God Of football

Chapter 489: Three Stripes On

The morning air was sharp, almost therapeutic.

The city hadn’t quite woken up yet, the streets humming only with delivery vans and early joggers.

Izan’s trainers thudded rhythmically against the pavement, his breath steady, eyes fixed ahead, but his mind elsewhere.

Each stride cut through the chill, the breeze slicing against his skin as he weaved through the quiet paths of Hampstead Heath.

He didn’t run to escape — not today. Today, it was about clarity.

The Adidas deal spun in his head, not chaotically, but with strange calm. Everything about it felt… right.

Not just the figures, the perks, the historic bonuses — but the intention. The tone. The message.

He hadn’t planned to leave Adidas.

Not really.

He’d always thought: If they mess this up, if they play small, I’ll walk.

That was the plan.

He’d give Nike a real listen. Maybe even a sign. But Adidas hadn’t fumbled.

They had done the opposite. They’d exceeded.

Hans didn’t just throw money at him. He threw belief.

They pulled out all the stamps, even bringing Messi to show up to talk — he showed up to hand him something that felt like a torch.

That was enough.

That was more than enough.

Izan slowed to a walk as he neared the end of his route.

The sun was pushing gently against the rooftops now, filtered by clouds.

The world was waking up.

But inside, his decision had already been made.

He was staying.

And not just staying — he was owning it.

By the time he got home, the warmth of the flat embraced him like something earned.

The water hit his skin in the shower and brought more than just heat.

It brought a reset.

The kind of reset that came after a burden lifted.

He stepped out refreshed, pulled on a black hoodie, hair still damp, and padded barefoot across the living room.

The afternoon training session at Colney wasn’t for a few hours, and for the first time in days, he felt weightless.

Olivia was already up, her hair tied in a lazy bun as she plated toast and scrambled eggs.

She smiled when she saw him.

“You ran far?” she asked.

“Far enough,” he said, plopping onto the couch.

Before she could plate the second serving, she wandered over, settled onto his lap instead, balancing the plate for them both to share.

“You look lighter,” she noted.

“I am,” he said, flicking through his phone.

Messages.

One from the team liaison about the upcoming PSG game.

Another from Miranda — “Let me know your final thoughts, but if you haven’t made up your mind yet, let’s take it slow.”

He tapped open their chat.

Izan: I’m in. Tell them. I’m not going to Nike.

He hit send, leaned back, and let Olivia feed him a bite of toast.

Miranda replied less than a minute later.

Miranda: Ok. I’ll text Adidas now. I figured. No one’s walking away from what they put on the table.

He smiled faintly, tucked the phone aside, and kissed the side of Olivia’s head.

“Done?” she asked.

“Done.”

Meanwhile, across the city, in the muted luxury of a Knightsbridge penthouse, the Nike delegation waited.

Tyrell Greene, who had joined a day after Nike met with Izan, sat in the lounge, scrolling through the financials of their offer once again on his tablet, the corner of his mouth twitching with every glance at the projected royalty cap.

“This kid has no reason to say no,” he said under his breath.

Across from him, the younger woman from their team — the same one who had joked about influencing the Ballon d’Or — leaned back with a smug sip of coffee.

“He’s 18. He’s market-stupid if he walks. That contract is generational,” she said to one of the younger delegates.

The older man who had sat across Miranda at The Connaught, James, chuckled from his seat near the fireplace.

“She didn’t even fight us on the final terms,” he said.

“The way she played it, we might as well draft the press release.”

They all laughed lightly, smug confidence settling in the room like cologne.

Tyrell turned to the assistant nearby.

“Keep the phone open. We should get confirmation any minute.”

But the phone didn’t ring.

Not for the next five minutes.

Or the ten after that.

Eventually, Tyrell raised an eyebrow and turned to his watch.

Still silence.

The woman with the coffee gave a half-smile.

“Maybe she’s stalling to drive it up.”

“No,” the older man replied.

“She’s good. But she’s not reckless.”

Tyrell’s eyes narrowed slightly.

And then his phone buzzed.

But it wasn’t Miranda.

It was a reporter contact.

A headline preview.

He clicked it.

And his jaw clenched ever so slightly.

The headline read:

“Sources: Adidas Confident of Locking Down Record-Breaking Long-Term Deal with Arsenal Star Izan Hernandez.”

No confirmation. No denial.

Just the early winds of a storm forming on the other side of the hill.

And suddenly, the silence in the room no longer felt like confidence.

It felt like a warning.

The quiet had thickened in the room.

What had started as light laughter now felt like stale bravado.

Tyrell’s jaw was still set, the glow from his phone washing across his cheekbones.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

James, across from him, the one with the calm confidence that had survived decades in the sports business, slowly reached for his phone.

“I’ll call her,” he muttered, already dialing.

He stood, walking toward the far window.

London sprawled beneath him, cloudy and indifferent.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Still nothing.

Tyrell’s brow twitched.

“Come on, Miranda,” James muttered.

Ring.

Ring.

Then, finally—click.

“Yes?” Miranda’s voice came through, calm but clipped.

“Miranda, hi,” the man said with a practiced chuckle, trying to keep the tone light.

“Just thought I’d check in quickly. We haven’t heard anything back from your camp, and, well… we thought you’d be pleased with what we sent through. Big numbers. Serious belief in the kid.”

Miranda didn’t even sigh.

Her silence was a pause of clarity.

“We’ve made our decision.”

There was no flutter of politeness, no curve of hesitation in her voice.

“We’re staying with Adidas.”

The line held silent.

The man blinked, his mouth half-open.

“I… Right. Okay. That’s—”

“We appreciated your interest,” she added flatly, “but the deal from Adidas reflects not just value, but vision. Good day.”

Click.

She ended it before he could sputter a reply.

Back in the Knightsbridge lounge, he stood frozen by the window.

His hand slowly lowered the phone.

Tyrell looked up.

“Well?” he asked, already knowing.

“She said no.”

Tyrell’s lips pressed into a thin line.

The younger woman didn’t laugh this time.

Nobody did.

The silence wasn’t empty now.

It was full of the sound of a giant slipping through their fingers.

………….

Miranda leaned back in the quiet of her office, her phone still warm in her palm after hanging up on Nike.

The sun through the high windows streaked across her desk, catching the gleam of the Adidas folder that had sat open all night.

She tapped through to her contacts and hit the call.

It didn’t take long for Hans Webber to answer.

“Miranda,” he said smoothly.

“You have news for me?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice firm but calm.

“We’re going to sign with Adidas.”

There was a pause on the other end — not hesitation, but a beat of satisfaction.

She could almost hear the corners of his mouth lifting.

“I thought so,” Hans murmured.

“Izan made the right choice.”

“But,” Miranda continued, professional as ever, “there’s one last thing. We’ll need Adidas to handle the tax coverage. Full support.”

Webber didn’t even blink.

“Of course. All the numbers we discussed were pre-tax. We anticipated this. I’ll have the final figures sent over by tonight — tax-adjusted, net clean for Izan.”

“Perfect,” Miranda said.

Then she added, “Also, you probably already know — there’s a 70–30 image rights split with Arsenal.”

“Yes,” Webber confirmed.

“It came up during our financial mapping.”

“Good. Then just make sure that anything owed through image licensing gets paid directly to the club’s legal entity. I don’t want us chasing deductions down the line.”

“Understood,” Hans replied, his voice steady.

“We’ll take care of it all.”

Miranda nodded, already opening a notepad on her screen.

“Once we receive the updated terms with those pieces included, and we’ve gone over everything, we’ll finalize.”

“We’ll send it over by nightfall,” Webber said.

“Everything. This partnership is too important not to.”

“Glad to hear it.”

They hung up without flourish, just a shared understanding humming beneath the silence.

The biggest football boot deal of a generation was now one legal form away from history.

A/N: OKAY, 200 powerstones chapter. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit with the last chapter of the day. Also, I wanted to ask if I should remove the little recap I do at the start of each chapter, like I did here.

I didn’t do this at the start, but earlier on in the novel, a few readers said they got lost, and that’s why I started adding a bit of the latter part of every previous chapter to the next chapter. Let me know in the comments.

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