God Of football

It was now Thursday.

Champions League, Europa, and Conference League matches had wrapped up earlier that evening, and with the European spotlight dimming for a breath, the BBC Thursday Night Football panel was shifting its attention to the domestic front.

Premier League football was back—and with it came one fixture dominating every discussion thread, every back-page headline, and every studio screen:

Liverpool vs Arsenal.

The camera panned across the sleek, modern set and behind it, were the four regular pundits on the—three fresh, sharp analysts and one voice of authority seasoned by years of footballing insight.

Darren Mackie, a former midfielder turned analyst, led the discussion.

To his right was Lucia Grant, a tactician known for her crisp match breakdowns and a sharp eye for youth talent.

On the other side sat Samir Aden, the stats-heavy mind from The Athletic's analytics desk, and anchoring the end of the table was Jermaine Jenas, the sole name pundit on the panel tonight.

"Alright," Darren began, tapping the table lightly.

"With European football put to bed for the week, all eyes now turn to the Premier League—and it doesn't get much bigger than this: Arsenal, top of the table with 24 points from 8 matches, versus second-place Liverpool, right behind them on 21."

Lucia leaned in.

"It's a real test of identity for both clubs. Arsenal have looked like a machine this season—clinical, dynamic, confident. And you look at their numbers? You can't ignore it. Eight wins. Zero draws. Zero losses. A +11 goal difference."

"And their top scorer?" Samir added, swiping his tablet.

"Not Jesus. Not Saka. Not Martinelli. It's Izan. The sixteen-year-old. Nine goals, five assists in eight games. Those are ridiculous numbers. Only Haaland has scored more with his 10 goals, but Izan? He's not even a striker."

Jermaine nodded slowly. "What he's doing right now is Ballon d'Or level—let's be honest. Too bad, this season's stats can not help him in the race because the voting is based on last season; otherwise, he edges past Vini and Rodri. But if he keeps this form up? We're not talking about potential anymore. We're talking dominance."

Darren raised a brow. "And he's leading the line in the biggest fixture of the weekend."

"Absolutely," Lucia replied.

"This is where it gets real. Because Liverpool will not want to just sit behind and let Arsenal run away. If they win? They're level on points. It becomes a proper title race. If they lose or even draw…"

Samir finished the thought, already glancing at his data sheet.

"Man City's got Southampton this weekend. Weakest defensive record in the league. City's sitting on 20 points. A win takes them up to second."

"So this isn't just about bragging rights," Darren said.

"This could be about shaping the table heading into the final stretch before the winter crunch."

Lucia folded her arms.

"And Arsenal have momentum. You feel it. You see the way they press. The fluidity. The link-up between Izan, Saka, and the now injured, Ødegaard—every pass is snapping. Every touch has purpose."

Jermaine added, "And it's not just raw talent—it's the maturity. The way Izan holds his position, times his runs, and picks out passes. He doesn't play like someone who was in grade school three years ago."

"Let's not forget," Samir chimed in, "He leads the league in goal contributions. Fourteen in eight games. That's more than Haaland, who has thirteen. More than Salah. More than Son."

"And again," Darren repeated, eyebrows raised, "He's not a striker."

Lucia tapped the table. "Which is why I keep saying this—he doesn't just belong in these conversations. He's already redefining them."

Jermaine turned to her. "So let's talk Ballon d'Or then. Just quickly. Let's say—hypothetically—he doesn't win it this year."

"He won't," Samir said. "Voting's already closed. Last season counts."

"Don't be so sure, Samir,(Xyz). You never know what plot the Author is cooking right now."

"Sure. But let's say he keeps up this form into next spring. Keeps scoring. Keeps leading. What are we saying then?"

Lucia didn't hesitate. "Then the award becomes his to lose. Plain and simple."

Darren nodded. "Because at that point, it stops being about age. It becomes about results. Performances. Influence."

Jermaine leaned forward. "You know what's crazy? He doesn't even look like he's playing at his limit yet. There's still another gear that the writer keeps nerfing for continuity purposes. If he switches to that mode, like I think he will against Liverpool this weekend, then what a match we would have on our hands."

Lucia grinned. "That's what's terrifying. He's still learning."

The conversation turned back to the match specifics, but Izan's name hung in the air, lingering like the image of that breakaway goal against Shakhtar.

Liverpool vs Arsenal would be the story—but for millions watching around the world, the real headline was already clear:

How far can Izan go—and how soon will football be forced to give him everything he's earned?

.......

The click of the door unlocking brought life back into the apartment. Izan stepped in, placing the keycard on the stand beside the door.

He let out a huge sigh before walking into the living room which was lit with the afternoon sun that was streaking in through the window that Olivia had left open.

He fell into the couch, turning on the TV where they were showing the highlights of the UCL clash where Barca had thrashed Bayern 4-1.

Izan smirked, picking up his phone and then entering his chats.

Izan: Yo bro, I might need some tips on how to cook Alphonso Davies if we meet them.

Pedri: So text Lamine then. What are you texting me for?

Izan: I would, but that guy gets too loud when you inflate his already large ego.

A reply didn't come for a while until Izan was about to put his phone down.

In his chat with Pedri, the latter had sent a string of laughing emojis with a picture attached.

It showed a screenshot of their text where Izan had talked about Lamine's ego, which Pedri had sent the former.

Izan laughed at the next screenshot Pedri sent which was of Lamine struggling to even type as his texts were bit of mumbo-jumbo and a few incoherrent word.

Izan set his phone down and had just kicked off his shoes when his phone buzzed with a familiar name.

Komi

He sighed, then picked up, voice low and cautious.

"Hey, Mom."

Komi didn't waste time.

"Izan. Your sister's refusing to eat."

He rubbed his forehead.

"What now?"

"She says you promised she could watch the big matches with you. That she gets to go to the stadium with me. That you promised, Izan."

He sat down on the couch, already sensing where this was going.

"She said you already went back on it once," Komi continued.

"The Man City match? You told her no. Now it's Liverpool. You think she's just going to sit here and clap through the highlights?"

Izan shook his head, half-smiling. "She's impossible."

"She's your sister."

He exhaled, leaned back. "Fine. You can come. But you're flying back the day after the match. Her finals are in two weeks. I'm not letting her waste your genes. I got top marks finishing middle school—she better keep the bar up."

Komi laughed softly on the other end. "I'll pack the books."

He nodded. "Deal."

They hung up.

A moment later, Izan opened his contacts and dialed again.

Miranda

She picked up on the second ring.

"I was literally about to call you," she said.

"Let me guess—Komi?"

"Yup," Izan muttered.

"She said Hori's staging a hunger strike."

Miranda laughed. "Well, she's got spirit and will follow it. You should be scared."

"I am," he replied.

"They can come. But they're flying back the next day so I wanted to ask if you could book flights for them, this afternoon or at night."

"Already handled. I figured something like this would happen after you refused her last time so I got two tickets booked yesterday. Afternoon flight tomorrow."

Izan sighed, rubbing his temple.

"Thanks."

"No problem," Miranda said, her voice warm.

"You want me to tell them?"

"Please," Izan said, groaning as he stretched out on the couch.

"I just got back from training. I don't have the energy to fight Hori's war council."

"You're soft."

"Maybe. But it's only for you guys."

She chuckled, then hung up.

Izan closed his eyes for a moment but before he could doze off, the lock to the door gave out a click sound again.

"Who's ready to cook?" she roared.

...........

The clink of silverware and the low murmur of conversation filled the softly lit room.

In a corner booth, mostly out of view, two men sat across from each other—well-dressed, casual in posture, but with a precision in their tone that betrayed the ease.

One of them—older, his hair touched with grey, his cufflinks subtle but costly—stirred his espresso slowly before speaking.

"I've been thinking," he said, voice even, eyes not quite meeting his companion's.

"It's time I brought someone else under the umbrella."

A/N: Okay. Cliffhanger. Hahahahaha. The great author. Anyway, last of the day, and have fun reading. I hope this is not getting boring, and you are actually having a good read. As always, feedback is allowed and appreciated. Bye