God Of football

Chapter 575: Debut Season

The bus rolled into the dimly lit Colney parking lot just past 10 p.m.

The air was colder now, heavy with frost, and the lot was near empty aside from a handful of staff vehicles and one black-and-silver beast sitting near the far end—the Gemera.

Izan stepped off the team coach last, gear bag slung across his shoulder, match ball in hand again.

He offered a low nod to the staff as he broke off from the group and walked across the gravel, shoes crunching beneath him.

He unlocked the car with a subtle tap and slid in, the engine humming to life with the smooth confidence only something that expensive could afford.

His shoulders dropped slightly as he pulled out.

No stadium noise.

No interviews.

Just dark roads, engine sound, and streetlights stretching toward home.

.....

– 9:28 P.M.

”Olivia?” Izan called, voice low, as the glass door automatically shut behind him.

”In here,” she replied.

He turned the corner into the living room and found her curled up on the couch, hair still damp from a shower, legs tucked under her, with an iPad beside her.

The glow of the smart lamp cast a soft amber over the room.

He dropped the match ball into its display case on the shelf, where a few more stood, and then stepped over to the couch.

”Where are they?” he asked, eyebrows lifting.

Olivia glanced over, then shrugged.

”Not yet. You’d think so, right?”

Izan didn’t reply.

He lowered himself onto the couch beside her, pulling his phone from his pocket, already swiping for Miranda’s contact.

But before he could tap ’Call’, a soft crunch of footsteps caught his attention.

Then the door to the side glass-panel room slid open with a whisper.

Hori strolled out like she owned the place—gummy bears in one hand, and her oversized shirt hanging off the other shoulder, expression locked somewhere between mischief and commentary.

She glanced around, nodding like she was inspecting a gallery.

”Minimalist. Clean lines and very Techy. Definitely Scandinavian lighting.”

Izan laughed quietly at first, then louder as he turned to Olivia.

She smiled, wry and caught, shrugging with a guilty tilt of the head.

He reached over and flicked her forehead gently.

”Traitor,” he muttered.

Then he was up, walking over to Hori in two long strides before scooping her off her feet in one fluid motion.

”Put me down,” she complained, already smacking his chest with the gummy bear wrapper.

”I’m almost in high school. This is embarrassing.”

”You said that last year.”

”And it was true then, too!”

He finally set her down, grinning.

”Where’s Mom?” he asked, ruffling her hair before she could get too far.

But just then, the main door’s sensor lights blinked on outside.

A car door slammed.

Footsteps.

The door unlocked, then opened, letting in a burst of cold air and two figures.

Miranda stepped in first, holding the door as Komi followed behind, arms full of grocery bags.

Komi saw Izan and barely skipped a beat.

”Don’t just stand there, help your mother,” she said, smiling as she pushed past him.

Then she stopped, reached up, and grabbed his cheeks between her hands, giving them a playful squeeze.

”You’ve done well, hijo. Even without us.”

He started to reply, but she was already halfway into the kitchen, placing bags down across the wide, seamless glass island.

She tapped the screen set into the counter, and soft ambient light pulsed to life across the worktop.

”We’ll fix something small,” she said, gesturing toward the kitchen as Miranda stepped in behind her, hanging her coat.

”We had to reschedule after an old woman tossed a few stones into one of the openings in the wings of the plane for good luck. That’s why we missed the dinner, but we’ll make do.”

Then she turned, glancing between Olivia, Miranda, and Hori.

”Girls—help. Izan, go shower. You smell like match day.”

”I smell like four goals,” he said.

”Exactly. Rinse it off before it goes to your head.”

Izan chuckled, raising both hands in surrender as he backed toward the stairs.

”Alright, alright. I’m going.”

And with that, he disappeared up the glass-edged staircase—finally home.

...

The kitchen still smelled faintly of roasted garlic and citrus, the kind of scent that didn’t need announcing when Izan got back from his shower.

The glass island was half-cleared, bowls still uncovered, Komi wiping her hands on a folded kitchen towel like she wasn’t done with anything yet.

At the table, everyone had settled into a familiar kind of unspoken pattern.

Izan sat near the end, leaning on one elbow with his fork idle on his plate.

Hori, also across from him, rocked slightly in her chair with Olivia next to her, sipping water with both hands on the glass like it kept her focused.

Miranda, as always, had claimed the seat closest to the kitchen, half-turned like she might get up at any moment to fix something no one had asked for.

”You didn’t get bread?” Komi asked mid-bite, looking at Miranda.

”I thought we were eating rice,” Miranda replied without looking up.

”I brought bread,” Olivia said.

”It was in the freezer.”

”So you didn’t bring bread,” Komi replied, nodding slowly.

”I can toast some now—” Olivia began.

”No,” Komi waved it off.

”We’ll be okay without it.”

Hori squinted into her cup.

”Is this real juice or just that organic water with vibes?”

”It’s mango,” Miranda said.

”No,” Hori frowned.

”It’s pretending to be a mango.”

Izan snorted, finally eating again.

”You talk like you own a wine blog,” he said.

”I have taste,” she replied. ”And standards. Two very different things.”

”You’re fourteen.”

”Almost fifteen,” she corrected defensively.

”And that means... what?”

”It means I should be drinking something with color,” she said, then turned to Komi.

”Can I have soda?”

Komi didn’t even blink.

”You think you’re grown but still need permission.”

”I’m a contradiction,” Hori said with a shrug.

”You eat this well every night?” Komi asked Izan, finally looking at him directly.

”Not really.”

”You should,” she said. ”You’re too skinny.”

”I scored four goals.”

”You scored four goals on empty fuel,” she replied.

”You’d have scored six if you ate right.”

”Six?” he asked, raising a brow.

Komi didn’t even dignify that with a reply.

There was a quiet beat where no one said anything for a few seconds—just the soft scrape of silverware and the dull knock of knees under the table.

Then Hori looked around the house.

”I like it here,” she said.

No one answered right away.

Then Olivia gave a nod. ”It grows on you.”

”I wasn’t talking about the house,” Hori added.

That time, Komi looked over and smiled.

”Me too,” she said before turning towards Izan, who had his head buried in his plate.

......

SKY SPORTS STUDIO – THE NEXT DAY

The lights were soft, not dramatic.

The usual setup—roundtable, highlight clips looping silently across the upper screens, and that faint static hum of early-morning analysis.

Three former pros, coffee mugs in front of them, sat in a relaxed but focused posture.

The day after Brentford 1 – Arsenal 7 wasn’t going to pass quietly.

Not after that performance.

And not with a name like Izan’s in every back page column by sunrise.

”It’s official,” one of them said, leaning back slightly in his chair.

”Youngest player ever to score a Premier League hat-trick. Seventeen years and thirty-five days, and also the youngest to ever score four goals in a single game as he joins a short list of players who have done so, even if they all did at mature ages.”

The second analyst nodded, arms folded.

”And not a soft hat-trick either. Two off the dribble, one chipped over the keeper, and the fourth, although not that spectacular, shows his awareness, plus two assists on top. It was a demolition job.”

The third pundit gave a small shrug, not dismissive, just measured.

”I mean, you say that—but we’ve been seeing this coming, haven’t we? If he’d been in the league last season, he might’ve done it then.”

”Hold on a bit,” the second one replied quickly.

”It’s true, and that is something that could have happened if he had played in the EPL last season. Watch him not just showing up but producing against the likes of Real Madrid and Barcelona, and then the hat-trick against Atleti in the Metropolitano. Tell me he couldn’t have done it here.”

”Exactly,” the first one added, tapping his fingers against the table.

”You’re telling me he couldn’t have done it against a mid-table or any Premier League side at that time? Come on. Not many of them are holding a line better than Atletico Madrid under Simeone.”

”Premier League pace is different,” the second pundit insisted.

”Maybe. But pressure is pressure. And Atletico press harder and defend harder than most of the teams in this league.”

The room quieted briefly as a new set of replays rolled—tight angles of Izan’s third goal.

”Still,” said the first pundit after a beat, ”I don’t think the story’s what he did. It’s how early he’s doing it.”

”So the question isn’t about whether he belongs. It’s how far he can go.”

”And how fast?”

They let that settle for a moment as the final graphic appeared on the studio screen behind them.

Izan Miura Hernandez – Premier League Debut Season:

Appearances: 18

Goals: 25

Assists: 13

Hat-tricks: 1

Minutes Played: 1,263

The numbers were terrifying, and it showed.

A/N: First of the day. See you in a bit with the Golden Ticket Chapter and the Last of the day.