God Of football

Chapter 785: Fruits Of Labour [2]

The Seiko headquarters in Tokyo was a place of glass, steel, and silence.

The late sunset filtered through tall windows, giving the conference table an orange hue.

The air smelled faintly of the clean bite of fresh paper, that particular mix of corporate efficiency.

Takashi Mori, the brand director, paused at the door momentarily before pushing it open.

He straightened the line of his suit, adjusted his tie, and forced down the small nervous flutter that still came with this role.

Barely a year ago, he had been a deputy, unnoticed, unremarkable to some of the senior executives.

Then came the decision, his gamble to lock in a temporary partnership with a Sixteen-year-old footballer named Izan Miura Hernández.

A year later, that decision had catapulted him to this seat at the table.

The room quieted as he entered.

Around the conference table sat a dozen executives, men and women in muted suits, their faces expectant.

A projector hummed faintly, screen blank for the moment.

Mori bowed lightly, then moved to the head of the table to start a meeting that should have gone on during the morning or the day.

”Thank you all for coming,” he began, his voice carrying calm authority, though he felt the weight of their eyes.

”I want to speak today about a decision I made twelve months ago. At the time, it was seen as... risky. Perhaps even reckless.”

He pressed the remote in his hand, and the screen flickered to life.

A press photo filled the space.

It was of Izan in his Arsenal black, arms raised, and face lit with the kind of joy that only goals could summon.

The image seemed alive, almost humming with energy, as if even the pixels couldn’t contain the boy’s presence.

Mori let the room take it in.

Several executives exchanged glances; a few leaned forward.

”A year ago,” Mori continued, ”he was a rising star. A player with an ungodly amount of talent, but still got overlooked because he was too young and risky. Many questioned whether associating our brand with him was wise. I am happy to say I did not.”

He clicked again.

The next slide rolled forward, showing Izan winning the Euros the previous year, just a month after signing the deal with Seiko.

And then, the next slide showed a picture of him running towards the Liverpool fans after his third goal.

”Now,” Mori said, his tone tightening with emphasis, ”the rising star has become the brightest star. Not just in football. In all of sport. And we, Seiko, were the first to recognise it. The first to act.”

A low murmur rippled through the room, a mix of satisfaction and pride.

Someone nodded slowly, another adjusted their glasses, but no one spoke against him.

Mori allowed the silence to linger a moment longer before changing the slide once more.

The image disappeared, replaced by a simple black screen.

He turned from the projector and looked directly at the faces in front of him.

”And now comes the challenge,” he said.

His voice dropped slightly, more deliberate, as though weighing each word.

”Izan is no longer simply an ambassador for us. He is... a golden goose. A gold-laying goose, to use the expression. Every brand, every sponsor, every competitor in our field now wants him. They will not hesitate. They will come with their contracts, their promises, their money.”

He let that hang as the executives sat still, listening.

”That,” Mori said firmly, ”is why it is time to ward off the wolves.”

The words landed in the air, heavy and final.

The room stayed quiet, every eye locked on him, waiting to see what he would propose next.

.......

At Arsenal’s Sobha realty offices, the late morning light had softened, slanting in through the blinds and painting the sporting director’s desk in muted gold.

Papers of sponsorship agreements, scouting reports and the endless contracts that seemed to multiply with every success on the pitch were scattered across the surface.

His phone buzzed once, a familiar name flashing across the screen.

Josh Kroenke.

He leaned back in his chair and pressed to accept.

”Miranda’s just been in,” the sporting director said without preamble, voice steady but carrying a trace of weariness.

”Collected the documents.”

On the other end, Josh’s tone was calm, almost unsurprised.

”Good. I figured she’d be quick about it.”

There was a pause, then: ”You sound tired.”

A short laugh escaped the director, dry but genuine.

”Tired’s a permanent condition in this job, Josh. Comes with the territory.”

Josh chuckled, but it was the sort of laugh that carried weight underneath.

”It was never going to be easy feeding the dragon, was it?”

The director leaned forward, rubbing at his temple with the edge of a thumb.

”No,” he admitted, exhaling through his nose.

”Not easy. Not when the dragon keeps getting bigger.”

There was no need to explain what he meant.

Arsenal were on top of the football world, led by a seventeen-year-old phenom who had turned them into both a sporting powerhouse and a financial whirlwind.

With every trophy came more sponsors, more demands, more weight on the infrastructure that held the club together.

The silence stretched for a moment, both men quietly acknowledging the reality of it.

Then Josh’s voice softened.

”That’s why we’re here. To keep it balanced. To make sure success doesn’t burn us from the inside.”

The sporting director smiled faintly, even if Josh couldn’t see it.

”Yeah. That’s the job, isn’t it?”

”Exactly.”

And with that, the call ended, the line clicking back into silence.

The director set the phone down slowly, gaze lingering on the ceiling for a moment.

He allowed himself a sigh, a wry grin tugging at his lips as he shook his head, half amused, half resigned.

”Arsenal might just go bankrupt,” he muttered to himself, ”from winning too many trophies... and being too bloody good.”

The words hung in the empty office, equal parts joke and uncomfortable truth.

......

Back in Hampstead, Izan slouched back into the leather sofa, a faint grin tugging at his lips as Miranda placed a thick folder on the glass table in front of him.

He tapped the cover with two fingers, half-amused, half-curious.

”Well,” he said, chuckling lightly, ”let’s see the fruits of labour then.”

Miranda chuckled at his words, referencing her earlier dramatics.

She flipped the folder open, sliding the first document across to him.

The Seiko crest sat neatly at the top of the page.

”This one,” she began, her tone smooth, professional, ”just came in.”

She leaned slightly closer, tapping the report.

”You remember the IMH 17 model they designed for your birthday? Limited release, just a partnership trial?”

Izan nodded slowly, skimming the lines without really reading, eyes flicking to Miranda’s expression instead.

”Well,” she continued, ”it outsold some of their older models. Massively. It’s one of their top sellers now. The demand hasn’t slowed down either. They’ve seen enough to know you’re not just a footballer, but you’re a brand anchor. So...”

She turned the page, pointing at the neat block of numbers below.

”Here’s their proposal. A three-year deal and ten million per year, straight to you. On top of that, five per cent of every model associated with you — past or future.”

The words hung in the air, heavy in their simplicity.

Izan blinked, then let out a low whistle.

He didn’t need to do the math because the numbers were absurd enough as they were.

He let the folder slip from his fingers, landing with a soft thud on the table.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, then at Miranda, his lips twitching upward.

Miranda, already anticipating his reaction, allowed herself a wide smile.

”Not bad for a temporary partnership, hm?”

The grin on Izan’s face broke into laughter as he leaned forward, hand ruffling through his hair, then leaned back again, shaking his head in disbelief.

The energy between the two shifted instantly, the businesslike atmosphere melting away into something looser, mischievous.

A few minutes later, the quiet hum of the house was shattered by the sudden blast of a song, loud, triumphant, the kind of anthem that begged to be accompanied by movement.

Komi, halfway through tidying the kitchen, froze.

Hori, slumped over a glass of milk, lifted her head slowly while Olivia turned toward the sound with raised brows, a bemused smile already tugging at her lips.

”What on earth...” Komi muttered, setting the dish towel aside as the three of them padded toward the living room, curiosity pulling them forward.

The music grew louder with every step until they reached the wide glass expanse, only to find a sight that stopped them in their tracks.

Izan and Miranda were in the middle of the room, bills fluttering through the air like confetti.

He was tossing handfuls of notes over her head while Miranda, laughing freely, scooped them up and flung them back, both of them caught up in a ridiculous, celebratory frenzy.

The trio stood at the threshold, dumbfounded, while Komi’s lips parted slightly.

They glanced at each other, silently trying to make sense of the spectacle, before their eyes shifted back to the chaotic scene in front of them, Izan and Miranda, showering each other in money like children let loose in a world they weren’t supposed to touch.

A/N: So, our man, Dembele, won the Ballon D’or. I mean, it was always going to be him or Raphinha, not that cheeky boy Yamal. But I hope he enjoys it in real life because he won’t be in this novel. Have a nice read.