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God Of football

Chapter 426: International Break [Pistacho031_3] · Oct 10, 2026

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Chapter List (1057)

Page number / 22

401 Chapter 401: A New 10 2026-10-10
402 Chapter 402: Dull Start. 2026-10-10
403 Chapter 403: 2026-10-10
404 Chapter 404: Back For More 2026-10-10
405 Chapter 405: Izan’s Footprints 2026-10-10
406 Chapter 406: New Dog In The Yard 2026-10-10
407 Chapter 407: Done And Dusted 2026-10-10
408 Chapter 408: Mornings Without Spotlight 2026-10-10
409 Chapter 409: Incoming Additions. 2026-10-10
410 Chapter 410: More To Life Than Just Football[GT - ] 2026-10-10
411 Chapter 411: To Villa Park [GT - ] 2026-10-10
412 Chapter 412: At Villa Park 2026-10-10
413 Chapter 413: One Goal Up 2026-10-10
414 Chapter 414: Villa’s 13th Man 2026-10-10
415 Chapter 415: Brewing Drama 2026-10-10
416 Chapter 416: Sending Off 2026-10-10
417 Chapter 417: One More 2026-10-10
418 Chapter 418: Talking To The Media 2026-10-10
419 Chapter 419: Post-Match[GT bonus - ] 2026-10-10
420 Chapter 420: Champions League Nights 2026-10-10
421 Chapter 421: Draw In Monaco 2026-10-10
422 Chapter 422: Date At The Mestalla[Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
423 Chapter 423: System Upgrade [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
424 Chapter 424: Off The Sheets 2026-10-10
425 Chapter 425: Spectator[Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
426 Chapter 426: International Break [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
427 Chapter 427: Mi Casa 2026-10-10
428 Chapter 428: Back In La Roja’s Camp 2026-10-10
429 Chapter 429: El Capitano [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
430 Chapter 430: More Responsibilities [ Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
431 Chapter 431: Arrival In Belgrade 2026-10-10
432 Chapter 432: Flames Of Football 2026-10-10
433 Chapter 433 - 1st Half In Belgrade [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
434 Chapter 434: Knight In The Area[Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
435 Chapter 435: Acquaintance 2026-10-10
436 Chapter 436: Geneva 2026-10-10
437 Chapter 437: Geneva [2] 2026-10-10
438 Chapter 438: Bathed By A Different GOAT. 2026-10-10
439 Chapter 439: Group Survival [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
440 Chapter 440: Spain’s Backbone 2026-10-10
441 Chapter 441: Strong Response 2026-10-10
442 Chapter 442: Old And New [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
443 Chapter 443: Lances In The Rain 2026-10-10
444 Chapter 444: Game Is Gone 2026-10-10
445 Chapter 445: Done, Not Dusted 2026-10-10
446 Chapter 446: Lively [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
447 Chapter 447: Somber Mood. 2026-10-10
448 Chapter 448: Shoot And Return [Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
449 Chapter 449: London 2026-10-10
450 Chapter 450: Regular Day Job 2026-10-10

Chapter 426: International Break [Pistacho031_3]

A ripple of cheers echoed when Izan gave a subtle wave, but he was already guiding Olivia down the aisle before the focus shifted back to the pitch.

As they walked toward the stadiumʼs private exit, Olivia leaned in.

”They showed us on the screen again,” she said.

”I saw,” Izan replied, barely hiding his grin.

”They caught my good side.”

She nudged him with her elbow. ”All sides are your good side.”

He looked over at her. ”Alright, now youʼre just trying to get us back home early.”

She raised an eyebrow. ”And is that a problem?”

He didnʼt answer. Just held her hand tighter as they stepped through the tunnel, the echoes of the win still lingering behind them.

____________

The Sunday afternoon light was golden through the living room windows, casting a soft glow over the quiet apartment.

Olivia sat cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, flipping lazily through a magazine while Izan lounged with his phone on the couch, one leg dangling over the edge.

The morning had been slow—sleep-ins, a late breakfast, and now this lull before the inevitable press of the coming week.

They hadnʼt talked about the international break much, but it hung in the air now that Arsenalʼs match was behind them and the league paused.

When Oliviaʼs phone buzzed with an incoming video call, she scooted toward the sofa and turned the screen toward him.

The call connected, and three familiar faces filled the frame: Komi, Hori, and Miranda.

”¡Hijo mío!” Komi greeted him first, cheerful as always. Her hair was pinned up and she wore an apron, clearly in the middle of preparing something.

”Did you eat well today? Youʼre too skinny these days, you know.”

Izan chuckled, straightening up. ”Yes, mamá. Olivia makes sure I donʼt skip meals.”

Olivia smiled proudly from beside him.

Then came the dramatic sigh from Hori.

”And sheʼs taken my job too,” his younger sister muttered, her voice exaggeratedly sulky.

”First it was walking with you to training, then popping up in interviews, and now even video calls. What am I supposed to do now?”

”You could always become a TikTok star,” Olivia teased.

Komi laughed from her side of the screen.

”She already thinks she is.”

”Watch it,” Hori warned, folding her arms with mock defiance.

Izan leaned closer, grinning.

”Come on, you know I miss our walks.”

”Then tell the media to bring me back!” she shot back.

”They used to take pictures of us. Now they only take pictures of you two holding hands like itʼs a romance movie.”

Izan laughed, exchanging a glance with Olivia, who leaned her head on his shoulder.

Then, Mirandaʼs voice cut in from somewhere off-screen.

”Enough with the teenage drama.”

A moment later, she slid into view, holding a coffee mug, her expression as sharp as ever.

”We need to talk.”

”Uh-oh,” Olivia whispered, nudging Izan.

Miranda raised an eyebrow. ”International breakʼs here.

The squad list drops tomorrow morning. Are you in, or should I speak to someone and buy you some rest?

Youʼve had a whirlwind month, and they owe you one after that ridiculous Euroʼs schedule for a kid.”

Izan didnʼt answer immediately. He stared at the screen for a second, his fingers tapping softly on the arm of the sofa.

The idea of staying back—of lying low for a week, catching his breath—did hold a certain temptation. But he shook his head.

”No. If I want to be great… then these little moments matter.”

There was a brief silence before Miranda smirked. ”I knew youʼd say that. Youʼre just homesick.”

Komi lit up. ”Aw, you miss your mamá?”

”Donʼt flatter yourself,” Izan said, but his smile gave him away.

”I do,” he added more quietly after a second.

Miranda shifted in her seat. ”Well, Iʼm glad. Because youʼve got a few sponsorship obligations in Spain we can tick off while youʼre here.

Nothing too heavy—just a couple of shoots, one light meet and greet. Big brands like how youʼve handled your transition. They think youʼre marketable.”

Izanʼs expression twisted slightly. ”As long as itʼs not a shampoo ad.”

”You wish,” Miranda deadpanned. ”Youʼre not pretty enough for that. Olivia maybe.”

Horiʼs gasp was audible. ”He is pretty!”

Komi laughed again. ”He takes after me. Well, at least my personality. He got his dadʼs eyes.”

The conversation drifted to lighter topics after that—family updates, Komiʼs plans for the Local school where she had started helping out part-time.

Horiʼs dance showcase coming up, and Mirandaʼs complaint about being stuck in a Madrid apartment with a neighbor who played reggaeton until 3 a.m.

But even as he smiled and laughed, Izan felt the weight of the coming days settle on his shoulders.

The Spanish call-up wasnʼt just another match—it was another chapter in a story he would be building for years.

He glanced at Olivia once the call ended and they were alone again.

Her head was resting on his lap now, her eyelids fluttering closed.

Tomorrow, the list would come out. Then the flights. The training.

But for now, they had the quiet. And that, he thought, was just as important.

....

Monday morning broadcast.

”International Break: where reputations are tested and new ones are made.”

The studio was all sleek surfaces and bold banners—flashes of red, yellow, blue behind the presenterʼs shoulder as the montage played.

”With domestic leagues on pause, this is the window where national teams recalibrate—blooding form players, protecting veterans, and gauging the pulse of world footballʼs next generation.

And with the 2026 World Cup cycle well underway, itʼs no longer about sentiment. Itʼs about whoʼs ready. Right now.”

A list of upcoming squad drops slid onto the screen, timestamps and federation crests glowing beneath them. Spainʼs was one of the last.

_____________

The sizzle of oil in a pan. A puff of saffron-scented steam curling into the air.

Izanʼs kitchen—usually minimalist, pristine, underused—looked like it had been hit by a light-hearted war.

Chopped peppers scattered beside a cutting board, an opened tin of clams balancing precariously near the stove, and two very focused young adults trying really hard not to burn their masterpiece.

”I said gentle with the rice, not—” Olivia snapped, lunging to stop him from stirring too hard.

”It was clumping,” Izan defended, spoon in hand.

”Itʼs supposed to clump. Thatʼs the crust. Thatʼs sabor!”

”Youʼre just mad I stirred it first.”

She shot him a look, but couldnʼt hide her grin.

The paella wasnʼt perfect, but it was theirs. One of the few things theyʼd learned to make without YouTube videos or phone calls to Komi.

Between toast, pasta, and this, theyʼd basically mastered survival. Kind of.

Izan stepped back from the pan, wiping his hands on a towel. ”At least it smells good.”

”It always smells good. Thatʼs the trap.”

They moved like this for the next few minutes—him checking the time without looking like he was checking the time, her pretending not to notice the muted TV still tuned to the sports channel.

Spainʼs list wasnʼt out yet. But it was close.

The studio flickered again on the screen, now cutting to training camp arrivals from other countries.

Griezmann had just shown up to Clairefontaine. Bellingham was laughing with Saka at St. Georgeʼs Park.

A headline bar crawled across the bottom of the screen:

”Luis de la Fuente expected to name Spainʼs squad within the next hour. Multiple surprise names rumored.”

Izan didnʼt say anything.

He grabbed a lemon wedge from the counter, squeezed it over the paella, and set the pan down in the middle of the dining table.

Olivia brought over plates and then collapsed into her chair with a dramatic sigh.

”So,” she said, poking at the dish with a fork. ”If they donʼt call you up, does that mean we make another one of these next weekend?”

Izan blinked. ”Are you saying you want me to get snubbed?”

”Iʼm saying I wouldnʼt mind another quiet weekend. You, me, bad paella, and my Spotify playlist.”

”Iʼm starting to think this was your plan all along.”

She smirked.

But as the clock ticked closer, and the Sky Sports anchor returned to announce, ”We are moments away from the RFEFʼs official announcement”—Izanʼs fork paused halfway to his mouth.

And everywhere from Madrid to Valencia, Sevilla to San Sebastián… so was everyone else.

”Spainʼs national team squad for the upcoming international fixtures has just been released by the RFEF…”

The broadcast anchorʼs voice cut through the background noise in the apartment, but neither Izan nor Olivia moved to turn up the volume.

They were too focused on the stove, where the pan of paella was starting to crisp at the bottom—exactly how they liked it.

Olivia gave the rice one last stir while Izan plated the shrimp with practiced rhythm.

It wasnʼt fancy, but it was the one thing they both knew how to cook without thinking.

On the TV, the squad list rolled across the screen.

Goalkeepers:

Unai Simón (Athletic Club)

Álex Remiro (Real Sociedad)

David Raya (Arsenal)

Defenders:

Dani Carvajal (Real Madrid)

Alejandro Balde (Barcelona)

Robin Le Normand (Atletico Madrid)

Aymeric Laporte (Al Nassr)

Pau Cubarsí (Barcelona)

Marc Cucurella (Chelsea)

Pedro Porro (Tottenham Hotspur)

Midfielders:

Rodri (Manchester City)

Fabián Ruiz (Paris Saint-Germain)

Pedro Gonzalez(Barcelona)

Aleix García (Bayer Leverkusen)

Gavi (Barcelona)

Álex Baena (Villarreal)

Forwards:

Nico Williams (Athletic Club)

Dani Olmo (Barcelona)

Lamine Yamal (Barcelona)

Álvaro Morata (Atlético Madrid)

Bryan Zaragoza (Bayern Munich)

Izan Hernandez (Arsenal)

Olivia glanced over first. ”There it is.”

Izan didnʼt bother looking. He just handed her a plate.

”Obviously.”

She smirked. ”You tied Platini, Izan. Theyʼd have to be insane to leave you out.”

”Wouldnʼt be the first time Spain did something insane,” he muttered, finally flicking his eyes toward the screen.

Just a quiet nod like a man ticking off an item on a to-do list.

Olivia grabbed the remote, muted it, and joined him at the counter.

”I like seeing it. You know, seeing your name next to that crest. It looks good.”

Izan gave a short, amused exhale. ”It always did.”

A/n: 4th of the Golden Gacha chapters.

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