God Of football

Chapter 629: Road To Munich

[The Day after]

The stairs creaked once as Izan descended barefoot, hoodie loose over his frame, one hand sliding lazily down the glass balustrade.

It had been almost 14 hours after the match, but that didn’t stop his phone from blitzing with notifications like it wanted to get out.

In the quiet of his room, he’d taken a single breath before calling up the system with a whisper of will.

A vial materialised from thin air—sleek, clear, humming slightly with that same strange presence only he could feel as he took out his conditioning fluid.

He downed it without a sound as the warmth spread instantly, tight through his spine, his limbs, a chemical reassurance that bought him a few more hours of not looking breakable.

And now, barefoot with eyelids low, he stepped into the heart of the house.

The kitchen buzzed with small life.

Komi and Miranda sat at the island, coffee in hand, with the other two girls barely dressed to begin their Sunday.

”Morning,” Izan said as he passed behind them, heading to the fridge.

”Afternoon,” Komi corrected, eyes flicking to the clock.

Olivia smirked.

”You look rosy this morning. Did you sleep well?”

”I had a dream of winning the league with Arsenal,” Izan replied, grabbing a bottle of cold water.

”But barely. I hope that’s not the same in real life.”

He settled into the corner of the island, elbow on the marble, and let the sounds wash over him—distant birds outside, soft clink of cutlery, the hum of the kettle.

Then Miranda cleared her throat.

”Izan.”

He looked up.

”I know things are... dense right now. Between donation prep, match rotation, media watching your every blink—”

”—And online detectives saying he’s pale because he’s secretly a vampire,” Hori added helpfully.

Miranda ignored her.

”But there’ve been a few opportunities. Good ones.”

Izan didn’t speak, but his gaze stayed steady.

”Two branding campaigns and one modelling offer. One’s a boots advertisement with Adidas. The other—creative. Storytelling-based. Global reach.”

Komi arched a brow. ”Now?”

”No,” Miranda said immediately.

”I paused everything. Told them you weren’t available for press runs or shortlists until further notice.”

Izan blinked once, slowly.

”You paused?”

”I did.”

She sipped her tea.

”But I still wanted you to know they came. Because even if you’re not at your best, they see you. So we will wait till after the donation. I just wanted to keep you in the mix.”

Izan exhaled quietly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

”Thanks,” he said, after a beat.

”For handling it.”

Miranda nodded with a smile.

”Let me know when you’re ready to look at them again. Or if you ever want me to say no before they even ask.”

”I trust you,” he said.

The table quieted again.

Then Hori raised a hand.

”Can I do the boot ad if he’s not interested?”

”No,” came three voices at once.

Hori grumbled into her yoghurt again while Olivia giggled, flipping her spoon at her.

”We should go somewhere,” Izan said, tilting the empty juice glass in hand before setting it down.

Everyone looked up.

”Go where?” Komi asked, fork paused halfway to her mouth, before resuming her action.

”Anywhere that’s not training, press, or physio,” Izan said.

”Just out. For a bit.”

Miranda gave him a measured glance from behind her mug.

”You mean today?”

”Maybe.” He leaned forward.

”It’s still early in the day”, he muttered, pointing at the clock on the island.

Hori was already frowning.

”So, no plan? You just woke up and decided we should all go somewhere because the vibes said so?”

Izan shrugged. ”Kind of.”

Olivia leaned forward, arms folded across the table.

”What kind of ’somewhere’? Road trip? Hidden café? Abandoned airfield with go-karts?”

”Honestly? Don’t care.” He looked at her before recalling something.

”Weren’t your parents supposed to come today?”

She blinked.

”Oh. Yeah, no—they’re not anymore. The wedding got moved.”

”Moved?” Komi asked.

”To Bali,” Olivia said.

”Long story. Something about the bride’s brother living there and the venue being cheaper than London.”

”Cheaper than London?” Komi sat back.

”I need to vacation somewhere where weddings are too.”

”You and me both,” Miranda muttered.

”But you’re the one who works twelve hours a day,” Hori said.

”Where would you find the time?”

”Peace,” Olivia called, waving her spoon like a flag.

”Izan’s the one who suggested something for once. Should we actually consider it?”

Miranda looked at Izan carefully. ”You feeling okay?”

He hesitated. ”Enough.”

”Well, let’s get dressed then,” Komi said, as the others followed suit.

”Why do I feel like I won’t like what I suggested?” Izan muttered as he got up and followed Olivia.

.......

The CBS Sports studio, as always, glowed in the soft blue wash of LED lights, the desk gleaming under the halo of the overhead rigs.

Behind it, the massive touchscreen panel cycled through graphics—scores, highlights, and slow-motion replays—all with the kind of cinematic polish that suggested something important had just happened.

Because it had.

Micah Richards was the first to speak as the camera slowly panned toward the panel.

His grin wide, and his voice bubbling with a mix of disbelief and excitement.

”I mean, who had Club Brugge sending Atalanta home? Five–two on aggregate? That’s not a scrap—it’s a statement.”

”Yeah, but that’s exactly what this format invites now, isn’t it?” Jamie Carragher cut in, leaning forward on his elbows.

”No home comfort in a second leg. You don’t show up on both nights, you’re gone. It’s brutal—but I love it.”

Kate Abdo, seated between them, nodded as the screen flipped to PSG’s demolition job over Brest.

Ten–nil.

”PSG certainly didn’t need both legs,” she said, tilting her head slightly.

”That wasn’t a playoff—that was a parade.”

Henry chuckled under his breath, folding his arms.

”Enrique’s men looked like they were playing a testimonial,” he said.

”But it’s the Brugge one I keep coming back to. That was football with purpose. High press. Composure. Atalanta didn’t even look bad—they just got outworked.”

Micah raised a brow.

”And don’t forget Juventus. PSV snatching it 4–3 over two legs? That second leg in Eindhoven was madness. Goal in the 98th. Juve were booking hotels for the next round before the shot even left his foot.”

”Classic PSV, though,” Kate added.

”Backs against the wall, the crowd roaring, then bang—one moment and they’re through. But Milan?” She shook her head.

”Don’t start,” Henry warned, lips twitching.

”AC Milan,” she repeated.

”One goal across two legs. Feyenoord shut them down like they’d studied every Rossoneri touch from the last two months.”

Jamie nodded grimly.

”It was calculated. And it worked. Milan looked toothless. You’d think they were the away team both nights.”

The screen cycled through again—Real Madrid flashing up next, their 6–3 triumph over Manchester City emblazoned in gold text.

”They didn’t just beat them,” Jamie muttered. ”They humbled them.”

Micah whistled. ”You can talk about tactics and rotations all day, but when Madrid smell blood in Europe...”

”They feast, and Mbappe was on top that game.” Henry finished.

”So City,?” Kate asked, glancing around. ”What now for them?”

”They focus on finding a good place in the league because the title fight is between Arsenal and Liverpool,” Micah said with a shrug, but not without sympathy.

As if sensing the conversation’s pivot, the screen shifted again.

The newly drawn Round of 16 bracket appeared, bold and balanced, one fixture falling into place at a time.

PSV Eindhoven vs Arsenal.

Paris Saint-Germain vs Liverpool.

Real Madrid vs Atlético Madrid.

Bayern Munich vs Bayer Leverkusen.

Benfica vs Barcelona.

Borussia Dortmund vs Lille.

Club Brugge vs Aston Villa.

Feyenoord vs Inter Milan.

A beat of silence passed as the panel took it in.

Kate was the first to speak.

”This is... fresh. Look at these matchups. You’ve got PSV facing an Arsenal team chasing their peak. Liverpool having to go through Paris. And Real–Atleti? That’s not a tie. That’s a war.”

”Madrid will love it,” Henry said.

”But don’t count out Atleti. Simeone thrives on making things ugly. And if anyone knows how to frustrate Real in Europe, it’s him.”

Micah grinned.

”But I’m looking at Brugge. No one’s talking about them, and they’ve got Villa now. That’s two high-energy teams who press hard and punish mistakes.”

”Leverkusen–Bayern too,” Jamie pointed out.

”That’s a domestic grudge match in a continental arena. Kompany’s under pressure. If Alonso gets through that, people are going to be asking serious questions.”

Kate turned back to the panel, a knowing look in her eye.

”And what about Arsenal?”

Micah exhaled through his teeth.

”Izan’s sitting on 15 goals in the UCL already. 2 goals more from equalising Ronaldo’s 17-goal record, and I think history will be made. And if PSV thought Juventus were hard... they’re not ready for that boy.”

”Assuming he’s fit,” Henry added carefully.

”The way he came off against Leicester and then not even starting both games against Newcastle and then West Ham—”

”Yeah, but that free kick,” Jamie cut in.

”You don’t curl one like that if your legs are cooked. That was madness.”

Kate smiled as the lights subtly dimmed to let the bracket shine.

”Champions League Round of 16,” she said, voice low, reverent.

”New format. New drama. No safety nets. It’s all to fight for on the road to Munich”

And with the screen freezing on the matchups, the session ended.

A/N: One for the day. Thanks for reading.