God Of football

Chapter 989: Get A Taste.

After Izan left the king’s college, it wasn’t long before the Mercedes rolled up the narrow drive toward Colney, before easing to a stop at the gate.

The security guard leaned out of his booth, already smiling after seeing who it was.

”And here I thought we might have to come and bring you back from vacation,” he said.

”How was the holiday? We missed you. Especially on matchdays.”

Izan rolled the window down halfway.

”No need to miss me that much,” he said, easy, almost dismissive. ”I’m back.”

”Yes,” the security guard said with a large grin that was impossible to fake.

”You are back!” he continued before lifting the barrier for the car to slip through.

Inside the compound, the parking lot was already half-full.

Bentleys, Lamborghinis, as well as a few understated SUVs pretending they didn’t cost six figures.

Izan pulled into a spot and cut the engine, his eyes drifting almost immediately to a red Ferrari Spider parked at an angle that made no sense.

He stared at it for a second.

”Of course,” he muttered.

”Same way he attacks the back post,” he continued as the corner of his mouth twitched.

He got out and walked around to the back door.

Inside, Miko sat with her back to him, fluffy tail pressed against the seat like it was trying to make a stand.

”Hey,” Izan said, tapping the door.

”I know. I’m sorry, but it had to be done. You were eating too much, and I do not want you looking like Garfield, especially when you are not a cat.”

The ears of the dogs perked up like it was offended, causing Izan to wonder if the dog even understood, but it still didn’t give any reaction.

Izan sighed and opened the door anyway, reaching in, patting her back.

”It had to be done,” he said again.

Miko shifted, clearly unimpressed, but didn’t fight him yet.

Izan sighed.

”You won’t always get your way, you know.”

That earned him a single bark when he scooped her up.

She wriggled, offended, limbs everywhere, but he held on until she gave up with a huff, resting against his chest as if she’d allowed it.

They hadn’t made it far into the building before voices started flying.

”There he is.”

”Oi, you just disappear like that?”

”Man went on holiday after winning the Ballon d’Or. Pretty sure I heard the mister asking if you hadn’t run off to Madrid or something.”

The cafeteria came into view, and suddenly, Izan was surrounded by the familiar faces that he hadn’t seen in a week but felt like it been a year.

Amidst the pleasantries, Miko took the moment to leap out of his arms, landing cleanly and immediately becoming the centre of attention.’

”Oh, look at her.”

”She’s bigger.”

”Is that the dog from the photo?”

Nwaneri crouched instantly, while the new addition and current youngster of the bunch, Max Dowman, followed, eyes bright, reaching out like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Miko soaked it all in, tail wagging like she owned the place.

Saka slid in beside Izan, grinning.

”So,” he said, ”you win the Ballon d’Or, vanish, and don’t even bring it in to show us?”

Izan shrugged.

”You saw it already.”

”Not like that,” Saka said. ”Up close.”

The door opened before Izan could answer.

A staff member stepped in, followed by half the media team with cameras already rolling, and right behind them was Arteta.

He spotted Izan, and the moment he did, a brief look of relief flashed across his face.

In the next moment, he crossed the room immediately, pulling him into a hug.

”How was it?” Arteta asked. ”The break.”

”Good,” Izan said as one of the media staff who was suddenly next to them cleared their throat.

”We’ve been filming the greetings,” they said like they weren’t satisfied.

”We were hoping to get the players’ reactions to the award as well.”

Right on cue, the same staff member from before appeared, carrying the dark case.

Izan didn’t wait.

He walked over, unclipped it, and opened it without much ceremony, causing the room to be a bit cagey.

Aside from the cameras that were rolling, phones of the staff and players alike all lifted, taking some pictures of the award as Izan took it in his hand and cradled it like a baby.

Saka, who had been staring at it for too long, finally recovered and then moved closer.

”I was there when you lifted it,” he said. ”But seeing it like this... makes me feel like I don’t work hard enough.”

Arteta nodded thoughtfully.

”You’re finally realising,” he said like a monk from Tibet.

”Work hard enough, and you might get one yourself.”

But the moment he finished, the room broke.

Laughter burst out from every corner as someone almost choked on the water he was drinking.

Arteta, on the other hand, looked around, genuinely confused, wondering what he had said that could cause such a reaction.

”What?” he asked, but the players continued laughing until Saka shook his head, backing away.

”How am I supposed to win one,” he said, ”when I’m playing in the same generation as him?”

He walked off laughing, leaving Arteta standing there, now finally in tune with his men and even he couldn’t help but chuckle at why they were laughing.

”Well, if he doesn’t get a year-long injury or something, it might be very hard for someone else to win, much less his own teammates,” he muttered as around the table, players took turns posing with Izan and the trophy, arms slung around shoulders while the cameras clicked nonstop.

The cameras clicked a few more times before the media team began to peel away.

A lady, who seemed to be the head, thanked Arteta for making time, but the latter just laughed and waved it off.

”I’ll get it back,” he said. ”Don’t worry about me.”

Hearing that, a few of the players rolled their eyes like they were already tired of what was to come.

Miko, now satisfied, wandered over then, unhurried, and leaned her weight against Izan’s leg like she’d always been there.

The latter, though, glanced down, then away, pretending not to notice, but Miko stayed anyway, not bothering to fuss.

Just then, Arteta clapped sharply, drawing the attention of his men.

”Those plates,” he said, pointing toward the tables.

”Don’t let the cafeteria ladies think their work went to waste.”

A few players groaned, but they moved back towards their tables while Arteta looked back at Izan.

”Have you eaten?”

Izan shook his head.

Then Arteta nodded, satisfied.

”Then get on with it.”

Izan gave a short nod in return and continued to reach for a plate as Arteta turned toward the hallway.

He was halfway through the door when his voice carried back.

”Training’s in thirty!”

The sound of his steps faded as the noise of forks scraping and low talk returned to the cafeteria.