God Of football

"Don't put too much pressure on it," Miranda's voice cut through the quiet thud of Izan's landing as he hopped off the stool on the kitchen island.

She set her tablet down on the counter, eyes narrowing, her tone riding the line between stern and concerned.

"You're supposed to be taking it easy, not acting like you're back and ready to train."

Izan chuckled, running a hand through his damp hair, his expression that familiar mix of playfulness and defiance.

"Come on, Mira. You'd think I tore the whole thing off the way everyone's talking. It's not as serious as Arteta's making it sound. He's always looking for an excuse to bench me for rest. I'm fine."

He leaned back against the counter, shoulders loose, as Komi continued to dish out the plates for breakfast.

From behind him, soft footsteps padded across the tiled floor as Olivia emerged, her hair still clinging wetly to her cheeks, fresh from her shower.

She looped her arms around Izan's waist from the side, rising slightly on her toes to plant a gentle peck against his cheek, where droplets of water brushed against his skin, and she pressed cool against his warmth.

"Fine?" she teased, tilting her head as she looked up at him.

"That's what you said last week, and the week before. And now look at you. Swollen ankle, and the club announcing you're sidelined."

Izan smirked at her, shaking his head. "You're all in on the propaganda, too? Unbelievable."

Olivia arched her brow in mock defiance, before reaching for the towel slung over her shoulder and dabbing at his jawline where she'd left a faint, damp mark.

"Propaganda or not, you're still not setting foot anywhere near a pitch until the doctors say so."

Across the island, Komi, who had been idly stirring a cup of tea, leaned her elbows onto the counter and studied Izan with curious eyes.

"So what are you going to do with yourself now?" she asked, her voice light but probing.

"Aside from your little trips to Colney for checkups, you suddenly have… time, and I don't think it is bad for a rest."

The room fell briefly into a comfortable quiet as Izan looked down at his bandaged ankle, flexed it gently, then shrugged.

"Honestly?" he said, his tone dipping toward seriousness for a moment.

"I'd have loved to just… do nothing. Sit, rest, switch off my brain for once. You know? Actually enjoy this break."

"That would be ideal," Miranda replied dryly, flicking through her tablet as though she already knew the answer wasn't so simple.

"But don't forget, you've got a few commitments we still haven't closed off. Interviews, a sponsor shoot that was rescheduled, and a community event Arsenal promised you for. Even injured, your calendar isn't exactly empty."

She gave him a pointed look, one Izan had seen more times than he could count whenever he tried to wriggle out of obligations.

Izan sighed, dragging a hand down his face before breaking into a grin.

"So basically, injured or not, I'm still on the clock."

"Exactly." Miranda didn't even look up, though there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Well then," Izan said, leaning forward on the counter, his smirk turning mischievous as his eyes flicked between the three women.

"After I finish with all those projects, I suddenly have time for, we should go out. Have some fun. You know—just disappear for a while. A trip, dinner, whatever. Something away from all this football noise for once."

Olivia tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curving upward in a knowing smile.

"You suggesting a proper date? Because I'll hold you to that."

"More than a date," Izan shot back, his voice carrying the playful bravado that had carried him through entire seasons.

"I'm talking about a full escape plan, and this time let's not leave Hori at home when we go because the last time didn't go so well."

Komi gave a small laugh, shaking her head.

"Let's see if you can actually sit still long enough to make that happen."

"Watch me," Izan said, crossing his arms with exaggerated confidence, though the sparkle in his eye betrayed that even he wasn't sure if he believed it.

Outside, the spring sun filtered through the curtains, spilling soft light across the kitchen, as though to underline that even in the middle of setbacks and headlines, life in this house carried on—messy, teasing, and very much alive.

.........

A couple of days later, the Emirates roared as the two teams emerged from the tunnel, red and white on one side, claret and blue on the other.

The Premier League anthem thumped through the sound system, but the buzz in the crowd had a slightly different edge tonight—anticipation mixed with curiosity, with a touch of unease.

Jone Savor's voice broke through on the broadcast.

"Well, here we go then. Matchday thirty-five of the Premier League season, Arsenal at home to Crystal Palace, and you'll notice straight away—there's a very familiar name missing from the team sheet. Izan Miura Hernández is not in the starting XI, not even on the bench."

Beside him, Steve Mcnunnin eaned into his mic.

"Yeah, Jone, and that's the big story tonight. Arsenal's seventeen-year-old superstar, the boy who has lit up Europe this season, isn't out there with his teammates. Instead, look at that—"

The camera cut away from the players lining up, swinging upward toward the directors' box.

There he was.

Izan, dressed simply in a white hoodie and dark jeans, sat with Olivia on one side, Komi and Hori just beside him and Miranda perched gracefully a seat away.

Izan offered a half-smile and a small wave when the big screen showed his face, the stadium reacting with a mixture of applause and groans of disappointment.

Mcnunnin chuckled.

"That just shows you how much the team's game run by him. The whole ground expected to see him out there even when he's not playing today.That is some star power and from one from one player at that."

Down on the pitch, the whistle blew and Arsenal, in front of their home fans, knocked the ball around with confidence from the start.

The absence of Izan was noticeable in the buildup—less of that direct electricity, that instant gravity whenever he touched the ball—but Bukayo Saka and Martin Ødegaard looked determined to shoulder the creative burden.

"Arsenal will still fancy this, though," Mcnunnin said as Palace pressed high. "They've got so many options. Saka, Ødegaard, Martinelli—they can all score, they can all create. But it will be interesting to see how much they miss Izan's presence between the lines.'"

The game began tightly contested. Palace, stubborn and organized, refused to give Arsenal space.

Early corners swung in by Ødegaard were dealt with by Joachim Andersen and Marc Guéhi, while Eberechi Eze's bursts forward reminded the home side that one slip at the back could be punished.

Fifteen minutes in later, Arsenal found their opening.

Ben White surged down the right, overlapping Saka, whose cutback across the box found Gabriel Jesus lurking.

The Brazilian's first shot was blocked, but the rebound fell kindly, and Jesus slammed it into the roof of the net.

"And the Emirates erupts!" Jone Savor cried. "Gabriel Jesus! It's been a frustrating few weeks for him, but he's got his goal, and Arsenal lead one-nil!"

The camera flicked again to the stands, catching Izan rising to his feet with his family, clapping calmly. while Komi leaned forward as if already urging Arsenal to push for another.

Palace, though, were not disheartened.

They grew into the game, Eze and Adam Wharton probing with clever interplay, and just before halftime, they struck back.

A loose ball in midfield was pounced on, threaded a pass into Jean-Philippe Mateta, and the striker powered a low shot past Raya.

"Palace are level!" Mcnunnin exclaimed. "And you could see that one coming. Arsenal just switched off for a moment, and bang—it's one-one!"

The second half demanded patience from Arsenal.

Palace sat deeper now, happy with their draw, while the home side probed and pressed.

Martinelli came close with a curling effort that skimmed the bar, Ødegaard forced Sam Johnstone into a sharp save, and the Emirates grew restless.

"Without Izan, Arsenal do lack that moment of magic," Jone Savor observed. "That one spark to unlock a defense. But they've still got plenty of quality here. The question is whether someone will step up."

And the answer came in the seventy-second minute after Declan Rice, controlling midfield with authority, spotted Martinelli's run darting between the lines.

A perfectly weighted through ball sliced open Palace's back four, Martinelli raced onto it, and with composure beyond his years, slotted past Johnstone.

"Martinelli!" Jone shouted. "He's been threatening all game, and finally he delivers! Arsenal back in front, two-one!"

The Emirates shook with relief, the fans chanting his name as the camera once again lingered on Izan, who this time let out a broad grin, applauding while Komi threw her hands up in celebration.

The final twenty minutes were nervy but controlled. Arsenal held the ball, starved Palace of chances, and slowed the tempo with smart possession.

Ødegaard dictated the rhythm, Rice shielded the backline, and though the visitors pushed for a late equalizer, Raya stood firm.

When the whistle blew, the Emirates exhaled as one.

"Arsenal two, Crystal Palace one," Jone Savor summarized. "A hard-fought victory, but in truth, quite comfortable in the end. No Izan tonight, but Arsenal showed they're more than just one man—they're a team with options, with resilience, and they march on in the title race."

A/N: Guys, sorry this is it for now. I have a paper in like 4 hours and I haven't gotten a wink of sleep so see you after that.