God Of football

Chapter 749: Noises. [GT Chapter]

”Shoes, Hori,” Komi called, her voice firm but not unkind.

She was already by the kitchen island, her coat draped neatly over one arm, while Miranda, phone in one hand, car keys in the other, as she stood waiting with that sharp impatience she always carried before work.

The girl groaned from the hallway, lugging her bag as if it were twice her size.

Olivia trailed in a few seconds later, hair still slightly damp from the hair routine she had just gone through, tugging at the strap of her tote bag.

She moved to Komi’s side, stealing one last sip of juice from the counter before putting the glass down.

”You all set?” Miranda asked, checking her watch in a way that wasn’t a question but a statement of urgency.

Olivia gave a playful little salute. ”College, yes. Hori’s the one dragging her feet.”

”I’m not dragging—” Hori started, only to catch Komi’s raised eyebrow and bite her tongue, slipping her shoes on in silence.

Izan appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning against the glass railing in a plain white shirt and sweatpants, barefoot.

He stretched, arms rising high above his head, and let out a yawn that echoed faintly down.

”Morning parade looks busy,” he teased, his voice still drowsy.

Olivia looked up at him, her lips curving into a small smile.

”Some of us actually leave the house, you know.”

He grinned. ”Enjoy the commute. I’ll think of you while I’m doing yoga.”

”Yoga,” Miranda echoed, rolling her eyes as she pushed her glasses up.

”Don’t hurt yourself doing that either. We need you in one piece.”

”This is what I always talk about,” Izan muttered, pointing at Miranda before sighing.

Minutes later, the door shut behind them, Miranda at the wheel, Komi beside her with Hori wedged in the back, and Olivia scrolling through her phone as the car pulled off.

The house fell quiet, silence settling over the vast glass walls and polished floors.

Izan padded barefoot into the empty space that was being filled with gym equipment below the living room, rolled out a mat, and lowered himself onto it.

His breathing slowed as he folded into a stretch, the quiet broken only by the steady rhythm of his inhales and exhales.

For a moment, life felt suspended, just him, the warm shafts of sunlight through the opaque glass, and the calm before everything sharpened again for Paris.

When his phone buzzed, he reached lazily for it, rolling onto his back before opening the Arsenal chat group.

A video filled the screen, clips stitched together with grainy phone quality, but recognisable enough.

One of Izan, walking through Covent Garden.

Another of him holding Olivia’s hand along the riverside, and then a third of Izan, lifting her onto a bench with a black bag in hand.

The caption above it read: London’s gentleman—tagged with a wink emoji.

He smirked, thumb hovering over the keyboard before tapping back.

Stop being nosy, Bukayo.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Where’d you get that car, though? I know it is yours, Izan, don’t deny. And for anyone in the group wondering how I know, check the wing behind the car. It says HIM 10.

Izan chuckled, shifting upright.

You know, I think you found the wrong job being a footballer. That text is grainy, so how could you see it? Also, focus on Paris first. Win us that game, and Stan Kroenke or Mikel himself will buy you a car.

That drew a string of laughing emojis from half the squad.

Ethan Nwaneri chimed in: So when are you coming in, bro? Morning gym feels empty without you.

Izan leaned back, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck.

His fingers hovered again before he typed: Afternoon session. Physio says I’m off the morning stuff, just in case.

That brought a flood of exaggerated groans and dramatic gifs of players collapsing onto the floor, as well as fake crying emojis.

Man’s living the VIP treatment, Declan Rice added.

Izan shook his head, typing one last reply.

See you later.

And with that, he exited the group, letting the phone drop beside him.

A low chuckle slipped out, the sound soft in the stillness as he pushed himself up and headed for the stairs, calling back over his shoulder to no one in particular.

”Shower time.”

The house swallowed his words, leaving only the quiet again, the calm of a player held in wait before the storm of Paris.

...

[38 hours to the 2nd Leg Clash]

The cabin hummed with low conversation, the steady whir of engines beneath it all.

The Arsenal players had settled into their seats, some with headphones in, some with tablets propped against the back of the seat in front of them, and a few already leaning into idle banter.

Izan sat by the window, earphones dangling around his neck, the faint trace of a smile tugging at his lips as he stared out at the endless stretch of blue sky.

Olivia: Babe, you forgot something at home

The text from Olivia made Izan frown, proceeding to check his duffel bag, wondering if he had truly left something at home, but after checking, all things seemed to be intact.

Izan: What did I forget?

He waited for a reply, still wondering what he had left at the house.

Until the reply came.

Olivia: You forgot me, babe.

Izan’s eyes widened, chuckling at the message that had just appeared on the screen, but before he could reply, a shuffle of footsteps pulled him back from his texting with Olivia.

Ethan Nwaneri, grinning like a kid who’d just unearthed treasure, plopped down on the armrest beside him.

Without a word, he held his phone up to Izan’s face.

It was a picture of Olivia, the person he was just texting with.

Izan blinked, then narrowed his eyes.

”Seriously?” he muttered, pushing the phone away with the back of his hand. ”You’ve lost your mind.”

Ethan leaned in, unbothered. ”No, no, I’m just asking... does she have a sister?”

Izan shoved him off, not roughly but enough to send Ethan stumbling back with a laugh.

”Get lost,” Izan said, shaking his head, though the grin he fought to suppress gave him away.

Before he could even return to his own thoughts, another phone was shoved into his line of sight, this time by Myles Lewis-Skelly, who had snuck up from the row behind.

”Forget sisters, mate. Look at this.”

On the screen was a headline:Top 10 Most Likely to Win the Ballon d’Or – Foot90 & Transfermarkt Joint Rankings.

Izan frowned, half curious, half annoyed. ”You know, normal people ask before invading personal space.”

Myles ignored him, scrolling with a flourish until Izan’s own name glowed on the list.

”Here. Foot90’s got you at number one, while Transfermarkt’s got you number 2, just behind Dembele. They’re saying you nearly nicked it last year, too, the youngest in history if it wasn’t for Rodri, but you have a chance to become the youngest to do it still. Crazy, man.”

A couple of players nearby perked up at the mention, leaning over to catch a glimpse.

The buzz spread like wildfire.

”Oi, that’s mad. Imagine winning it at seventeen,” someone whispered.

Izan tried to keep his composure, but the words tugged at him.

Transfermarkt’s write-up was highlighted on the screen, almost taunting him:

’Spain’s jewel. Last season, he fell just short of becoming the youngest Ballon d’Or winner in history, edged out by his compatriot Rodri. This season, he has returned with vengeance. Carabao Cup already secured, Arsenal leading the Premier League title race, FA Cup final booked, and Champions League semi-final in reach. With 79 goals in all competitions at just 17 years old, Izan Miura Hernández is not just a prodigy — he’s a phenomenon staking his claim to football’s ultimate throne.’

Izan’s chest tightened for a second as he read, though he quickly masked it with a dry chuckle.

”They make it sound like I’ve already won everything.”

Myles grinned, tapping the line about his goal tally.

”Seventy-nine goals, mate. In your second season. Yeah, tell me if you think another person is going to win it.”

Ethan, still lingering nearby, leaned on the headrest of Izan’s seat.

”So basically, if we win Paris, win Liverpool, win City, and win whoever in Europe... yeah, we’re watching history.”

The words hung there, both playful and serious.

Izan let them sink in before finally pulling his headphones back on.

”One game at a time,” he said simply, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest smirk.

”Now let me enjoy the flight before you lot crown me king of football.”

The boys laughed, retreating to their seats as the mood in the cabin before the award talk returned.

Yet even as Izan turned back to the window, watching clouds drift lazily beneath the wings, the echo of that headline still rang in his head.

A/N: Should have released this a while ago but slept and just woke up so I had to re-edit it. Have fun reading and bye for now. Will see you in a bit with the first and last of the day.