God Of football

Chapter 331: Headlines

Henry drummed his fingers against the table. Then, he smirked. ”Alright. Fifty for four. Performance incentives. Formal exclusivity. We have a deal?”

Miranda studied him for a moment, then extended a hand.

”We have a deal, for now. I’ll read over the details once again to make sure we are not selling out to the devil. In this case you”

Henry shook it, still looking both amused and exhausted. ”Miranda, you’re a menace.”

She smirked. ”I’m just better at this than you.”

Henry turned to Izan, shaking his hand. ”Looks like we’re in business for the long run.”

Izan smirked. ”Looks like it.”

The trio talked a bit more after that before Henry left for other personal commitments.

As they left the restaurant, Izan nudged Miranda. ”That was insane.”

Miranda smirked. ”That’s how you make sure they pay you what you’re worth

The two broke out into laughter as they walked towards the Villa.

......

The sun hung lazily in the sky as Izan stepped onto the rooftop terrace, where Selene was already waiting.

She leaned against the railing, sunglasses perched on her nose, phone in hand.

A team of photographers and stylists bustled around, setting up the shoot, but Selene barely acknowledged them.

”You made them work for that contract, didn’t you?” she remarked, still scrolling.

Izan smirked. ”Miranda did.”

Selene finally looked up, pushing her sunglasses onto her head. ”Same thing.”

She nodded toward the setup—minimalist, sleek, Saint Laurent in every way.

The campaign was a summer-themed collection, but not the loud, beachwear type. It was all about effortless luxury.

”You’re getting good at this,” she said, adjusting the cuff of his open white linen shirt. ”You were good the first time but this is just next level.”

Izan chuckled. ”I had good help”

Selene gave him a look, then gestured for her crew to get ready.

She walked behind the set and took her camera before settling into her stride like the legendary photographer she was.

The shoot flowed easily. Izan had done enough of these to know how to hit the right angles, and how to make it feel natural.

But it was still exhausting—the constant wardrobe changes, the subtle shifts in pose, the long stretches of waiting.

Between takes, he leaned against a pillar, checking his phone. Another wave of notifications.

Videos of him and Lamine playing football on the beach were everywhere.

A new clip had surfaced—someone had recorded them juggling a ball mid-stride while walking through the streets, seamlessly passing it back and forth.

The comments were wild.

”How are they casually doing this like it’s nothing??”

”Ibiza is just Spain training camp at this point.”

”Izan and Lamine making the whole island look like a football ad.”

He smirked, shaking his head. Lamine was going to love this.

The last set of shots wrapped up as the sun began to dip toward the horizon. Selene handed him a bottle of water, studying him.

”You have to consider being a model when you retire?” she asked.

Izan took a sip, then shrugged. ”That’s still about 20 years early.”

Selene hummed. ”Must be nice to be famous and have all the girls in a chokehold,” she said but Izan shot back.

”Says one of the most influential names in the fashion industry. Yeah it’s nice@

They stood in silence for a moment, the wind rustling through the terrace before breaking into laughter.

Then, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and sighed. ”I have to go deal with some brand drama.” She patted his shoulder. ”Try not to cause chaos while I’m gone.”

Izan smirked. ”No promises.” his phone vibrating as he spoke.

”Yo, you done with the shoot” a voice came out after he picked up the phone.

⸻

Lamine was already waiting when Izan stepped out of the villa, lounging against a parked scooter with his arms crossed.

”Is Madam Selene done torturing you?” he asked.

Izan rolled his shoulders. ”For now.”

Lamine grinned. ”Good. Then let’s go.”

They spent the next few hours weaving through Ibiza’s streets, hopping between restaurants, cafés, and bars.

The island had a different energy at night—still vibrant, but more relaxed.

As they walked along the promenade, something felt… different. People were staring more than usual.

Not in the usual oh, that’s Izan and Lamine way.

It was more than that.

A man at a food stall caught Izan’s eye and gave him a nod. ”Hey, gracias for the business, hermano.”

Izan frowned slightly. ”Business?”

The guy grinned, gesturing at the bustling street. ”Tourists have been coming in all day asking where you two have been hanging out. Saying they saw the videos.”

Lamine raised a brow. ”You serious?”

”Dead serious. Some of them don’t even care about football. They just wanna be where you’ve been.”

Izan exchanged a glance with Lamine, realization dawning.

As they continued, more business owners greeted them—bartenders, store clerks, even a rental shop owner.

The pattern was the same: people were showing up just because Izan and Lamine had been there.

Lamine let out a low whistle. ”Bro… we’re literally moving the economy.”

Izan snorted. ”That’s dramatic.”

”Is it? We should start charging appearance fees,” Lamine joked, nudging him.

Izan shook his head with a smirk, but deep down, he felt the shift. This was different from just being famous. It was power—the kind that brands would kill for.

Miranda had been right. Every move he made? People were watching.

⸻

The next few days settled into a rhythm. Mornings were for brand shoots—long hours of posing under the sun, Selene directing with her usual sharp eye while Miranda made sure every detail was right.

Afternoons were their own—leisurely walks through Ibiza’s streets, late lunches at hidden gems, and the occasional dip in the sea.

Izan and Lamine moved like they owned the island.

People recognized them everywhere, but the attention wasn’t overwhelming—it was electric.

Kids ran up with balls, asking for a touch, a trick, anything. Tourists stopped them for pictures.

The locals, initially indifferent, had started to take notice.

Ibiza had always been a hotspot for celebrities, but there was something different.

Something nice about seeing two of Spain’s most exciting young stars casually weaving through the city, playing pickup games with strangers, and making the island feel like their own personal training ground.

And it wasn’t just them who noticed.

”Bro, have you seen this?” Lamine asked, holding up his phone as they lounged on the beach one afternoon.

Izan took a look. It was a clip of the two of them from the other night—playing barefoot against a group of teenagers in the sand.

Izan’s first touch was perfect, flicking the ball over a defender before Lamine volleyed it home. The comments were ridiculous.

”Spain got their own Neymar and Ronaldinho.”

”Lamine x Izan is the duo we need. Laporte, I know we’re broke but pleaseeee”

”Ibiza is popping off because of them.”

Izan exhaled. ”Folks are getting crazy over a beach game.”

Lamine grinned. ”Yeah, but look at this—” He scrolled down. The nightlife in Ibiza had been busier than usual.

Local businesses were posting about it. Some were even tagging them.

”It’s like we turned this place into a hotspot,” Lamine said, shaking his head.

Izan smirked. ”Do you still want to start taking fees for appearances”

Lamine laughed. ”Nah, let’s just play.”

And so they did.

The beach was packed, but as soon as they started juggling the ball between them, the crowd faded away.

Lamine tried to get fancy early, rolling the ball up his shin before flicking it into the air.

Izan caught it on his thigh, let it bounce once, and then popped it high with the outside of his boot.

He watched it spin lazily downward, then—with impossible control—trapped it with the back of his heel, dragging it down smoothly into a perfect roll.

”Okay, okay!” Lamine grinned. ”That’s nice.”

Izan didn’t even respond. He flicked the ball back up, catching it on his shoulder, and balancing it like it was nothing.

Then, with a quick twist, he let it roll down his back before snapping his foot up, backheeling it over Lamine’s head.

Lamine barely reacted in time, managing to control it with his chest before bursting out laughing.

”Bro, you’re playing like you got Brazilian blood.”

Izan smirked. ”I’m just built different.”

The system buzzed at Izan’s shamelessness which was getting out of hand, causing Izan to laugh.

The freestyle turned into something more—effortless, flowing, a showcase of pure skill.

The crowd started gathering again, phones recording, murmurs of disbelief spreading through the air.

At one point, Izan dribbled in place, shifting the ball between his feet so quickly that it became a blur. A little kid near the front gasped.

”That’s not normal,” someone muttered.

Then, just as Izan prepared to pull off another move, he heard his name.

”Izan!”

He turned, spotting Miranda in the distance, barefoot in the sand, her hair slightly disheveled, like she had just sprinted the whole way.

She was out of breath.

”Izan,” she panted, reaching them. ”You need to see something. Now.”

Izan exchanged a look with Lamine before grabbing his towel. ”What happened?”

Miranda didn’t answer immediately. She just held up her phone.

The screen was open to a news alert, the headline flashing bold across it.

Izan’s stomach tensed.

He took the phone and read.

”What the Actually Fuc-”

[Keep it PG for Christ’s sake. Damn]