contract that reflects your stature and potential.”

Miranda reached for the folder but didn’t open it immediately. She let the moment breathe, allowing the weight of Campos’ words to settle.

Izan remained still, his fingers interlocked as he listened.

Al-Khelaifi continued. ”We’re prepared to offer you a seven-year deal—a commitment that secures your place at PSG through your prime years.”

Miranda’s expression didn’t shift, but Izan caught the subtle flicker in her eyes. Six years.

That was longer than the usual top-level contracts. Four to Five years was standard; six was PSG locking him down with little room for maneuver later but seven was too much.

Campos, sensing the moment, pressed on. ”Naturally, a commitment of this magnitude comes with a salary that reflects your value.

We’re offering €18 million per year to start, with increases built in—by your third season, that rises to €22 million per year.”

Miranda finally flipped the folder open, skimming the numbers while keeping her expression neutral.

Izan could tell she was processing it all swiftly, calculating the weekly wage in her head—€346,000 per week to start, rising to over €420,000 weekly.

Al-Khelaifi allowed a small pause before adding, ”We’re also including a €5 million signing bonus upon completion of the deal, plus performance incentives.

Win the Ballon d’Or? That’s another €2 million. Ligue 1 top scorer? €1 million. A Champions League victory with you playing a key role? €3 million.”

The numbers were staggering, but Miranda was already flipping to the key clauses, and Izan knew why. The seven-year term.

”The duration,” Miranda said smoothly, lifting her gaze. ”It’s a long commitment.”

Al-Khelaifi met her gaze evenly. ”Because we’re building something around Izan.

We don’t see him as a short-term investment—we want him at the heart of PSG’s future.”

Miranda nodded, then tapped her finger against the page. ”Image rights?”

Campos answered immediately. ”Izan keeps 80% of his image rights, with the club retaining 20%—a fair balance.”

That was significant. Some clubs demanded a far larger cut, especially for a player of Izan’s commercial appeal.

”We also ensure full luxury accommodation, a private property of your choice in Paris, concierge services, a personal chef, security—whatever you need to settle in,” Campos continued.

”And, of course, the club provides a luxury vehicle of your choosing.”

Izan remained composed, but he could feel the weight of what they were offering.

This wasn’t just a contract—it was a statement. They wanted him to be the face of PSG’s next era.

Miranda closed the folder, exhaling softly. ”It’s an interesting offer. But seven years…” She let the words linger, making it clear that was a sticking point.

Al-Khelaifi’s smile was polite, but there was a quiet determination in his eyes. ”We believe it’s a sign of trust. A commitment to something bigger.”

Izan met his gaze, his mind working through it all. The money, the prestige, the incentives—they were all massive. But the duration? That changed things.

Miranda didn’t give anything away. She simply nodded. ”We’ll review it carefully.”

And just like that, the ball was back in Izan’s court.

...….

The dinner wound down with an air of quiet satisfaction.

The PSG delegation had made their pitch, and while no signatures had been put to paper, they left the table with the confidence of men who believed they had planted a seed that would bear fruit.

Izan and Miranda, however, were less eager to rush to conclusions. They knew better.

As the plates were cleared and small cups of espresso were set before them, Al-Khelaifi leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together.

”This has been a fantastic conversation. Izan, we believe in you. We see you as more than just a footballer—you’re someone who can define an era. And at Paris, you’d have everything you need to reach that level.”

His voice was steady, deliberate. The kind of tone that carried weight in boardrooms across Europe.

Miranda nodded, her expression poised. ”It’s an important decision, and we appreciate the clarity. As I mentioned, we’ll take the time to go over everything in detail.”

Campos, who had been mostly observant through the night, finally leaned forward.

”That’s all we ask. But I hope you know, Izan, this project is built for someone like you. Whatever you need, we can make it happen.”

There it was again. The quiet promise that at PSG, the rules bent for those who mattered.

Miranda smiled. ”Noted.”

With that, the conversation wrapped. Firm handshakes were exchanged, and the PSG delegation took their leave, their tailored suits vanishing into the Parisian night.

As soon as Izan and Miranda slipped into their car, the city lights painting streaks across the tinted windows, Miranda let out a quiet exhale.

”They think they have you.”

Izan scoffed, shifting in his seat. ”They really do.”

She shook her head. ”They’ll learn.”

Not five minutes had passed when Miranda’s phone buzzed.

She glanced down, and for the first time that evening, her expression changed—not surprised, but slightly amused. She turned the screen toward Izan.

Real Madrid – Requesting a meeting for tomorrow’s lunch.

Izan read it twice before exhaling. ”Tomorrow? I can’t. I have training.”

His own phone buzzed before Miranda could even respond.

It was the Valencia squad group chat.

Valencia CF (Team Chat):

Valencia Staff: ”Morning training canceled. Players advised to rest.”

Izan blinked.

Another message popped up.

Mamadou: ”Izan got training canceled? Say less.”

Cenk: ”Lmao he’s bigger than the club now.”

Mosquera: ”Man’s negotiating Champions League-level wages, let him rest.”

Guerra: ”Izan moving like Mbappé.”

Diego López: ”Watch him ’rest’ in Madrid tomorrow.”

Yarek: ”He’s probably reading this from a penthouse in Paris rn.”

Thierry: ”Bro is getting pampered while we’re out here struggling.”

Mamadou: ”He’s one of them now.”

Cenk: ”New tax bracket, new priorities.”

Izan shook his head, already tired. Miranda, reading over his shoulder, smirked. ”Well, would you look at that?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. ”Guess I’m free after all.”

Miranda didn’t miss a beat. She tapped her phone screen, fingers moving fast.

Lunch tomorrow works.

Send.

Izan leaned back, staring out at the passing streets. One meeting had barely ended. Another was already locked in.

And this time, it was Real Madrid.