God Of football

Perez leaned back again, alone now.

On his screen, a paused replay of Izan's third goal against Brentford glowed.

He watched the boy—still image, mid-shot, body twisted in perfect balance—and said nothing.

But his eyes, sharp and knowing, said everything else:

I don't chase talent.

I collect legacy.

And this one?

He wanted it framed in white.

........

The sun was high now, casting soft light across the meeting room table, where the Managing President sat alone with the city buzzing just beyond the glass.

The morning's energy had faded, replaced by silence and a tension that clung like humidity.

After receiving the call, he excused himself to his office, but Stan Kroenke, seeing as the former was in a meeting, asked him to call back sometime later. When his phone lit up again, he already knew who it was.

Stan Kroenke.

He answered quickly.

"Stan."

"Afternoon," came the familiar low voice.

Calm.

Even.

"Saw the footage. Fabricio's already had 35 million views on it."

"Yeah. It spread fast."

Another pause.

"You free to talk now?" Stan asked.

"Always."

The line went quiet for a moment.

Not heavy silence. J

Just calculated—as if Kroenke were giving himself space to choose his next words properly.

"I don't want to interfere," he said.

"You know that. I don't ring unless I feel I need to."

"You're not interfering," the President replied evenly.

"You're the owner."

"Well," Kroenke chuckled lightly, "some days I just feel like the guy writing the cheques. And today's one of those days."

Another pause.

"I want you to think very hard about this offer," Stan said, now serious.

"Because it's not just a football deal. It's a business threshold. They're talking about two hundred seventy million. That's not a bid—that's history. That's weight. You don't see those kinds of numbers in our world often."

"I know."

"I'm not saying we sell him," Kroenke continued.

"But I am saying we don't act emotional about this. We look at it clearly. Because when Madrid opens the door like this… it isn't an accident. It's a move. And the last thing I want is for us to pretend we're in control of a situation that might already be slipping."

The President rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I understand your point," he said slowly.

"But this isn't just any talent we're talking about. This isn't a signing we got lucky with. We didn't pluck him from a feeder club and flip him for profit. We invested in him."

"We broke the record of the most expensive signing in the Premier League, and he gave us back momentum, results, identity, and hope. You've seen what's happening here."

Kroenke didn't respond immediately.

So the President pressed on.

"He's not just any player. He's Arsenal's heartbeat right now. And more importantly, he's never once shown any interest in leaving. No flirting with Madrid. No cryptic interviews. He's here. He's committed."

Kroenke exhaled, thoughtful.

"You think selling him does damage?"

"I think it undoes everything," the President said flatly.

"The squad? They believe in him. The coaching staff? They've built a whole rhythm around his versatility. The fans? They've already attached themselves to him. Emotionally. Viscerally. And it's not just London. It's global."

"If we sell him," he continued, voice steady, "we don't just lose goals or assists—we lose trust. From the people who fill the stadium, from the people wearing the shirt, from the next kid watching from Spain or Brazil,l wondering who to follow."

Kroenke was silent again.

Then: "You think he's worth turning down a record fee for?"

The President leaned back, fingers tapping the edge of the desk.

"Let me ask you something," he said.

"If someone walked up to you tomorrow and offered a billion dollars to give up one thing—just one—that you knew could define everything you build for the next twenty years… would you take it?"

Kroenke didn't answer.

The silence said enough.

"I think football's changing," the President continued.

"You said it. Oil money's bent the scale. Most clubs bend with it. But we don't have to. Not this time."

He paused.

"We have a chance to make a statement of our own. That we don't just nurture talent, we keep it. Grow with it. Win with it. We tell the world that not everything has a price—and not everyone is for sale."

Kroenke let out a low breath.

The kind that wasn't a sigh—but a shift.

"You've convinced me," he said finally.

"But you know what that means, don't you?"

"I do."

"We're not just keeping a player," Kroenke continued. "We're keeping a star who's about to get more offers than any kid in modern football. So if we're going to hold him, we don't hold him tight. We hold him right."

"Understood."

"Get in touch with Miranda," Kroenke said.

"Talk extension. Talk image rights. Bonuses. Captaincy clauses, if you have to. We're not just keeping the dragon now."

He paused.

"We're feeding it."

The call clicked off.

And the Managing President sat there, still for a moment, relieved.

"Marcus," the managing director called to his assistant.

"Call Miranda," he said after his assistant entered, "Tell her we need to talk."

........

The front door clicked open softly, and Izan stepped in, breath still slightly heavy from his morning run.

His hoodie clung damp to the back of his neck, and his headphones hung around his collar, bouncing as he slid his shoes off near the door.

The house was still quiet.

Olivia had left early for class, and the others were out for a few things.

He liked it this way—alone in the silence after movement, with nothing but his own heartbeat and the smell of morning coffee lingering faintly in the air.

Then came the soft ping from the kitchen island.

He turned.

Miranda was on the screen, mid-call, already waiting.

Her hair was half-tied, the background behind her a blur of bookshelves and frosted windows.

But it wasn't the usual calm, calculated version of her.

She looked… irritated.

And slightly exhausted.

Izan walked over, resting his hands on the island as he caught his breath.

"Morning," he said, breath still light.

Miranda didn't even greet him.

She turned her gaze toward him like a teacher about to scold a student for something the school had done wrong.

"I swear," she muttered, dragging her chair closer to the desk.

"Florentino Perez has the emotional intelligence of a traffic cone."

Izan blinked.

"Okay. That's new."

"He's using me as a meatshield," Miranda snapped.

"You know that, right? He knew this would explode. The timing, the leak, the silence. Now I get the backlash. Because it's my face in the photo. Not his."

She jabbed at her screen, then shared it across the Zoom interface.

The news article appeared on the island's display.

BREAKING: Real Madrid prepares £270M offer for Arsenal star Izan. Exclusive photo: Agent Miranda in Madrid.

Izan leaned over slightly, scanning it without much reaction.

"Four goals and two assists," Miranda muttered.

"And instead of celebrating it, I'm playing damage control. Again."

Then she flicked to another photo—the infamous one everyone was passing around.

Miranda stepping out of a black car in Madrid.

A hand on the door.

A brief smile, and just behind her, Florentino Perez, half-shadowed in the background.

Izan squinted at it, and a half-smile tugged at his lips.

"I know that one," he said quietly.

She looked up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

"That's from when you met with him... just before I signed for Arsenal. Back when I was still at Valencia. That offer was supposed to be the big one."

Miranda leaned back in her chair, exhaling through her nose.

"He thought he had you locked then. He couldn't believe it when we turned it down."

"The Arsenal offer was better," Izan said simply.

"Yeah. Not just the deal. The fit."

Miranda's tone shifted slightly—less frustrated now, more settled.

She tilted her head, studying him for a moment.

"You're not rattled?"

"No."

"This is Real Madrid."

"I know."

"And they just offered a number that would break the sport."

Izan paused, then leaned back from the counter, arms folding.

"They didn't offer it to me."

Miranda didn't reply to that right away.

She just stared at him a little longer, eyebrows lifting slightly like she'd just remembered exactly who she was dealing with.

"Good," she finally said.

"Because this thing's about to get louder. Press. Fans. People I didn't know had my number are already trying to get statements."

"I know where I am," Izan said simply before walking upstairs.

Miranda just stared at the back of the latter before turning towards her laptop and then proceeding to continue with her work, but before she could fully get into it, her phone rang again.

"Hello,o Miss Miranda," the voice on the other end said," I'm Marcus, from the office of the managing president of Arsenal."

"Go on, Marcus," Miranda replied after the voice on the other end went silent.

"I'm listening."

A/N: Last of the day. Have fun reading, and I'll see you in a bit with the first of the day. Keep spamming the Golden tickets for your bonus chapters. Bye now.