God Of football

Late Morning – Izan's Apartment

The hum of the shower faded as Izan turned the handle down. He ran his hands through his hair, almost like he was washing away the debris of the previous night's match.

Steam clung to the mirror as Izan ran a towel through his damp hair, eyes still heavy with sleep.

The plate Olivia left was waiting for him, still covered, still warm.

He sat down at the small counter, phone in hand, scrolling absently as he took slow bites of toast and egg, and it was just enough to reset his body.

The messages hadn't stopped. It never did when he kept dropping bangers after bangers and somehow finding himself staying relevant even if he wasn't in the public view.

Unread notifications stacked like bricks—group chats buzzing, media tags piling up, hundreds of unread DMs from numbers he didn't even recognize.

Then, a ping.

A direct message from Saka.

Saka:

"Bro, check this out."

[YouTube link]

Izan tapped it.

The video opened mid-sentence: three men on a studio set, energy high, tension simmering just under the surface.

"…I'm telling you right now," one of them was saying, leaning forward.

"If we're being real, truly real, Izan should win it. You don't do what he's done at sixteen without getting recognized. Forget Pele, you just know Izan's winning the World Cup with Spain in the next world."

The second shook his head.

"Naa, bro, I still think it's too soon. It's still Rodri's year. Or Vini's. Don't let recency bias fool you."

The first guy laughed.

"Recency bias? You should be glad this kid didn't come earlier, or else he would have been winning everything. This kid carried a relegation-battling Valencia to Champions League qualification since 2019.

He broke the Euros, tying Platini's record, and was named the best player of the tournament. You give the Ballon d'Or to the best season. Period."

Izan let it play for a few seconds, chewing absently.

The noise was distant. Almost funny.

Then he scrolled down.

Comments.

Thousands of them.

@CitizenKing: "Rodri's been elite for three seasons. Give the man his respect."

@Gunners4Life: "Izan. All day. All night. Stop overthinking it. If he doesn't get it, I don't even know what I'll do."

@BarcaBoi17: "Lamine was the real star of the Euros. Don't rewrite history just because Izan scored goals."

@WNReadersViewpoint: "Bro is SIXTEEN and dragging world-class defenses. Y'all don't get it, do you? It's like he's endlessly leveling up every time he plays."

The latter comment caught Izan's attention, causing him to chuckle at the comment.

"WN reader, huh?"

@Tyler Saylor: "Watch the Shakhtar game again and tell me he's not the best player on Earth right now."

He kept reading, expression unreadable—a mix of curiosity, amusement, maybe even a little detachment.

Everyone had an opinion.

Some spoke like they knew him.

Others like he was an idea.

Just as he was about to scroll again—

His phone rang.

Hori

He smiled the moment her name popped up. Answered on speaker.

"Oi, genius," came her voice, light and teasing.

"Are you alive?"

"Barely."

She laughed. "Listen, two weeks till my grade school finals. And guess what—next year, high school."

"Yeah?" he said, stretching a little, voice still groggy.

"Yeah. So start thinking about those plane tickets. Mom and I are coming to London. Don't dodge. I want to reclaim my throne by your side. Tell Olivia to get ready because I'm coming in hot!"

Izan chuckled, soft and genuine. "Of course. First class for the two queens."

"Good answer," she said. "Oh, and congrats on last night. I watched the whole thing. Even Mom stayed up. She screamed louder than I did."

He grinned, eyes falling back to the comments still flying across the screen.

"Thanks," he said. "Tell her I'll call tonight."

"You better."

The call ended.

The apartment fell quiet again, save for the low volume of the still-playing debate video.

Izan pushed the plate away, leaned back in his chair, and let the moment breathe.

He stood up next, stretched, and took the plate and fork to the sink.

The water hissed on as he rolled up his sleeves, fingers still warm from the last bites of toast Olivia had left him.

As he began rinsing the dishes, his phone buzzed again—the screen lighting up on the counter.

Miranda: "Last Houses"

Attachment: PDF catalog

He frowned lightly, wiping a hand on a towel before unlocking the screen.

A sleek digital catalog opened, crisp, polished images of modern, high-end homes.

Clean architecture. Sunlight slicing across marble countertops.

Glass walls with pool views.

Under the title: "LAST HOUSES – Exclusive End-of-Season Availability."

He swiped through a few pages, eyes scanning the images without urgency.

Then he locked the phone again and made a quiet mental note.

Later.

The water kept running.

He finished the dishes, wiped down the counter.

Another buzz.

This time, it was a call.

Miranda.

He picked up on speaker, drying his hands with a dish towel.

"Hey."

"Morning, superstar," came Miranda's voice, bright and businesslike.

"How's the ego? Still fits in the apartment?"

"Barely," Izan said, dry.

She laughed. "Good. Means it's working."

He leaned back against the counter.

"So what's up?"

"Well," she said, shifting into the voice she used when things were moving fast, "the Ballon d'Or talk? It's doing us a lot of good. Social numbers are up. Interview requests and just the spotlight on you in general. Everyone wants a piece right now. Which brings me to the fun part."

She paused.

"I met a brand I had been talking with for a while last night. One that rarely touches football. High profile, global scale. They want to partner. Big campaign, crossover kind of deal."

Izan raised an eyebrow. "And you talked to them?"

"Right after the match. I made sure they understood what kind of moment you just had. Now they just want to finalize a few things before meeting you officially."

He walked slowly to the window, leaning a shoulder against the frame, his voice curious now.

"Who is it?"

Miranda grinned through the line, piquing his interest further.

"Nice try."

He smirked. "C'mon."

"Nope. It's going to be a surprise."

Izan gave a long sigh. "When?"

"Your birthday," she said.

"Come on, Mira, that's a month away," Izan said in a depressing tone.

"I know, right. This gives me 32 days to pretend I'm not dying to tell you."

He chuckled, soft and real.

"Fine."

"Good. You are doing great Izan. Just handle the pitch and I will handle the pitch. See what I did there. Pitch is where you play and pitching you as a brand-, okay I'll stop" Miranda ending after seeing that her joke was going nowhere.

But as soon as the call ended, Izan broke into a fit of laughter, causing a few tears to swell in his eyes.

............

Paris – Ballon d'Or Committee Headquarters

The room was quiet, save for the rustling of papers and the occasional clink of a coffee cup.

Framed photographs of past winners lined the walls—faces frozen in triumph, golden spheres cradled in their arms.

Twelve judges sat around a polished oak table.

A large screen behind them displayed the ten-man shortlist.

Rodri. Vini. Izan. Jude. Mbappé. Kroos. Carvajal. Lautaro. Lamine. Kane.

An older man in a grey suit leaned forward.

Henri Valois, the longest-serving panelist, voice deep and steady.

"Rodri was flawless. Controlled every match like a conductor. That kind of season deserves recognition."

A woman beside him, Marie Fontaine from Le Monde, nodded.

"Agreed. But there's also the weight of moments. Vini had them. The Champions League final and the La Liga title run."

"What about Jude?" another person asked. "He was the top scorer for Real Madrid and showed up in big moments in the Euros. Remember that bicycle."

This view made the other panelists nod.

"Mbappé scored thirty-eight goals," someone else added.

"Golden boot in Ligue 1. Another league title."

"But no Champions League, no Euros. He scored just one goal in the entirety of the torunament and that came from a spotkick," countered Jakob Neumann from Germany's Kicker.

"This year punished flat-track brilliance."

A pause.

Then another judge, younger, leaned in.

"We're circling names, but we haven't addressed the elephant in the room."

All eyes turned.

"Izan."

Someone exhaled, like the name had broken protocol.

"He's sixteen," Henri said dryly.

"There's a reason no player that age has even come close to this award."

"And yet here he is," the younger judge replied, tapping the screen where Izan's name was third in bookmaker odds.

"Top scorer in the Euros by tying Platini's record and in Pichi Pichi winner with 30 goals. First Copa Del Rey win with Valencia in years. Carried a down-and-out Valencia to a UCL spot. Match-winner in the Euro Final. No one else on this list had a moment that defined the season like he did."

A beat.

Marie spoke again, softer this time.

"The fan vote is swelling. And the national journalist ballots—Spain, Japan, and the likes—they're leaning heavily toward him."

Henri frowned.

"We're not here to crown the future. We're here to reward the best season."

"Exactly," Jakob replied. "And that might be the same thing."

A silence fell over the room, each member weighing legacy against evolution.

Izan was no longer a wildcard.

He was in the argument.

A/N: What do you think happens? Let me know in the comments. Also, have fun reading, and I'll see you in a bit. This chapter is by Tyler Saylor. Thanks for the massage chair. I really felt my muscles loosening just after staring at it. Anyways, thank you all and Goodnight, or good morning or evening, depends. Bye. Also, be sure to check out my novel, Harbinger of Glor,y below, in the Author's thoughts.