God Of football

Chapter 483: Breakfasts To Boots

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.”

…….

Seven Hours Later – 5:42 a.m., London Stansted Airport

The private jet hissed as it taxied to a halt on the rain-slicked runway, vapor curling around the landing gear.

The steps descended with a soft mechanical whirr, and Hans Webber emerged, adjusting the cuffs of his grey wool coat, trimmed neatly at the shoulders.

His silver hair was perfectly parted despite the long flight, and his expression remained composed, but there was something about the pace of his stride that betrayed purpose.

Behind him, his assistant hurried to keep up, one hand clutching a leather-bound portfolio as her heels tapped against the pavement.

“Car’s already waiting,” she informed him.

Hans said nothing at first, gazing out into the dark skyline of the city.

The wind bit gently at his cheeks, but he didn’t flinch.

He slipped his gloves on and spoke finally, voice smooth.

“Hope this place is fun this time of the year. If not, then…?” he said, leaving the latter part of his word hanging.

She blinked. “If not, what?”

He smiled faintly, turning toward the waiting black BMW near the terminal.

“If not, we will have to shake it up a little bit.”

………….

The soft rustle of the early morning breeze drifted through the open window, stirring the curtains like a gentle whisper.

Izan blinked his eyes open, sunlight slipping between the slats of the blinds and painting warm stripes across the ceiling.

The apartment was still, quiet, save for the occasional honk from the street far below.

He sat up slowly, bare feet touching the cool floor.

After throwing on a black training hoodie and joggers, he stepped out, lacing his shoes with the habitual precision only years of football drills could teach.

His legs still hummed from the Etihad game a couple of days ago and the Nike meeting the night before, but the need to move, to breathe, to run—was instinctive.

The streets were nearly empty, save for a few early risers and shopkeepers prepping for the day.

The London chill bit at his cheeks, but he welcomed it, jogging through side roads, his breath rhythmic and steady, mind cycling through thoughts, through contracts and Nike suits and Adidas whispers.

When he returned, cheeks flushed and shirt damp with sweat, he slipped back into the apartment quietly.

The aroma of lavender-scented fabric softener lingered faintly in the air.

On the couch, curled under a throw blanket, Olivia slept soundly, one leg dangling off the side, her phone resting loosely in her palm.

Izan smiled to himself, standing over her for a moment.

Her chest rose and fell gently, mouth slightly parted in the kind of deep sleep reserved only for people who trusted their surroundings completely.

He crouched beside her, gently brushing a strand of hair off her face.

“Lazy,” he whispered teasingly, then slipped his arms under her knees and back.

She stirred only slightly as he lifted her, cradling her in a princess carry.

She nestled against him instinctively, her hand sliding across his chest.

He carried her down the hallway—but then turned abruptly, a wicked grin tugging at his lips.

Her eyes fluttered open just as he reached the bathroom door.

“Huh—wait, Izan? What are y—?”

The handheld showerhead came to life with a cold blast of water.

“NO!” she shrieked, jerking awake instantly as Izan burst out laughing.

Water splashed, her hoodie soaked within seconds as she squealed and kicked, trying to scramble out of his arms.

He dodged, soaked halfway through himself, until she finally managed to grab the handle and turn it on him.

Thirty minutes later, towels draped over both their heads, they sat at the breakfast table—fresh, warm, and dry that had been delivered to them.

Izan dug into his plate of oats with fruits, eggs, bacon, and golden hashbrowns while sipping on a tall glass of orange juice.

Across from him, Olivia was still giggling between bites, her wet hair now tied back in a messy ponytail.

A steaming cup of coffee sat beside her hand.

“Next time,” she said, pointing a fork at him, “I’m pouring ice cubes down your back.”

Izan shrugged, mouth full. “Won’t even feel it.”

………….

The car purred softly along the main road, weaving through North London’s late-morning traffic.

Inside, Izan sat in the back seat dressed in Arsenal’s black club tracksuit, its red accents catching bits of sunlight filtering in through the tinted windows.

He leaned back, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, while beside him, Olivia looked sharp and elegant in a cream-white women’s suit.

Her hair was pinned up neatly, makeup just enough to highlight her features, her legs crossed as she reviewed notes for the marketing presentation she had later that afternoon.

Izan glanced over at her, then turned his phone off.

“We should do something,” he said suddenly.

She looked up. “Hmm?”

“After the Leicester game,” he clarified, eyes still on her.

“Something fun. Just us.”

Olivia’s face lit up instantly.

“Yes. Absolutely yes. I’m already thinking—maybe a late dinner? Or we could go to that open-air rooftop cinema you mentioned last month. Or—wait! What if we drive out to the coast for a night?”

Izan chuckled, shaking his head fondly as she rattled off options like she had a whole weekend already planned.

“You’re worse than my agent,” he said playfully.

“But cuter,” she quipped.

“Yep. Thicker too,” he said, grinning.

“Izann” Olivia said in a shy voice, nudging Izan in the direction of the driver but Izan kept laughing, much louder this time.

The car turned smoothly through the familiar gates of London Colney, now the Sobha Realty Training Centre. (But because the Author is lazy and Lazy is Author, so we will keep calling it Colney. Cool, good.)

The training ground sprawled in the midday sun, a hive of movement—coaches with clipboards, youth players in small groups, a few staff heading into the performance centre.

The car slowed and pulled to a gentle stop as Izan pushed the door open.

“I’ll text you when I’m done, alright?” he said.

Olivia nodded, already gathering her things as King’s College wasn’t very far away now.

“Knock their heads off in training,” she said, blowing a kiss Izan’s way.

Izan stepped out and closed the door gently behind him.

The window rolled down halfway.

“Love you,” she said, her eyes soft.

“Love you too,” he replied, walking backwards a few paces with a smile before turning towards the entrance.

From behind, a familiar voice called out, low, teasing, and unmistakably cheeky.

“Nice ting you got there, brethren.”

Izan turned to see Raheem Sterling walking up, dressed in a sleeveless training top, grinning widely.

A couple of the lads chuckled behind him, seeing the interaction between Old and New.

Izan rolled his eyes with a laugh.

“She’s way out of your league, bro.”

Sterling held up his hands.

“Never said I was tryin’. Just saying—man’s winning on and off the pitch. Life is good, ya know.”

Izan shook his head, still smiling as they walked in together, the door to the performance centre hissing shut behind them.

As Izan stepped through the entrance of the training facility, he was met with the usual buzz of activity.

faint sound of balls thudding against the turf echoed in the background, the hum of conversations and laughter adding to the familiar atmosphere. He was still a few steps from the main area when he heard it—loud, playful, and unmistakably familiar.

“Look who’s finally back!” Bukayo Saka’s voice rang out, laced with an exaggerated sense of mock surprise.

Martin Ødegaard, standing beside him with a single crutch, chuckled at the sight of Izan.

Izan raised an eyebrow as he closed the door behind him.

“Did I miss something? Feels like I’ve been gone for four years, not a few days.”

Saka grinned, stepping forward as if to offer Izan a warm hug but quickly pulling back with a teasing, “Nah, mate. Feels like you’ve been off on some big break. Probably spent the last week on a yacht somewhere.”

Martinelli, who was leaning against a wall nearby, smirked.

“Look at him! The world’s youngest Ballon d’Or nominee, returning like he’s some international superstar. Should’ve seen this coming. I bet you’ve been pampered, huh?”

Izan rolled his eyes, but before he could reply, Ethan Nwaneri, who had joined the first-team training for this session, darted over.

Without missing a beat, Nwaneri grabbed Izan’s bag like it was some kind of treasure chest, cradling it as if it were the most valuable item in the room.

“Yo, what do you think you’re doing?” Izan shot a look of mock horror at the player.

“Just protecting your stuff,” Nwaneri replied, his grin wide, before spinning around dramatically.

“You never know who’s gonna try to steal it. I’m doing you a favor.”

The group burst into laughter, the energy light and carefree as they teased Izan like he’d been away for years rather than just a few days.

Izan couldn’t help but smile, his usual quiet confidence turning to a good-natured chuckle as he ruffled Nwaneri’s hair, causing a few of the players to question who the younger one was, but it still made for a good, extra laugh.

A/n; Sorry guys but i’mma sleep kay. Have fun reading and I wish y’all a great day. Also incoming GT chapter since we’re nearing 120 GTs. I always thank you for the GTs since it’s a bit hard to earn. Anyways, byee. Also, I will try and upload a few chapters on the other novel after i wake up.

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