God Of football

Chapter 684: 1 Of 4

Izan lowered his head slightly, finally allowing a breath of a smile.

But even as they laughed around him, even as the trophy awaited them on the podium, his fingers kept touching the medal hanging from his chest, tracing the rim.

He’d earned it.

It wasn’t as prestigious as the league trophy, the Champions League or the Euros, which he had won, but he had worked hard for it.

Through kicks. Through screams. Through suffocating triangles of defenders. Through chaos.

He had earned it.

And now, beneath the Wembley lights, beneath the ribbons of red and silver confetti starting to drift from the rafters above, the boy stood crowned.

Then Saka, of course, muttered, ”Right, someone carry me. I’m not missing this photo.”

The boys laughed—and the final act was about to begin.

The moment had arrived.

And as the captain placed both hands on the silver handles of the Carabao Cup, hoisting it to the night sky, the stadium erupted again—

And the commentary took over like a divine script read from the mouth of a prophet:

”And so, under the lights of Wembley, a first Chapter is written! Ødegaard lifts Arsenal’s first silverware of the season! A victory forged in pain, in brilliance, in youth and fire!

They came as contenders—tonight, they leave as conquerors! Some people will downplay this achievement, but hey, A WIN IS A WIN!”

”And make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen—this is no final destination. This is ignition. Because Mikel Arteta and his boys still chase three more trophies... the Premier League, the FA Cup... and the grand celestial theatre of them all—the Champions League. And waiting there... is Real Madrid in the Quarters.”

”But tonight? Tonight, Arsenal are the gods of Wembley.”

The players descended the stage, arm in arm, trophy passed between them like fire.

They didn’t march—they danced, shouted, kissed the badge and pointed to the stands where their loved ones cheered, and sang louder than the speakers dared compete with.

And then—

Izan stopped.

Right in front of the section the Arsenal fans had occupied, shirt drenched, hair slicked back with sweat and confetti.

He turned to face the crowd.

He raised the trophy.

And as the cameras snapped and the flags waved and a million voices rose as one, there was no commentary, no poetic metaphor—

Arsenal had arrived.

And their god had lifted the cup.

......

THE DAY AFTER>>

”The Start of an Era.”

”Miura the Messiah.”

”Same Old Arsenal — Same Old Cup.”

”Wembley Belongs to the Reds of London.”

”Izan, Muira, Hernandez: The Singular Holy Trinity?”

By mid-morning, the headlines were everywhere — plastered across digital banners, newspaper stands, and every possible thumbnail on YouTube.

From The Telegraph to Tifo Football, Arsenal’s Carabao Cup victory had saturated the ecosystem.

Some hailed it as the beginning of a new dynasty under Arteta.

Others, predictably, rolled their eyes.

In front of a glowing panel set, somewhere inside a London studio, a TV host slapped a folded broadsheet onto the glass table with theatrical flair.

”Let’s not waste time—here it is. ’Carabao Kings!’ That’s the word being thrown around today,” he said, gesturing toward the headline with exaggerated disbelief.

”I mean, lads—are we serious?”

The camera cut wide to reveal two pundits seated beside him, both former players, both seasoned voices in the game.

One of them, a grey-bearded ex-Liverpool midfielder known for his unapologetic critiques, leaned forward with a smirk that screamed smug.

”Look,” he began, his tone already laced with provocation, ”this is Arsenal. This—this is their level. You’d think they just won the World Cup the way they celebrated last night. The photos, the confetti, the Instagram posts—mate, it’s a glorified League Cup. That’s what it is.”

The host chuckled awkwardly, but the other pundit — a sharp-tongued ex-Stoke winger who rarely pulled punches — didn’t share the amusement.

His eyebrows jumped.

”Oh, come off it,” he shot back. ”Did you even watch the game?”

”Of course I did.”

”No, no, you looked at the game. You didn’t watch it. You didn’t feel it,” he said, his voice rising with the kind of intensity only defenders of beautiful football could summon.

”That final had more tactical brilliance, heart, drama, and footballing IQ than most of the last five FA Cup finals and dare I say, UCL finals combined. Liverpool brought their full force. Arsenal beat them. With teenagers. With craft. With courage.”

The studio suddenly had heat.

”You’re telling me that’s ’their level’ just because it’s the Carabao Cup? No mate. That’s the standard now. You build from this. You climb. That’s what winners do.”

”And what?” the greybeard scoffed. ”Now they’re gonna beat Madrid too?”

”That final last night would’ve beaten Madrid,” came the retort.

”That Arsenal — with that boy running the game like a Greek god possessed — yeah. I’ll say it. Even Madrid would’ve sweated, and they have done. Last season, he did it with a relegation team, so who’s to say he can’t do it again?”

Silence, rode the studio after that, tempers flared, and the staff were ready to jump in, in case anything happened, but the host calmed things down.

At least until, ”Go on then,” the host said, leaning in.

”Say his name.”

”Izan Miura Hernández,” the stoke pundit grinned. ”And you better get used to it.”

”You wanke-”

MEANWHILE...

Soft light spilt through the curtains of a high-end glass house in North London, the morning sun gently colouring the off-white walls in amber streaks.

Birds were chirping somewhere far off, but the room itself remained hushed, the only sound a faint rhythm of breathing from under the duvet.

A tangle of sheets.

A sprawled leg.

And the silhouette of a girl leaned over the bed, whispering low.

”Izan...” Olivia’s voice was barely audible at first. Playful. Teasing.

”Izaaaan...”

He didn’t stir.

She leaned closer, lips brushing against the rim of his ear now, her whispers more deliberate.

”Izan, baby,” she sang, a grin pulling at the corner of her mouth

”The sun’s up. Half of London’s talking about you. All of Madrid, too, hopefully. You gonna sleep through that?”

Still nothing.

”ARISE”, she commanded, earning a light chuckle from Izan, but he didn’t wake up.

”Sung-Jin Woo really did some false advertising then”, she said, before leaning back again.

This time, she leaned all the way in, whispering again — this time, nonsense phrases, featherlight teasing: ”Wakey wakey... Wembley’s finest still needs to brush his teeth...”

His hand shot out.

In one smooth, sleepy motion, Izan rolled toward her and wrapped his arm around her waist, yanking her down onto the bed with a surprised yelp from her.

”IZAN!” Olivia laughed, squirming, but he was already kissing her — groggy, slow, but full of mischief.

”Ewwww,” she said between giggles, pulling away with mock disgust.

”Your mouth tastes like Sour Patch Kids and sleep.”

”I’m sweet and dangerous,” he murmured, eyes barely open.

”You’re disgusting and sticky.”

”I’m a champion.”

”Oh my God.”

He grinned, finally opening one eye fully. ”What time is it?”

Olivia looked at her phone. ”Almost noon.”

”Noon?” he groaned, flopping back onto the pillow.

”No. No way. It’s illegal to be awake before twelve the day after a final.”

”Well then, sue me,” she said, standing up and tossing a pillow at his face.

”You have interviews. Media. Probably a million texts. Come on, Mr. Greek God.”

He blinked up at her. ”They called me that?”

”Something like it.”

”Good.”

Then he smiled—lazy, confident, complete—and lay back again, burying half his face into the pillow, the medal still hanging from the bedpost like a sleeping talisman.

For a second, he let his eyes flutter closed, chasing a few more minutes of peace—

But sleep didn’t come.

Not with the glow of the medal in the corner of his eye, catching sunlight in slow, silver glints.

With a soft groan, he reached for his phone from the nightstand.

6,214 unread notifications.

He scrolled.

Mentions, retweets, story tags, reposts—every angle of the night before captured, filtered, frozen in digital gold.

Bukayo had posted a carousel already, including that blurry shot of Izan midair with two fists raised and confetti swirling like divine smoke.

Ødegaard had tagged him in a picture that looked almost editorial: backs to the crowd, the trophy between them.

He double-tapped.

Adidas had posted an edit of him kissing the badge in the tunnel with the caption:

”Blood. Sweat. Glory. Miura wears it all.”

Koenigsegg followed up with a slow-motion reel of him stepping out of his still unreleased Gemera before the match, captioned simply:

”Precision. Power. Presence.”

Seiko had timed their congrats to a perfect match moment—90+3 on the screen, his goal still on loop while Saint Laurent had just gone full cinematic.

A shadowed close-up of him in the suit from the post-match dinner, collar popped, chain glinting.

”Champions dress before they conquer.”

Fans were flooding comment sections asking what scent he wore.

What he ate pre-game.

What car he drove? What boots he used? What lip balm, even when a fan mentioned how juicy Izan’s lips were looking.

His name wasn’t trending anymore.

It was the trend.

At this point, even he knew, the glaze was crazyyyyy.

He liked each post quietly, fingers gliding with mechanical ease.

Then, as if sensing the moment had passed, he dropped the phone onto the sheets beside him, exhaling slowly.

For a few beats, silence wrapped around him again.

Then—

A buzz.

Ding,

A/N: WOW, so surprised. I was able to write it. Well good night. I will try and release a Chapter for the other novel because I have neglected my other child for a while now.