God Of football

Chapter 447: Somber Mood.

The hours slipped by easily, the home alive with the kind of buzz only a full house could create.

At some point, Komi pulled out old photo albums as she always did when she was over-excited, much to Izanʼs horror, and soon there were pictures scattered across the table.

Some of Izan as a baby, others of Izan playing football barefoot in the garden and Izan making faces during Christmas dinners.

Time moved lazily, like honey dripping from a spoon.

Here, in this house, with these people, Izan was just a son, a brother, a boyfriend.

And that was nice from all the fast-paced life he was now thrown into.

The rain had softened into mist outside as the family of 5 basked in the warmth of their coffers, the rain turning the streets of Valencia into blurred watercolor through the living room window.

Inside, the house still carried the faint hum of life — dishes clinking faintly in the kitchen, the low buzz of the television playing some late-night show no one was really watching.

But mostly, it was quiet now.

Miranda stood, brushing invisible crumbs from her jeans as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

”I should get going,” she said lightly, though her eyes flickered toward Izan.

”Got to set things up for your sponsorship shoots before youʼre back in London.”

Izan sprawled comfortably on the couch, lifted his head, and nodded in that easy, wordless way of his.

Miranda smiled, ruffled his hair in a rough, affectionate swipe, and then disappeared through the front door.

The soft click of it closing sounded louder than anything else in the house.

Olivia curled up on the other end of the couch, yawned, and stretched out like a cat.

”Iʼm crashing,” she said, standing and dragging her suitcase toward the hallway.

”Donʼt wake me unless itʼs for something life or death.”

”You deserve the rest,” Komi called after her warmly.

The door to Izanʼs old room shut with a soft thud, and with it, a different kind of quiet settled in — one deeper, heavier.

Komi crossed the living room, pulling an old photo album from the shelf like she knew the exact moment called for it.

”Come here,” she said softly, sitting beside Izan and patting the couch.

He shifted closer without a word, the weight of tiredness from travel and games and life heavy on his body, but something even heavier beginning to pool in his chest.

The album opened with a worn creak.

Pictures spilled out — birthdays, Christmases, beach trips where Izanʼs hair was sun-bleached and messy.

Komi chuckled under her breath, pointing out old friends, terrible fashion choices, and an especially mortifying shot of him wearing oversized sunglasses and a neon green shirt.

”Youʼve always been a little star,” she teased.

Izan smiled faintly, leaning in, but his heart wasnʼt really on the surface photos.

Neither was hers.

Komi flipped carefully through the pages until her hand stilled on one.

A photo — a little faded, but carefully preserved.

Maxwell Hernández, grinning, a much younger Izan perched on his shoulders, both of them laughing at something outside the frame.

Sunlight caught in Maxwellʼs dark hair; Izanʼs cheeks were flushed pink with joy.

The world had been simpler then.

Komi didnʼt speak.

She simply slipped the photograph out of its sleeve and handed it to her son.

Izan held it carefully, like something sacred.

For a long moment, he said nothing — just stared.

His thumb brushed the edges of the photo, following the curve of his fatherʼs smile, the strong, easy set of his shoulders.

It felt like a punch in the gut. How someone could be so alive in a memory yet gone in every other way that mattered.

Komiʼs voice was soft when she spoke. ”You should go visit him.”

Izan swallowed thickly, blinking against the sudden burn behind his eyes.

”Yeah,” he said hoarsely. ”Itʼs been… a while.”

”Itʼs not just any year,” Komi said gently. Her hand found his again, squeezing.

”Itʼll be ten years next month.”

Izanʼs head dipped slightly as if the weight of it pulled him down.

October. A month away.

Ten years since he had lost the man he once called his hero. Ten years since a phone call shattered the foundation of his world.

”You were just a kid,” Komi whispered.

”Too young to understand why the world could be so unfair.”

Her voice cracked at the edges, and she paused, breathing through it.

”And still, youʼve grown… Youʼve made him proud, Izan. Your sister, too, has.”

Izan looked up at her, his face unreadable except for the tightening at his jaw, the way his hands clutched the photo a little tighter.

”He shouldʼve been here,” he said quietly.

”He shouldʼve seen it. All of it.”

Komi nodded, her throat bobbing as she fought her tears. ”He sees it,” she said.

”Maybe not the way we want. Maybe not how it shouldʼve been. But he sees you, 私の空 [My heaven]”

The room was heavy, almost sacred, wrapped in the silence of two people tethered by the same wound.

After a long moment, Izan finally spoke again, voice low, rough.

”Iʼll go,” he promised. ”But not this now. Just a bit longer.”

”Youʼll have time,” Komi assured him softly.

Izan nodded, slipping the photograph into the inner pocket of his jacket, feeling it settle close to his heart.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable in its heaviness.

Izan leaned back against the couch, eyes closed for a moment, still feeling the photographʼs weight against his heart.

Then —

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The sound of footsteps rushing down the stairs, light and fast, before a smaller figure skidded into view.

Hori.

Hair a little messy from her nap, wearing an oversized hoodie that almost swallowed her frame, she planted her hands on her hips and stared at Izan with dramatic seriousness.

”Alright,” she declared, ”youʼve moped enough.”

Izan cracked an eye open, a breath of amusement escaping him despite himself.

”Excuse me?”

”You heard me,” Hori said, walking over until she stood in front of him.

”Youʼre taking me out.”

He blinked at her, still caught between the grief and the absurdity of his little sister bossing him around.

”Out where?”

”Somewhere!” Hori insisted, waving a hand as if details were irrelevant.

”You owe me. Youʼve been gone forever, and I need new shoes, expensive ones and donʼt cut price. I searched how much Arsenal are paying you. I must say, youʼve got generational wealth for us. Now I wonʼt have to work” Hori said with a shameless expression.

Komi chuckled softly, brushing at her eyes discreetly.

The shift in energy was much needed to break the somber mood.

”Youʼre unbelievable,” Izan muttered, sitting up and ruffling her hair, making her squawk indignantly.

”Shoes, Izan!” she protested, batting his hand away. ”And donʼt forget, I made a list.”

Izan laughed properly this time — not loud, but deep, real.

The kind of laugh that loosened the knot in his chest just a little.

He pushed himself to his feet, towering over her, and stretched with a groan.

”Alright, alright. Shoes and a bit of expensive stuff. But youʼre carrying the bags.”

”Deal,” Hori said immediately, grabbing his wrist and dragging him toward the door without waiting for further discussion.

Komi watched them go with a fond shake of her head.

Her heart ached in so many ways at once — with love, with sorrow, with pride.

The door swung open again just a few seconds after it had closed.

Izan stepped back inside, rain-damp air following him.

His eyes flicked to the small table beside the couch, where Komi had left her car keys, gleaming silver against the dark wood.

”Forgot these,” he muttered to himself, moving toward them.

But his steps slowed when he saw her.

Komi was standing by the mantel now, half-turned away, her fingers gently brushing the frame of a photo — a worn but well-kept picture of his father.

The man in the photo smiled in that easy, lopsided way Izan had only ever seen frozen in images and half-remembered dreams.

Dark hair. Strong jaw. Those same clear blue eyes Izan had inherited.

Komi wasnʼt crying.

But there was something about the way she stood there, quiet, reverent, that said she didnʼt have to.

The grief lived in the marrow by now — an old companion.

He smiled faintly, something bittersweet rising.

Without saying a word, he stepped lightly toward the table, scooped up the keys, and let his fingers brush over the photo frame in silent acknowledgment as he passed by.

Komi didnʼt turn, but he knew she felt it.

Izan gave her that small moment with his father, and then quietly slipped out the door, where Hori was already yelling from the driveway about how he was ”taking forever” and how she was ”definitely getting two of everything now.”

A/n; Okay. First chapter of the day. I will follow up with the Golden ticket chapters and the couple of Gacha ones left. Have fun reading and Iʼll see you in a bit.