God Of football

Chapter 832: What To Do?

”You know, you guys are lucky we didn’t do enough to qualify for the Club World Cup. Without us, it is going to be a walk in the park for you,” a voice said with a chuckle at the other end of the phone.

”You mean you are lucky you didn’t come. It will at least save you from the embarrassment of coming to the United States for nothing,” Izan said, causing the voice to laugh again.

”¿Realmente tenías que decir eso?(Did you really have to say that?)”

The voice on the other end came as Izan leaned back on his bed, phone pressed to his ear, staring up at the ceiling.

”Say what?”

”That Arsenal will bring home the Club World Cup,” the voice replied, amused.

”You must love the headlines. I think you get high off of people talking about you.”

Izan scoffed softly, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

”They’ve got nothing better to do,” he said, rolling over onto his side. ”If they want to make noise, let them.”

A small laugh came through the speaker.

”So what are you going to do now that the season’s over? Taking a real break for once?”

”If you can even call it that,” Izan muttered, glancing at the half-open curtain where a sliver of daylight spilt in.

”I’ve got, what, eleven days till the Club World Cup begins? That’s not a break. That’s like a glorified nap.”

He shifted slightly, rubbing his temple with the back of his hand.

”Though I’m lucky, apparently. Won’t be playing most of the group matches.”

”Mm,” the voice hummed.

”I’ll take that luck if you don’t want it. I’m heading to Ibiza for the break. Need some sun, music, and absolutely no training for once.”

Izan chuckled.

”Have fun, Lamine. Try not to end up in the papers again.”

”Can’t promise that, but with you heading to the US, I have a feeling eyes won’t be on me as much.” Lamine Yamal shot back, laughing before the call ended.

The room fell quiet as Izan let the phone drop onto the bed beside him, eyes tracing the ceiling again.

The silence stretched longer than he expected.

”What am I even supposed to do?” he murmured under his breath.

He hadn’t really stopped to think about it until now.

Everything, the matches, the travel, the training, the talk and how it had all kept him moving.

He hadn’t realised how much of himself football consumed until it wasn’t demanding something from him every hour of the day.

Now, with time on his hands, he felt... still.

Almost uncomfortably so.

After a long moment, he exhaled, sitting up.

The bedsheets rustled as he reached for a jacket draped over the chair, black, lightweight, and slipped it on over his white T-shirt.

The air outside looked bright, calm.

Maybe he just needed to get out.

Downstairs, the house was quiet, almost too quiet.

Miranda wasn’t home anymore.

He walked into the kitchen, pulling another packet of gummies from the fridge before making his way over to the door, taking a couple of keys from the stand near the door.

He stepped outside, the late morning air cool against his skin, and crossed the driveway toward the garage.

The motion lights flicked on automatically, bathing the cars in a soft white glow.

The silver and black Jesko Absolut gleamed under it, its lines sharp and fluid.

Beside it sat the Gemera, sleek and purposeful, and then the black Benz SUV, the one he usually used for low-profile errands.

He stood there for a moment, scanning the three before finally clicking the Jesko’s key.

The car beeped softly in response.

”Guess it’s your turn,” he muttered to himself, before walking over to the car.

The garage door soon lifted with a mechanical hum, sunlight spilling across the polished hood.

Moments later, the engine came alive, a deep, resonant growl that filled the still air.

He pulled out of the garage and then out of his compound onto Hampstead Road, where the houses soon blurred around him.

....

The road stretched out ahead, smooth and almost empty.

Izan didn’t really have a destination, just the steady hum of the Jesko’s engine beneath him and the slow blur of the city rolling by.

The car moved like a whisper, cutting through the early afternoon light as London shifted from quiet streets to livelier corners.

Now and then, he caught people turning their heads as he passed, some pointing, others raising their phones.

The windows were tinted dark enough that no one could see him, but that never stopped them from guessing.

He could already imagine the posts going up online. ”Spotted: Koenigsegg Jesko in Hampstead, maybe Izan?”

He smiled faintly, eyes still on the road.

Fame followed like a shadow, even when you weren’t trying to show off, but in this case, it was hard to dispute that he wasn’t trying to.

The radio played softly in the background, cycling through morning chatter before a familiar line slipped through the static.

”And in other news, Arsenal forward Izan Miura’s bold Club World Cup statement has sparked debate online, with fans divided over whether his confidence is—”

Izan reached over and turned the volume down, though not completely.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward.

”Of course it did,” he muttered under his breath.

He didn’t even have time to enjoy the silence before his phone lit up on the console.

Miranda.

He tapped the steering button to answer.

”Yeah?”

”You out?” she questioned as Izan took another curve.

”Yeah.”

”Okay. Just a heads up, but a few big U.S. brands are asking for meetings. The Champions League win has opened doors, and since you’ll be over there for the Club World Cup, it’s perfect timing. Some of them want to tie their campaigns to your image before preseason.”

Izan adjusted his grip on the wheel.

”You can handle it. You always do.”

Miranda let out a small ”mhm” that sounded more like she was scribbling something than agreeing.

”You could’ve taken the Benz, though. The Jesko’s already all over social media. I’ve seen three posts about it in the last ten minutes.”

That made him laugh quietly.

”You said I need to keep up appearances, didn’t you? Publicity and all that?”

There was a pause, then a short, unimpressed huff.

”Don’t twist my words, Izan. There’s a difference between keeping up appearances and announcing your location with a two-million-pound car.”

He chuckled again, the kind that came easily, like an old habit.

”Guess I missed that memo.”

Miranda sighed on the other end, the sound of papers shifting faintly behind her.

”I’ll bring the documents over this evening. We’ll go through the offers then.”

”Yeah,” Izan said, slowing the car slightly as the city thinned into quieter roads. ”That’s fine.”

The call ended with a soft click, the wind pressing gently against the windows.

A few minutes later, he pulled up by a small park, where children were running near the grass, a couple walking a dog down the path, sunlight filtering through branches that swayed in the breeze.

Izan parked the Jesko by the curb and leaned back in his seat for a moment, watching through the tinted glass.

He might’ve stayed that way if not for a voice, a small one, cutting through the quiet.

”Wait, slow down! You are not that healthy,” a woman called, her tone caught between laughter and exhaustion.

Down the path, a boy tore ahead of her, his sneakers slapping the ground as he darted past benches and lamp posts, completely unbothered by his mother’s attempts to rein him in.

Izan’s eyes lingered on the kid for a second, and then widened, recognition blooming in a small, surprised smile.

He straightened up, stepped out, and called out, ”Hey! Leo!”

The boy stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of the male voice.

His head turned, confusion flickering across his face, until he saw who it was.

His mouth dropped open.

”Mum! It’s—”

Before the sentence could finish, he was already sprinting again, this time straight toward Izan.

The sound of his shoes hitting the pavement came quickly, light, full of that unfiltered excitement only kids had.

He crashed into Izan’s front with a small thud, his arms wrapping around him in a tight, spontaneous hug, his head barely reaching Izan’s waist.

Izan chuckled softly, his hand instinctively going to the boy’s hair, ruffling it in the same way he had done when the boy was bedridden in the hospital.

”I see you have now got enough energy to run and not listen to your mom,” Izan said with a faint grin, as he flicked the boy’s forehead slightly.

By then, the boy’s mother had caught up, slightly breathless but smiling as she came closer.

She looked at Izan, recognition flickering in her eyes too, though tempered by warmth rather than surprise.

”Mr Miura. It’s been a while,” she said, her voice carrying a quiet familiarity.

Izan nodded, his smile softening. ”Yeah, it has been”, he replied.