God Of football

Chapter 488: Numbers.

Hans Webber, watching the young star fold into his seat with elegance and calm, knew Adidas would have to work harder than ever to keep him.

They weren’t just re-signing a kid like they did previously.

They were trying to win over a future they didn’t entirely control.

Webber folded his hands. “I’ll get straight to it.”

The small mounted screen behind him hummed to life, displaying a sleek visual of a boot silhouette — HIM, the flagship line.

Below that, graphics illustrated sales, growth in global distribution, social media metrics, and youth engagement.

“Your boot is already a success, and the exclusivity made it more in demand,” he said.

“But this is more than numbers. We at Adidas don’t just want to work with you, Izan. Adidas wants to build with you. It wants to build for you.”

He let that hang a moment.

“We’re prepared to make this the most substantial endorsement deal ever signed by an active player under 30. That means a long-term deal—twelve years—with a flexible review every two years.” he paused looking to see any changes on Miranda’s face but she just nodded at him, prompting him to proceed.

“A rolling player-consulting agreement embedded in the design and rollout of HIM and its successors. You’ve already co-designed the line. We want to expand that to apparel. Training gear. Lifestyle releases.”

Izan listened, expression neutral, while Olivia, sitting beside him, studied Webber with a quiet kind of tension.

“We’re including full image rights under joint control,” Miranda added smoothly.

“And a first-look media clause for any documentaries, biopics, or player-driven content you produce.”

“Oh, and the money?” Miranda asked plainly afterwards.

Hans looked at him directly.

“Less than Nike offered, but more in the long run.”

Miranda glanced at Izan before nodding to Hans.

“Go ahead.”

He pulled up another screen.

The numbers appeared:

£30 million annually in base salary£8 million in performance bonuses£5 million annually in design royalties15% stake in the HIM line’s global profit50/50 ownership of Izan’s brand licensing rights

Olivia blinked, subtly impressed.

But Webber wasn’t finished.

“There’s a clause Nike didn’t offer from the gist we know of what they offered you. One thing they couldn’t offer.”

A new screen came up. Simple text, white on black:

LEGACY INCENTIVE STRUCTURE

“Should you stay with Adidas for ten uninterrupted years?” Webber said.

“And continue as our lead global ambassador while maintaining a clean moral and professional record, you’ll be awarded 1.3% of Adidas Group’s Class B stock. At current value, that’s projected at just under USD 380 million, and this is aside from the lifetime deal worth 2.5 billion dollars we are offering should you decide to stick with us, even after you retire.”

Silence.

Miranda shifted her eyes toward Izan.

Even she hadn’t expected that degree of magnitude.

“If you win, lets say a World Cup while under our banner,” Hans continued, “we increase it to 2.5%, transferred through performance bonuses in equity form. We’re investing in you — not just as a player. As a pillar. As the core of our next generation.”

Olivia looked at Izan then, quiet awe in her face.

Still, Izan’s voice was low, uncertain. “And… why me?”

Hans gestured.

The lights dimmed.

“Because someone said so, and personally, I trust his eyes.”

The young man in the turtleneck rotated the laptop, and the screen came alive.

Lionel Messi appeared, seated in a well-lit room, the faint hum of air conditioning behind him.

He wore a soft grey hoodie, his expression warm, eyes steady.

“Hola, Izan,” he said, voice calm.

“Hola, Leo…” Izan murmured, stunned, his first ever appearance in front of the other half of the two GOATS.

Messi smiled.

“I wanted to speak to you, Chico. Because I’ve seen your rise. Your game has something… different.”

“Quería hablar contigo, chico. Porque he visto tu ascenso. Tu juego tiene algo… diferente.”

Izan nodded slowly.

“The pressure… I know it. I carried it too. You carry more in a louder world. But you handle it like a veteran.”

“La presión… la conozco. Yo también la llevé. Tú llevas más, en un mundo más ruidoso. Pero lo manejas como un veterano.”

“Adidas believed in me when I was a bit older than your age. They never tried to shape me into someone else. They only asked that I stay true. And when I did, they stood by me. You’ll get the same.”

“Adidas creyó en mí cuando tenía tu edad. Nunca intentaron convertirme en otro. Solo pidieron que fuera yo mismo. Y cuando lo fui, se quedaron conmigo.”

Messi leaned forward slightly now, more intimate, more direct.

“You can carry Adidas forward now. You’re that good. And you won’t be alone. Lamine, Jude… they’re with you. This generation — it’s yours. I’ll still be here, but it’s your time to lead.”

“Ahora tú puedes llevar a Adidas adelante. Eres así de bueno. Y no estarás solo. Lamine, Jude… están contigo. Esta generación — es tuya. Yo seguiré aquí, pero es tu momento de liderar.”

Izan swallowed. Something in his chest tightened.

“Don’t take this as a business deal, Izan. Take it as a torch. You’ve already lit the flame. Just don’t let it go out.”

“No tomes esto como un acuerdo comercial, Izan. Tómalo como una antorcha. Ya has encendido la llama. Solo no la dejes apagar.”

The screen went dark.

The room was still.

Webber sat back, his voice almost soft now.

“We don’t just want your goals, Izan. We want your future. You’ve built HIM. Let’s build something bigger—with you at the center.”

Izan leaned back slowly in his seat, eyes fixed on the black screen.

He didn’t answer.

Not yet.

But something had clearly shifted.

……………

The car hummed softly down the half-lit road, the city slowly folding into silence as the hour ticked past midnight.

Raindrops that had started just after they ended talks streaked lazily across the windows, turning London’s glow into smudges of gold and red.

Izan sat quietly in the back seat, head resting against the leather with his arm draped loosely around Olivia.

She was curled into his side, fast asleep, her breaths shallow and even against his shoulder.

A brown takeout bag sat on the seat beside him — sushi for her, steak and rice for him, barely touched.

The scent filled the car, but neither of them had the appetite after the night they’d just had.

Izan looked down at her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.

She looked peaceful.

But he wasn’t.

His eyes drifted back to the window as a memory flickered—less than an hour ago, in that sleek, quiet meeting room.

“…That’s everything,” Webber’s assistant had said, closing the final page of the presentation, the slide showing Adidas’s ten-year vision, with HIM as a central brand pillar.

Hans Webber didn’t say anything at first.

He just studied Izan’s face — unreadable, caught between composure and weight.

Then Webber leaned back, his voice lower, less formal.

“Izan,” he said. “Don’t just look at the numbers.”

Izan glanced up, meeting his eyes.

“The stock options, the royalty percentages, the bonus incentives… they’re substantial, yes. Historic, even. But numbers can seduce,” he paused, letting his words sink in.

“And when they seduce, they can also blind. You look at that stock figure and you think: that’s security. That’s power. That’s legacy. And it is — but only if it’s yours,” he added.

He paused, then leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“We’re not buying your talent, Izan. We’re betting on your soul — the part of you that still works twice as hard on days you already know you’re better than the rest. That’s what this is about.”

Izan’s jaw had tensed slightly.

But he said nothing.

Hans’s voice softened.

“You’re young. And young players — even great ones — have lost years of their prime chasing bigger figures, brighter commercials, louder brands. We don’t want that for you. We want longevity. Identity. Partnership.”

Miranda nodded lightly, adding, “This isn’t a sprint to be the face of a moment. It’s a marathon to become the core of a movement.”

Izan sat still for a long moment, glancing down at the contract once more.

Hans spoke again, gentler this time.

“Don’t make this decision because the numbers look right tonight. Make it because the values do.”

The car turned a corner gently, and the flash of that memory faded.

Izan looked down at Olivia again.

Her hand was resting softly on his chest now, unconscious but trusting.

He let out a long breath, eyes returning to the rain-blurred lights outside.

There were offers. And then there were invitations.

This one felt like both.

And it was starting to feel like something he couldn’t ignore.

“Thanks for the ride and thanks for all that you do” Izan said to Miranda who had dismissed the earlier driver for the night, opting to drive the duo home herself.

“You’re welcome, Izan, and we’ve got time and the cards. So think deeply about where you wanna be,” Miranda spoke as Izan patted Olivia awake.

“The Summit Miranda,” Izan said, taking the food and Olivia’s bag.

“That’s where I wanna be.”

He turned and looked at Miranda, waving as he walked away with Olivia, with Miranda smiling back at him.

“The Summit, huh?” she said, shaking her head before driving off.

A/N: Okay. First of the day. Gotta sleep now, BYEEE.

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