God Of football

Chapter 457: Workings Behind The Scenes.[GT Chapter]

The Arsenal team bus rumbled slowly to a stop at the gates of Colney.

The sound of tires grinding against gravel echoed faintly in the cool evening air, a quiet reminder of the cityʼs pulse just beyond the horizon.

The players filed off the bus, stretching out after the ride, their tired legs anticipating the next round of training the next day.

Izan was one of the last to step off the bus, Arteta grabbing his shoulder from behind before whispering a few words and then leaving with Carlos Cuesta and the rest of the coaching staff.

As he swung his bag over his shoulder, he felt the familiar energy of the training ground—almost like a second home now.

His eyes scanned the rows of cars parked near the entrance.

Saka was already there, grinning as he leaned against the door of his own ride, the sleek black finish of his car gleaming under the low light.

”Oi!” Saka called out, a teasing smirk plastered across his face.

”You know, you shouldʼve added a few more years to your age, mate. Then youʼd be driving yourself instead of getting chauffeured like royalty.”

Izanʼs lips twitched, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he approached, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

”Iʼd rather get out of the way of all your parking tickets,” he shot back, his voice low and measured, as always.

”You might not even need a car when youʼre running everywhere on the pitch, so much that you can get anywhere on foot.”

Sakaʼs eyes widened, but before he could respond, Izan turned and began walking toward the road that led to the entrance.

A black car, sleek and polished, was approaching.

The hum of its engine echoed in the quiet evening as it glided toward him, its windows tinted just enough to make the driverʼs face unreadable.

.........

Izan finally made it home, the quiet of the evening wrapping around him like a familiar blanket.

As he entered through the door, he heard the faint sound of movement in the kitchen.

The soft clink of a dish, the rustle of something being stirred.

Olivia was there, as always, making the place feel more like home than just a house.

He moved quietly through the living room, careful not to make too much noise as he approached the kitchen from behind.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter with a playful grin.

She let out a soft, surprised laugh, her hands instinctively bracing herself on the edge.

”Careful, I could drop this,” Olivia teased, her smile spreading.

Before she could say anything else, Izan leaned forward, pressing a brief, innocent kiss to her lips.

It was a simple moment, but to both of them, it spoke volumes—a quiet affirmation of everything unsaid.

After pulling away, he brought Olivia down from the counter and walked toward the couch, noticing Oliviaʼs coat draped across the back.

It was a little out of place, as if sheʼd just left it there in a hurry.

He turned back toward her with a raised eyebrow.

”Did you go out?”

Olivia paused for a moment, wiping her hands on a dish towel before turning to face him.

”I closed early today,” she said, a glint in her eye. ”So like I said in the morning, I came to watch the game. I thought you would draw, but then you went ahead and did what you do best and won the game for Arsenal.”

Izan let out a soft breath, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

”Howʼd it feel? Back to the grind?”

He shrugged, his gaze distant for a moment as he leaned against the doorframe.

”A bit of a battle, but we got it done. Itʼs always a challenge against them.”

Olivia nodded, taking a step closer, as though she could feel the weight of the game still lingering on his shoulders.

”You did well.”

Izan simply smiled, the words unspoken but understood.

Then, almost as if to shift the mood, he casually tossed himself down onto the couch, stretching out in a rare moment of relaxation.

”Did you enjoy the game?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the weariness of the day settling in.

Olivia perched herself beside him, her legs tucked under her.

”Every minute of it,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

”But I was just waiting for the final whistle so I could see you. All that tension…” She shook her head, then grinned.

”But it was worth it.”

Izan chuckled softly, reaching for the remote. ”Next time, youʼll have to sit closer to the action, not just watch from afar.”

”Maybe,” she said, a sly smile forming. ”But I think I prefer the view from here.”

Before Izan could do anything, Olivia fell on him, both wrapping their arms around each other as the city lights streaked in from the window, their lips against each otherʼs being the only sounds that filled the room.

...........

Nike Headquarters – Beaverton, Oregon

The room was glass-walled and high-ceilinged, a blend of timber and tech, minimalist yet grand.

Outside, the Oregon sky was all overcast ambition — grey, brooding, full of silent plans.

Inside, Nikeʼs top minds sat in sharp silence around a long black table, the only sound the soft hum of a looping highlight reel playing across the screen: Kylian dancing past defenders, Vinicius sprinting away from his marker and Haaland pulling away in celebration.

A click of the remote and the screen changed.

A different highlight now: Arsenal versus Tottenham. Ninety-second minute.

Corner flag. That left-footed curl, cruel and perfect, like it had been measured in atoms.

Izan Hernández, yet to be 17, yet calm in the chaos around him. Jersey off.

Name raised to the fury of the home crowd.

Nobody spoke at first.

Then Tyrell Greene leaned forward, fingers steepled, voice calm but firm.

”That,” he said, ”is the kid we shouldʼve already had in red and black.”

He didnʼt have to say the name. Everyone knew.

Evelyn Tao, Global Sports Director, nodded slowly.

”Izan Hernández. Currently with Adidas. Seven-year deal. Twenty million euros. Signed right after his first call-up to international duty. Right as he was attracting the hype.”

”Well,” said Kieran Lowe, shifting his tablet on the table, ”now the whole bloody planet knows.”

A chuckle around the table. But Tyrell wasnʼt smiling.

”Izanʼs not just a talent,” he said.

”Heʼs different. You can feel it — in the way he moves, the way he even interacts with the media. He doesnʼt give them much but they still love him. Heʼs got reach — Spanish, Japanese, English-speaking, global-market-ready.”

”Last I heard from Henry, the kid speaks French too. Heʼs not flashy, but everything about him flashes. Heʼs like the modern-day Beckham without the drama and with more footballing ability, but Adidas have lowballed him.”

”Well, the contract was back when he was just a name on the Valencia bench. Iʼm even surprised Adidas gave him that much when he wasnʼt even a kid from any prestigious academy,” Evelyn added.

”And now?” Tyrellʼs brow twitched.

”Now heʼs the name Arsenal builds the next decade around.”

There was a pause as if everyone could feel the weight of that statement settle on the table like mist.

Kieran flicked through slides: rising engagement numbers, boot sales trending upwards when Izan posted, heatmaps of fan reactions, Google Trends spikes after every goal, every dribble.

”Weʼve monitored his growth since his debut. Since before that, really — youth tournaments in Catalonia. But now the numbers are growing faster than we are. Adidas has him. But Adidas canʼt hold him.”

”Heʼs sixteen,” Evelyn warned.

”That means the next five years will define his entire market legacy.

Whoever partners with him during that time becomes the brand of Izan Hernández.”

”Exactly,” Tyrell replied.

”Thatʼs why I want a plan. Not just a pitch. Not a check and a promise. A blueprint. Timeline, activation points, brand integration, and ambassador programs. Everything.”

He tapped the screen again. This time it was stills: Izan lifting the Henry Delaunay trophy after winning the Euros and another of him scoring his first goal in an Arsenal shirt.

”We will build a world around him,” Tyrell said.

”Not like we did with others. Not like we tried with João. Or delayed with Foden. We center him. Give him a fresh boot line when he turns eighteen. Lock in cross-market campaigns — Japan, Spain, London. Train in Oregon. Features in the Olympics and the next World Cup launches. He becomes the thread that ties our next generation together.”

”And Adidas?” someone asked from the far side of the table.

”Theyʼll fight to keep him,” Evelyn said. ”They know what theyʼve got.”

”But they donʼt know what heʼs becoming,” Tyrell finished.

”And theyʼre not ready for the ask. They think a teenager doesnʼt outgrow twenty million in a year. But this one did.”

Silence again.

Until Evelyn stood, a decision already behind her eyes.

”We need to move. Quietly, strategically. No loud tapping up. No leaks. We let the football world talk. We let him keep talking with his boots. And when the moment is right, we hand him the future. The way Adidas never could.”

Tyrell nodded once. ”Izan Hernández. Thatʼs our north star now.”

Plans started. Pages turned. A thousand stories unfolded quietly beneath the hum of fluorescent lights — and at the center of it, a teenager with the eyes of a veteran, the poise of a prince, and a contract waiting to be broken.

A/N: Bonus chapter. Have fun reading and Iʼll see you in a bit with the last chapter of the day. Once again, sorry we couldnʼt do the mass release. My exam delayed me so I couldnt even stockpile any chapters. I am free most of the following month so i will try to get a stockpile of at least 10 chapters before May ends. Byee