God Of football

Chapter 894: Leverage.

Away from the side, benefitting from all that was going on was Ben Grimm, who sat at his desk, staring at the monitor as the same article refreshed again and again.

The bold headline hadn’t changed, and neither had the ache behind his eyes.

”Nike’s record-breaking offer to Izan Hernandez leaked — unprecedented terms shock the market.”

The words felt like a punch every time he read them.

He leaned back, jaw tight, tapping his pen against the desk.

”Who the hell leaked this?” he muttered under his breath.

His office was quiet, just the soft hum of the city below.

The timing was too perfect, too deliberate.

Only a handful of people had seen the full contract draft, and Nike’s internal servers were secure.

It had to come from outside, and the only outside contact who had come into contact with the contract was Izan.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard through his nose.

His mind sifted through the names again, but he just kept circling back to Izan and the agent behind him.

Miranda.

That woman was sharp, calculated, and exactly the kind of person who’d pull a move like this if it served her client.

He’d underestimated her once, assuming she was just another overprotective agent, but that had been a mistake.

While in his thoughts, Ben’s phone buzzed across the table.

The caller ID made his stomach drop, and he hesitated a second before answering.

”Ben,” came the calm, clipped voice from the other end.

One of the high Nike executives, high enough that his words could end careers, came through.

”We’ve seen the leak. Not ideal, but we can still use it. You have everything you need. Get this deal done within the parameters you were given. No more delays, no excuses.”

Ben swallowed. ”Understood.”

The line clicked dead before he could say another word.

He set the phone down slowly, staring at it like it might offer some sort of explanation.

”Great,” he muttered to himself. ”So now it’s all on me.”

He leaned forward again, elbows on the desk, and let out a low, bitter laugh.

”They never wanted to sign with us,” he said quietly.

”Not really. It’s leverage. That’s all it’s ever been.”

He could almost picture Miranda smirking as the headlines spread, as well as Adidas scrambling behind the scenes to contain and rethink what they want to use to keep Izan.

”They’re playing both sides.”

He sank deeper into his chair, his jaw tightening again.

”Either it’s her... or both of them.”

His voice came out low and certain this time.

”Miranda and Izan. They never wanted Nike. They just wanted a bigger number when Adidas comes crawling back.”

He stared at the glowing city lights outside his window, the frustration simmering into something colder.

”Fine,” he muttered. ”Let’s see how long they can keep playing that game.”

The next morning, sunlight spilt across the living room of the Hernandez house in Hampstead, bright and sharp against the polished floor.

Izan sat on the couch, his phone pressed to his ear, one hand absently scratching Miko’s head as the dog lay curled beside him.

On the other end, Saka’s voice was loud enough to make him pull the phone back.

”Come on, bro, just one million. One. You won’t even notice it’s gone.”

Izan smiled faintly.

”You forget my mom manages my accounts.”

There was a pause, followed by Saka’s exaggerated groan.

”Oh, right. So now that the whole world knows you’re richer than most countries, what are you gonna do?”

Izan chuckled.

”Apparently, nothing. Miranda’s been getting calls all morning from people trying to sell her on ’investment opportunities.’”

Saka laughed hard at that.

”Tell her to invest in my vacation. It’s a guaranteed return. I’ll send pictures.”

”I heard there’s a season-end party soon where the owner is going to give us our bonuses,” Izan said, still smiling.

”Use that money to sponsor your vacation when you get it.”

”Fine then,” Saka sighed dramatically.

”But at least give me Komi’s number. Maybe your mom’s more generous.”

Izan didn’t even reply this time.

The call ended with a soft beep as he dropped the phone onto the couch, still smiling faintly, before looking up.

Miranda stood by the door, dressed sharply, car keys in hand.

”You ready?” she asked.

He nodded, standing up and stretching slightly before following her.

”Where are we going?” he asked as they stepped out into the crisp morning air.

”You’ll see,” she said simply, unlocking the car.

Miko barked once from the doorway, watching them leave, her tail wagging lazily as Izan glanced back once, then climbed into the car beside Miranda.

Rain streaks had dried to pale lines on the car window by the time Izan’s phone buzzed again.

He unlocked it and turned the screen toward Miranda, his brow lifting as he scrolled through the headline.

”Nike reportedly cooling interest in Izan Hernandez deal after Leaks.”

Miranda glanced from the road to the phone, a small smirk tugging at her mouth before looking back on the road.

”Well, that didn’t take long.”

Izan leaned back, the faintest grin forming as he stared at the article.

”Movies don’t lie all the time,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

”This is a classic tactic. Leak a little story, plant some doubt, let people think you’ve lost interest, so people drop their guard, and then you swoop in for the kill. He’s just trying to get Adidas nervous.”

Miranda laughed under her breath, her hand resting on the steering wheel.

”I guess they don’t lie all the time,” she said, eyes still forward.

”And Grimm’s one of those guys who’d probably watch the world burn if it gave him an edge.”

Izan chuckled softly.

”Yeah, he’s good at making people believe they’re in control, or at least he likes to think that he is.”

Miranda chuckled once more before speaking again.

”Well, the objective was never to sign with them, so we are good even if he thinks he’s in control or something. We just have to get Adidas to match the offer or do something that remotely comes close to what has been leaked in the news.”

After that, the car went silent, with Izan scrolling and Miranda focusing on getting them to where they were going, and then after a while, her hand tightened on the steering wheel as they turned into a quieter street lined with trees.

”We’re here,” she said, slowing the car as a small café came into view.

A black sedan sat parked right in front of it, tinted windows and all, like it had been waiting.

Miranda shifted the gear into park, reached into the compartment between them, and pulled out a plain black mask.

”You know how this goes,” she said, holding it out to him.

Izan looked at it, then at her.

”They’ll make me get claustrophobic,” he said dryly, shaking his head.

”Uh-huh,” Miranda replied with a faint nod that looked more like quiet resignation than agreement.

She slipped out first, scanning the street out of habit while Izan followed, adjusting his cap and sliding his phone into his pocket.

”Follow,” Miranda said as the duo made their way through an alley, then a staircase, before they got to the Cafe.

”Feeling like a spy,” Izan muttered from the back, causing Miranda to chuckle as she pushed the door open.

At the back, by the window, sat Hans Webber, Adidas’s European head of athlete partnerships and relations.

His posture was clean and deliberate, a man used to being listened to and listening to.

Beside him, a young woman, his secretary, by the look of her, scrolled through a tablet, occasionally glancing toward the door as if checking off a mental clock.

Miranda met Hans’s gaze first as he smiled, rose halfway from his seat, and gestured for them to come over.

Miranda glanced around, setting her bag beside her chair before shaking her head with a small grin.

”The locations get weirder and weirder every time we meet,” she said, amusement lacing her voice.

Webber let out a hearty laugh, leaning back in his chair.

”Yes, but you being able to find it each time is weirder,” he replied, eyes gleaming with quiet humour.

Miranda chuckled softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

”Occupational hazard,” she said.

Webber nodded at that and then turned his attention toward Izan, studying him for a moment before saying, ”You’re not your average seventeen-year-old, are you?”

Izan met his gaze evenly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

”Adidas doesn’t sign average,” he said.

Webber nodded, smiling as if he’d expected that answer.

”Indeed. Still, I didn’t think I’d be sitting here just six months after a blockbuster signing, talking renegotiation.”

”Football moves fast,” Miranda cut in lightly, her tone calm but sure.

Webber nodded again, slower this time, understanding exactly what she meant.

”Well then, let’s get this done with, shall we?”