God Of football

"You should have seen Gavi after you scored to make it 2–1," Lamine's laughter burst through the headset, his words carrying the easy warmth of someone still amused even hours later.

The mic crackled faintly, background sounds of his Barcelona home bleeding through.

Izan leaned back in his chair, grinning at the screen.

"I'll ask him to act it out next time we're with the national team," he said, voice laced with quiet pride and amusement.

His thumbs flicked over the controller, his in-game avatar chasing down the ball with surgical precision.

From the bedroom came a soft but clear, "Babe!" Olivia's voice was slightly drawn-out, the kind of tone that told you it wasn't a casual call — she wanted him.

"That's your cue," Lamine teased without missing a beat, a grin practically audible through the headset.

"Let me check her out before we continue—" Izan began, half-laughing as he adjusted his headset, but Lamine cut him off.

"Bruh. Look at the score. I am not playing again."

Izan's eyes flicked to the top corner of the TV screen. His shoulders dropped.

4–0.

Over the mic, Lamine's voice dipped into dramatic disappointment.

"It used to be neck and neck… now you're playing like you slack off in training just so you can grind FIFA at home."

Izan laughed, shaking his head.

"Next time," he promised, pulling the headset down around his neck and setting the controller on the desk.

He padded down the short hallway from the gaming room and into the bedroom where Olivia was curled up like a lazy cat, wrapped in a blanket fortress. Chips, among other snacks and drinks, sat half-open beside her, and the towel she'd had on her forehead was tossed onto the pillow like a defeated soldier.

There was a faint flush on her cheeks, strands of hair sticking out in an unbothered mess.

"I thought you were going to take care of me after Hori went to school and Miranda and Komi left for work," she said, pretending to pout but unable to hide the small smirk tugging at her lips.

Izan sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"Alright," he said gently, "what do you want?"

Olivia turned, surveying the battlefield of snacks around her — crumpled packets, chocolate wrappers, an abandoned cup of tea — before frowning.

"No ice cream therapy in here," she muttered, almost accusing the snacks themselves of failing her.

He chuckled and rose again.

"Rest, Milady. I'll check the fridge."

Down in the kitchen, Izan tapped the smart fridge awake.

The LED display lit up in a cool blue, listing the inventory inside: milk, leftover pasta, a couple of apples, some sad-looking lettuce… but no ice cream.

"Hori…" he sighed under his breath, already suspecting the culprit.

The digital clock in the corner of the fridge's display read 3:47 PM.

Which meant Komi, Hori, and Miranda might be heading back soon.

Perfect timing.

He pulled out his phone, thumb gliding across the screen as he recorded three short but urgent voice notes — one for each of them, politely but firmly requesting ice cream.

Satisfied, he tapped the fridge screen to dim it again, letting the kitchen fall back into its warm afternoon stillness.

Back in the bedroom, Olivia's gaze immediately dropped to his hands, expecting to see the reason he had gone down, but it wasn't there.

"Where's the ice cream?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Izan's lips curved into a wry smile as he slid onto the bed beside her — not jumping in, but moving with just enough weight to make the mattress shift toward him.

"I sent the trio voice notes to pick some up on the way back."

"Komi will be the only one who actually brings it," Olivia said knowingly, the corner of her mouth lifting in a faint chuckle.

She curled closer, her blanket rustling against his arm.

"I know," Izan murmured, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her in until her head rested just under his chin.

She let out a small, content hum as he held her, and the room settled into that warm and easy quietness.

A quarter of an hour later, the front door swung open just as Hori's cheerful chatter carried through the doorway.

Komi's voice followed right behind, light but tinged with the fatigue of the day.

Then Miranda stepped in, looking every bit the businesswoman who had fought through a hundred phone calls before lunch.

She kicked off her heels with a sigh and let her bag drop onto the couch like it had personally offended her.

"You know," she began, running a hand through her hair as she walked into the living room where Izan was scrolling through something on the coffee table tablet, "a few years ago, I was complaining about how nobody called me. Now, I'm starting to regret ever asking for that kind of attention."

Izan glanced up, amused. "That bad?"

"Worse," Miranda said, flopping into an armchair.

"I swear I got more notifications in the last four hours than I used to get in a month. My phone battery is developing PTSD."

He chuckled. "At least it means you're doing something right."

"Speaking of doing things right," she said, leaning forward, "Valentino reached out. They want you for one of their upcoming showings—a big seasonal showcase in Milan. You'd be a headline presence."

Izan's brows creased almost instantly. "That's… not exactly friendly with our Saint Laurent deal, is it?"

"I thought the same," Miranda admitted, crossing one leg over the other, "but I spoke to YMH directly. If we frame it as a 'special guest' appearance and not a brand ambassador gig, it becomes more of an inter-brand cultural exchange. Think of it as… you representing Saint Laurent in someone else's house. It'd actually make you look bigger, not conflicted."

He tilted his head, mulling it over. "That's a clever workaround."

She smirked. "That's why you pay me the big bucks."

Before Izan could respond, soft footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Olivia emerged, hair slightly messy from resting, wearing one of his oversized hoodies.

She walked over without a word and let herself fall onto him, arms curling instinctively around his shoulders.

"You okay?" he murmured, holding her as Miranda raised an eyebrow in silent amusement.

Olivia made a small hum that was half acknowledgement, half I-don't-want-to-talk-about-anything, and kept her head tucked against him.

Izan shifted slightly to support her weight better, still keeping an ear on Miranda, who was already picking her phone back up to show him something.

......

"Seven–one," Peter Drury's voice carried over the stadium feed before the whistle had even been blown.

"That was the scoreline the last time these two met back on the first day of this year. A day where Arsenal, led by their young phenomenon Izan Miura Hernández, tore through Brentford — four goals from him, two assists, and a performance people still talk about months later."

The sound inside the Emirates swelled with a living pulse.

Flags rippled in the breeze, the red and white shimmering under the soft April sun.

The smell of fresh turf mixed with the faint tang of pyro smoke drifting from the North Bank, where the singing had started hours before kick-off and showed no sign of slowing.

The matchday atmosphere made the ground feel alive.

Down in the tunnel, boots tapped against the concrete floor, each echoing step growing louder.

The Brentford players stood in their white warm-up jackets, eyes fixed forward, some bouncing lightly on their heels, others stone-still.

Just behind the invisible dividing line, Arsenal's squad waited — the home strip vivid, Izan at the front, head slightly bowed, flexing his fingers as if he was the keeper rather.

Saka, deemed fit to start and back in the starting lineup after almost two months away, gave him a quick nudge to the arm before pointing out Mbuemo's shiny head, causing Izan to chuckle.

"You will get yours sooner or later," Izan said just as the referee signalled the cue.

The two lines began their slow march toward the light, where camera flashes burst as soon as the first players emerged, the low rumble of anticipation building into a roar as Arsenal stepped onto the pitch.

Izan glanced up at the Clock End, taking in the sight — thousands of scarves held high, the words of the chant rolling down like a wave.

"And Arsenal come into this," Drury continued over the noise, "fresh from a midweek win against Real Madrid — a victory that has put them one foot into the Champions League semi-final. But today, it's back to Premier League business. Seven points clear of Liverpool, still unbeaten… five games away from immortality. Win the next three, and they're champions again, unbeaten again, for the first time since that famous season almost twenty-two years ago. Back when their current talisman, Izan Miura Hernández, wasn't even born."

The teams broke into their final warm-up jogs, passing drills beginning on both halves of the pitch, and soon enough, the referee glanced down at his watch, lifted the whistle toward his lips, and the Emirates collectively inhaled.

"Kickoff", Drury called as Wissa tapped the ball backwards.

A/N: This is the last of the previous day. Sorry guys, feeling a bit drowsy, so I am going to keep off releasing the first chapter of the day for now, at least until I rest for the night, so have fun reading and I will see you in a bit, okay.