God Of football

Chapter 449: London

The low hum of the engines droned steadily in the background as the plane cut through the pale evening sky, the world far below vanishing into cloud and light.

First class was quiet, luxurious — all warm leather, soft gold lights, and the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering from earlier passengers.

Izan sat comfortably by the window, legs stretched slightly, his jacket draped neatly over the armrest.

Beside him, Olivia dozed lightly, her face turned toward him in her sleep, the smallest frown tugging at her brow.

She shifted her voice barely a murmur.

”...blanket,” she whispered, barely audible.

Izanʼs lips twitched into the faintest smile. Carefully, he reached up and pressed the call button.

Within moments, one of the flight attendants appeared — young, maybe three or four years older than him, her smile bright but wavering slightly the moment she recognized who she was facing.

”I—uh—how can I help you, sir?” she said, smoothing a hand down her uniform.

Izan nodded politely.

”Could we get a blanket, please? Sheʼs cold,” he said, tilting his head toward Olivia.

The attendant blinked once, twice, almost seeming to realize she had been staring.

”O-of course!” she stammered before rushing off.

Not long after, she returned with a soft navy blanket, draping it gently over Olivia, who murmured in gratitude without waking.

But it didnʼt stop there.

A second attendant, different but just as young, passed by and slipped a small folded piece of paper onto Izanʼs tray table with a coy smile.

Another soon after — this one a little bolder — asked if she could take a quick photo with him for her ”cousin.”

Izan, ever gracious, nodded.

He smiled for the picture, not making it awkward, not making it anything more than the innocent thing it could be.

But then came the third one.

She lingered.

A little too close.

A little too long.

”You know...” she said, her voice lowering a touch, ”you must get a lot of attention. But I think... maybe youʼd have more fun talking to someone whoʼs not a fan.”

Her fingers grazed the edge of his seat lightly, casual but suggestive.

Izan turned his head fully to her now, his blue eyes catching hers with an easy, unreadable warmth.

He smiled — not mocking, not rejecting — just... kind.

”Youʼre very sweet,” he said, voice low but clear.

”But I already have someone who makes my life fun enough.”

The way he said it — gentle, final, and somehow flattering — made the young woman blink, cheeks coloring in spite of herself.

She gave a slightly embarrassed laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear.

”I guess I canʼt argue with that,” she said.

”Not at all,” Izan replied, his smile softening into something even more disarming.

”But thank you. Really.”

And just like that, the moment dissolved into something else, almost friendly, without awkwardness or resentment.

The young attendant laughed again, this time genuinely, before giving him a playful salute and walking away.

The rest of the flight crew — whether they heard or simply sensed the atmosphere — left him and Olivia alone after that, only occasionally passing to check if they needed anything, always at a polite distance.

Izan leaned his head back, letting his gaze drift lazily out of the window where the sky had begun melting into hues of orange and purple.

Olivia curled snugly under the blanket and shifted slightly again, her hand brushing unconsciously against his arm.

He moved carefully, letting her hand settle more comfortably against his, a small protective gesture only she would feel.

An hour slipped by eventually in a soft haze of engine hums and whispered conversations, the quiet broken only when the overhead speakers clicked on, the pilotʼs calm voice spreading through the cabin.

”Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Weʼve just begun our initial descent into London Heathrow. Local time is 7:46 PM, the temperature at the ground is a cool fourteen degrees Celsius.

Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened and your seats are in the upright position. Weʼll be landing shortly. Thank you for flying with us.”

The gentle shift in altitude stirred the cabin.

Seatbelt lights blinked to life. Passengers began adjusting their seats and closing laptops, the subtle preparation for arrival.

Beside him, Olivia stirred from her sleep, her face crinkling adorably in that in-between moment of dreams and waking.

She blinked blearily up at him, her voice a husky whisper.

”Where... are we?”

Izan turned slightly toward her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch featherlight.

”London,” he said simply, a soft smile curving his lips. ”Almost home.”

Olivia sat up slowly, the blanket falling away from her shoulders.

She yawned into her sleeve, eyes still a little unfocused, then looked toward the window, catching the distant glitter of city lights starting to peek through the heavy clouds.

”Already?” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

”You slept like a rock,” Izan teased lightly, buckling his seatbelt with a muted click.

She glared at him half-heartedly, her cheeks flushed from sleep.

”Maybe if someone hadnʼt worn me out the past few days—” she stopped, realizing what she said, and turned even redder.

Izan just chuckled under his breath, leaning his head back against the seat.

The plane dipped lower, breaking through the thick gray clouds.

Pockets of light appeared below them — roads, neighborhoods, the curling spine of the Thames.

London.

Olivia fumbled with her seatbelt, finally clicking it into place with a grumble.

She reached for Izanʼs hand without looking, almost on instinct.

He took it without hesitation, lacing their fingers together loosely.

Outside, the city spread its arms wide beneath them — familiar, sprawling, alive.

Izan felt it again —Club football awaited. Arsenal awaited.

Artetaʼs text from earlier floated through his mind:

”Hope you enjoyed the break, my boy. Londonʼs calling. See you soon.”

The tires kissed the runway a moment later, smooth and assured — the slightest bounce before the brakes caught and the engines reversed, the plane slowing rapidly.

Around them, passengers stirred to full awareness, phones blinking to life, bags pulled down from overhead compartments.

Izan rose, stretching a little as he grabbed the carry-on bags.

Olivia, still half-wrapped in the blanket she refused to let go of, followed him into the aisle.

The moment they entered the jet bridge, a small team of airport staff was already waiting.

Two men in neat black suits — security detail arranged quietly by Arsenal — and a woman with a crisp Heathrow badge approached, offering polite smiles.

”Mr. Hernández?” one of the men asked, voice low and respectful.

Izan nodded, tugging the brim of his black cap lower over his eyes.

His surgical nose mask was already in place — a simple layer of protection against the world recognizing him too easily.

”Weʼll get you through quickly,” the woman said, gesturing them forward.

The normal walk-through customs and baggage claim was condensed.

Special access corridors. Private security lanes.

Staff quietly managing the flow, so Izan and Olivia moved without drawing too many curious eyes.

A few glances still followed — a few phones even half-lifted — but nothing disruptive.

They breezed through immigration — a stamp, a nod, and luggage collected in minutes.

As they neared the exit toward Arrivals, the ambient noise grew louder — the low hum of a thousand reunions happening at once.

Izan kept Olivia close by his side, head lowered slightly, the brim of his cap shadowing his features.

A few people still clocked them — a gasp here, a whispered ”Is that—?”

But the staff subtly tightened their formation, and they cut through the crowd without pause.

Outside the sliding glass doors, the London night hit them with its chilly embrace — a crisp breeze threading through the air, carrying the scent of rain-soaked concrete and car exhaust.

Waiting at the curb was a sleek, black Range Rover, engine idling low, the Arsenal crest discreetly displayed on a tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

The driver, a tall man in his late thirties with a dark jacket and neatly trimmed beard, stepped forward the moment he spotted them and just nodded once in acknowledgment.

Izan returned the nod, tightening his hold on the strap of his bag, and guided Olivia across the road toward the car.

The driver opened the rear door for them without a word.

”Mr. Hernández, Miss Olivia,” he said smoothly.

”Good evening. Welcome back.”

”Thanks,” Izan murmured, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of command.

They slipped into the car — Olivia curling up against the seat, exhaustion still etched into her movements, while Izan slid in beside her, glancing briefly back at the terminal, at the crowd behind the glass who remained unaware they had already gone.

The door shut with a muffled click.

The driver circled back into his seat, and with one last glance at the mirrors, he pulled smoothly away from the curb, merging into the river of London traffic.

Izan exhaled slowly, tugging the mask off his face and pulling his cap lower over his forehead as he relaxed into the seat.

London.

Back to the grind.

A/n; Last of the day or something like that. Have fun reading and Iʼll see you tomorrow. Off to watch the El Clasico.