God Of football

Chapter 981: Second Coming.

Selene opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, Henry stepped in before a word left her.

”We requested Selene again,” he said, voice smooth, measured, the kind that filled rooms without trying.

”Because tonight won’t be ordinary and we will need unordinary hands to capture what isn’t ordinary.”

Izan nodded once as he turned his head toward Selene anyway.

She was smirking now subtly with one leg tucked under the other on the couch.

He looked at her for a second longer than needed, then said, dry as ever, ”Can she be changed?”

Just as he finished, a pillow came fast, and it clipped him on the shoulder, then slid down his arm before hitting the floor.

Selene leaned forward, elbows on her knees, amused.

”You’re lucky I need these arms for work”, she said. ”Otherwise I’d aim better.”

Izan bent to pick the pillow up, tossed it back onto the couch without ceremony, and moved away from her reach this time while Henry watched the exchange with something close to excitement.

”I’ve also been told you haven’t rested much,” Henry continued, eyes shifting toward Miranda, who had her head in her hand and was rolling her head on her neck like she was trying to get something to pop.

”We’re fine,” she said, to which Henry hummed, unconvinced, then lifted a hand and gestured toward the door.

”Well, let’s not waste anymore time,” he said before gesturing towards another set of staff.

”Bring it in.”

The staffers nodded before taking a path towards the backroom, and a minute later, two members of staff wheeled the piece through carefully, as if noise alone could damage it.

The garment bag was matte black, structured, immaculate, with no identifiable logo, as they stopped in the centre of the room.

Henry reached forward and unzipped it himself, and the moment he got the suit out, it seemed to absorb the light in the room.

A deep, near-black midnight blue, cut with precision so sharp it almost felt unfair to call it fabric.

The jacket was single-breasted, narrow through the waist, with a long, clean line that stretched the body taller.

The shoulders were soft, not padded, allowing posture to do the work, and for the person wearing the piece, posture was the least of their worries.

The lapels were slim and slightly curved, finished in a satin so dark it only revealed itself when the light caught it just right.

On the other hand, the trousers were tailored like an extension of the human body, and they sat as if they belonged to the body that would wear them, not the hanger.

Underneath, instead of a shirt, was a silk top the same tone as the suit but lighter by a shade, collarless, fluid, and that was it.

No tie or anything more.

Izan stepped forward, eyes gleaming as he just stood there, eyes tracing the lines, and his head tilting slightly as if the piece might speak if he listened hard enough.

Then his fingers brushed the sleeve, like he was caressing a baby.

His hand flattened against the fabric, thumb pressing lightly while feeling the weight give in.

He rubbed the material between his fingers, then laughed under his breath.

”I’ve got goosebumps,” he said, glancing down at his arm like he needed proof.

”I don’t think this should be worn,” he said with a genuine smile before turning to face the piece again.

The designers, who were now present in the room, smiled as those words came out of the mouth of the former.

There were three of them, all top of the crop at Saint Laurent, who had been made to work on that piece, and now, seeing the reaction of the person they had made it for, it all felt worth it.

One stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back.

”We are glad you like it.”

Henry said nothing and just watched Izan instead, as the boy stood in front of the suit like it was an artefact rather than clothing.

”That settles it,” Henry said eventually, stepping back into the centre of the room.

”If that’s how you feel, then we can assume this is what you’ll attend the ceremony in.”

The room went a bit silent as Izan nodded idly before a moment later, Selene stood.

”I need to prep,” she said simply, already reaching for her phone.

She moved toward the door, and the designers followed almost instinctively with questions forming before they spoke and requests hanging on their faces.

While the room thinned out quickly, Izan stayed where he was.

He looked at the suit again and then turned toward Henry to give the latter a small nod.

Henry did not miss it and returned it as Miranda closed her tablet and stepped beside Izan, eyes lingering on the suit for one last moment.

”You’ve outdone yourselves,” she said to Henry, with a somewhat grateful look before she turned and walked out.

Izan followed, casting one last look over his shoulder before the door closed behind them.

By mid-afternoon, it felt like France, together with the whole world, had agreed on one thing.

That nothing else mattered than what was going to take place at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris,

Televisions were left on in cafés even when no one was watching them directly.

And that was because France Football had started releasing the list.

Slowly and deliberately as they always did.

Thirty.

”Michael Olise.”

The name landed gently, though there was always going to be some sets of fans who thought that, with the season their player had, he should have been way higher up.

Twenty-nine followed not long after in the person of ”Florian Wirtz.”

And in the Twenty-eighth position was ”Virgil van Dijk.”

”This is low for the best defender in the world ,” a man in a pub in Aigburth said as the graphic with Van Dijk’s face flashed across the screen from the news station they were tuned in to.

By the time Desire Doue, at twenty-seven, and Erling Haaland, at twenty-six, were announced, the tone shifted a bit.

Haaland that low pulled reactions like loose threads.

”That’s harsh,” someone muttered in a living room where four people sat too close to one screen.

”I know they didn’t have the best of seasons, but come on.”

Fabian Ruiz at twenty-five barely registered, while Jude Bellingham at twenty-four did the opposite.

”No way,” a teenager said, phone already out, thumbs flying. ”They’re doing this on purpose. He was literally 4th the previous year. What are they saying?”

Alexis Mac Allister at twenty-three felt right to some, while to others, it felt too high, or they just didn’t expect him to be in the ranking.

Guirassy at twenty-two got a small round of applause somewhere, especially for someone who was finally getting a bit of his flowers, while Lautaro Martinez at twenty-one sparked a debate that never quite finished.

By the time João Neves at twenty, McTominay at nineteen, and Lewandowski at eighteen rolled by, the pace picked up.

The list was thinning, and so was patience.

But then Vinícius Jr at seventeen stopped rooms.

Clips resurfaced instantly, especially screenshots of his old quotes dragged out of the past year’s archives.

Someone tweeted, ”He said he’d do it ten times better. Somehow did it eight times worse.”

The replies were ruthless.

Gyökeres at sixteen felt out of place, and Declan Rice at fifteen was met with raised brows.

”Ok, for how pivotal he was to Arsenal’s triumph, I think this is a bit low.”

The next two didn’t really garner as much talk as the previous ones, like Viniciu Jnr’s, as Kane placed Fourteenth and Kvaratskhelia at thirteen.

But then Pedri, at twelve, broke something.

A Barça fan outside a café shook his head slowly, hands in his pockets.

”Top ten,” he said. ”Every time. I don’t care. We made the finals for the first time in a whole lot of years, and you are telling me a player as pivotal as Pedri doesn’t even break into the top 10. Who the fuck is in the top 10?”

And when Nuno Mendes appeared at eleven, that broke the camel’s back for the culers, who still felt like their players were being treated harshly, wondering how Nuno Mendes, in a PSG side that had crashed out in the semi-finals, was placed higher than Pedri.

But that was all they could talk about because that was that for the moment.

The top ten names would still sit untouched until the big reveal when the ceremony began.

Outside the venue, reporters worked the line.

”Who do you think takes it?” one asked a very famous sports blogger.

The latter smiled carefully, then looked at the reporter with a knowing smile.

”Feels decided already, doesn’t it?”

The reporter smiled knowingly while on the side, another colleague stopped a former player, grey at the temples, coat pulled tight.

”Any surprises so far?”

He glanced at his phone, then back up.

”Surprises? But we all have ideas about who should have been where. Personally, I am not okay, but I will take it as it is. I am just waiting for what goes on inside.”