God Of football

Chapter 615: The Boy With a Bloodline No One Matches

The kitchen was unusually quiet.

No music humming in the background, no Hori bouncing around asking about cereal or biscuits.

Just the low mechanical hum of the fridge and the distant pitter of morning drizzle brushing against the glass roof overhead.

Izan stood near the counter, barefoot, hoodie loose around his shoulders.

A cup of coffee sat cooling on the island, untouched as his thumb ran slowly along the edge of the ceramic.

He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular—just letting the silence stretch.

Miranda entered softly, without her usual stomp or commentary and she had something in her hand.

Two envelopes.

She didn’t say anything at first—just approached the table and placed them down, side by side, right in front of him.

The top one had his name on it, scrawled in shaky blue ink.

The other was plain, save for a printed logo in the top left corner.

”Came in the post,” she said taking off her coat before setting it down on one of the glass stools at the island.

”Didn’t open them.”

Izan frowned slightly, glancing down.

His name was underlined twice on the first envelope, the kind of thing people did when they weren’t sure how to make words feel important enough.

He raised an eyebrow.

”What’s this?”

Miranda, who was pouring coffee turned to look at Izan again.

”I thought I said I didn’t read it. Why don’t you open it?”

And with that, she turned and left the room—no flair, no parting comment.

Izan looked back at the envelopes.

The handwriting on the first was messy and uneven.

Like it had been written with too much effort and not enough time.

He didn’t recognize it—not immediately.

It didn’t look like a fan letter or a formal request.

It just looked... personal.

The paper was folded three times—creased unevenly, with smudges on the edges like it had been held for too long by small fingers.

He set his hand on the corner, slid it towards himself and then tore the flap with his thumb and began unfolding it slowly, expecting... he didn’t know.

A fan note or another kid asking for tickets?

He began to read but the first line stopped him.

Hi Izan. I hope you remember me. I’m Leo—the one in the Spider-Man socks.

His breath caught.

Spider-Man socks.

The boy from the hospital.

The one who called him out for not smiling enough during the Back to Roots visit.

The one who said, ”You look better in person, but you still look like you need sleep.”

He remembered, too clearly so he kept reading.

[ Mum cried yesterday. The happy kind.

The kind where she doesn’t want me to see, so she turns away and wipes her face with her sleeve and then says she’s just tired.

But I know she’s not tired. She was crying because the doctor said something crazy.

They said someone matched. That there’s a donor. A real one. For me. ]

Izan’s hands went still.

His eyes scanned the next line twice, just to be sure because he knew who that person was or might be.

[ They didn’t say who. But Mum said maybe it was a miracle.

After everything, someone out there had the right thing in their blood that matched mine like a key.

I don’t know what that means exactly.

I just know it means I might live now.

I’ve never written a letter like this before.

I asked Mum if it was okay, and she said yes.

She said if I wanted, I could say thank you.

Even if I don’t know who to thank.

So thank you. If you’re reading this, thanks for the help.

I’m not scared anymore.

I think I’m going to grow up. ]

The last sentence wasn’t signed with just his name.

It had a drawing.

A stick figure with wild hair and a football at its feet.

Below it, in slightly thicker pen:

—Leo

Izan blinked hard.

The air in the kitchen didn’t change, but it felt heavier somehow.

He set the letter down like it might fall apart in his hands.

And only then did he glance at the second envelope.

........

42 Days Earlier

—

Six Weeks Ago

The day had ended like most public relations days did: a return to silence.

The players had been allowed to leave directly from the hospital after fulfilling their tasks and Izan had taken that chance.

The car ride back from the hospital had been quiet.

But his mind hadn’t come home with him.

It was still back in that room.

With the beeping machines.

With the boy in Spider-Man socks.

He’d gone straight to his room, showered and changed and now, he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, damp hair sticking to the side of his face, the faint blue glow of his tablet screen still active on the desk behind him but he wasn’t looking at it.

He stared at the floor. At the stillness.

And then, without lifting his head, he whispered:

”Max.”

There was no sound.

No voice.

Just the sudden presence of it—like a second awareness unfolding over his own.

[System Online]

[Awaiting Query.]

His jaw tensed.

”That kid I saw today. Leo. Can I help him?”

There was a pause.

Not for processing—it never needed time.

But somehow, it felt like the system was measuring something heavier or considering options.

[ Scanning compatibility with Subject: Leo Calderon...

Cross-referencing HLA markers and current genomic integrity...]

He held his breath.

He wasn’t even sure what he was expecting but he hoped.

[ Match Found.

HLA Profile: Compatible

Genetic Risk: Negligible

Success Likelihood: 98.92%

Procedure: Bone marrow + enhanced stem compound extraction

Projected Recovery: ≤ 48 hours

Authorization: Confirmed ]

The system came back after a while and Izan slowly lifted his head.

The blue text hovered in his mind like a screen only he could see.

He had no idea what ”enhanced compound extraction” meant and he didn’t really care enough to ask.

”Why?” he asked, already knowing the answer but he still did.

[ Systemic Mutation Detected. Baseline Genome altered via enhancement protocols set by the system. HLA variability expanded. In short, You are a compatible anomaly. ]

He sat there.

Still. Quiet.

.....

[Present]

The kitchen still held the weight of the first letter—Leo’s words sitting on the table like they had mass, like they’d changed the shape of the room.

Izan stared at them a moment longer.

At the last sentence.

”I think I’m going to grow up.”

He swallowed once, slowly, then shifted his attention to the second envelope.

It was cleaner, whiter and sealed tighter.

It had the logo from the hospital—the one he’d visited that day in December.

He picked it up and slit it open with his thumb, faster this time.

Inside was a formal sheet of paper, crisp and medical and very much not written by a nine-year-old.

He skimmed the opening line.

Then read it again.

[ Dear Mr. Hernandez,

We are writing on behalf of the Royal Children’s Medical Genetics Unit to formally confirm the successful compatibility match for patient Leo Calderon, following your voluntary screening and registration.

He blinked, but his eyes didn’t leave the page.

This case was previously considered ”unmatchable” due to the unique nature of the patient’s HLA markers.

Despite an extensive international search, no global registry yielded results over the past couple of years—until your direct submission.

We understand the circumstances of your medical file are atypical, but our department would like to note the exceptional nature of this match.

You have not only provided resources and funding through your foundation but unknowingly offered the solution itself. ]

Miranda’s voice broke the still silence startling Izan who rarely ever did.

”I spoke with the hospital director yesterday,” she said from the archway.

”They still can’t figure out how the match was so precise. They’re calling it divine. One of the doctors literally said that. Divine.”

Izan didn’t say anything.

Just folded the letter cleanly and rested both hands flat on the table.

A beat passed.

Then, finally, he smiled.

His hand slid into his pocket, pulling out his phone with practised ease as the screen lit up.

Notifications.

IZAN HAT TRICK

IZAN DESTROYS FORMER CLUB IN VALENCIA MASTERCLASS

WHY IZAN ISN’T HUMAN—AND NEVER WAS

He scrolled past all of them.

Opened his contacts and tapped Carlos Cuesta as the line rang twice.

Carlos answered like he always did—half alert, half amused.

”You good?”

”Yeah. Just calling to say I’ll be late today.”

”You? Late?”

On the other end, Carlos’s voice faded slightly, muffled.

Then came the faint background sound of some slight chatter.

”One sec—Arteta’s right here.”

A shuffle, then the voice changed.

”Izan?”

”Hi, míster.”

”What’s going on?”

”Nothing’s wrong,” Izan said quickly.

”I just... won’t make the morning session.”

”That’s not like you.”

Izan stared at the table.

”I need a few hours. Just to... do something important.”

Arteta exhaled softly on the line.

”It’s okay. Take the day if it is that important.”

”I—”

”No arguing,” the coach said. ”Just reset. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

”Gracias, míster,” Izan said after a while before ending the call.

The screen dimmed and he set the phone down next to the letters, exhaled once through his nose, and leaned back in the chair, spine curling into it.

A/N: First of the day. Sorry for the late update. Hope we can get back into schedule by the end of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the last of the day.