God Of football

Chapter 838: First 3 Points.

”Full time at the TQL Stadium,” the commentator’s voice carried over the fading roar of the crowd, steady and clear beneath the hum of the evening on the broadcast.

”Arsenal begin their Club World Cup campaign with a solid 2–0 victory over Pachuca.”

The scoreboard glowed in the humid Cincinnati night, Arsenal 2, Pachuca 0, its red digits cutting through the haze like embers.

On the pitch, players slumped to the grass, shirts soaked and sticking to their backs.

A few Arsenal men lifted their hands to applaud the fans behind the dugout, while Pachuca’s players walked more slowly, disappointment written in the drag of their boots.

”It’s a pretty convincing win,” the co-commentator added, his tone a blend of relief and realism.

”But let’s be honest, it could’ve been a draw, at the very least, if Pachuca had their scoring boots on tonight. They had chances... big ones. Arsenal will know they got away with a few.”

Down below, Martin Ødegaard and Ben White exchanged jerseys with their Mexican counterparts, the damp fabric clinging awkwardly in the sweltering air while Gabriel hugged a familiar opponent at midfield.

As the players began filing toward the tunnel, the main commentator rounded off the broadcast, his voice mellow but satisfied.

”It’s been a long, hot evening here in Cincinnati, temperatures touching thirty degrees even at kickoff, but Arsenal won’t care one bit. They’ve done the job. Three points in the bag, and in conditions that were anything but friendly.”

The camera followed the last red shirt disappearing into the tunnel’s shadow.

”So, Arsenal start strong in Group H,” the voice continued, ”and now they’ll be watching closely as Real Madrid take on Al Hilal next. That one could shape the group early. From the TQL Stadium... Arsenal 2, Pachuca 0. Good night.”

And with that, the broadcast faded out, the last image, a wide shot of the pitch under lights, empty now except for groundsmen moving slowly across it, rakes in hand, as the hum of victory hung faintly in the humid air.

....

In the dimly lit living room in Hampstead, the afterglow of the match was still flickering across the wide TV screen.

The post-match analysis had long given way to replays and sponsor reels, yet the Hernandez family still lingered where they were, half-slouched, half-engaged, each in their own comfortable sprawl.

Hori, curled on the far end of the couch with a pillow hugged to her chest, turned toward Izan.

”Why did your team look so... mortal today?” she asked, brow creasing.

”I mean, Pachuca wasn’t even supposed to be that much of a threat.”

Izan, lounging in a loose tee and sweatpants, tilted his head toward her with a faint grin.

”Football is unpredictable. Also, you’re forgetting one thing,” he began, stretching his legs out.

”Most of those guys have already played over fifty games this season. I think I clocked around sixty-four, and that’s not even counting the ones during international breaks.”

He paused, rubbing a hand over his face as if just mentioning it made him tired again.

”It was always going to take a toll,” he said.

”Add that to the fact that they’re playing under blazing heat, and you’ve got to remember, most of them are used to freezing rain, not Cincinnati sun.”

He gave a soft chuckle, summing it up simply, ”In short, they’re hot, they’re tired, and they’re human.”

Olivia, sprawled beside him on the couch, gave a lazy hum of agreement, her eyes half-closed.

Izan reached for his phone on the coffee table and scrolled through the tournament app.

”Next game’s on the twenty-second,” he said after a beat.

”Against Al Hilal. Four days. That’s plenty of time for them to recover... and for me to keep lazing around before I fly out.”

Miranda, who had been flipping through a stack of folders beside her, glanced up.

”You should probably go at least two days earlier,” she said.

”You still have the brand deals to finish, Purina, —”

Izan groaned before she even finished the sentence, leaning back dramatically into the couch.

”No, no, no. Don’t remind me. I still haven’t recovered from the last one,” he said, hand to his chest in mock agony.

”Fourteen hours, Miranda. Fourteen. Standing there while they strapped sensors all over me like I was some sci-fi experiment. If I knew that was what was going to happen, I would have flown to the shoot in the US and then come back again. I’m still traumatised.”

Miranda’s lips twitched, fighting a smile.

”But you survived”, she said dryly.

”I won’t,” Izan replied flatly, already pushing himself up.

”And that’s why I’m staying right here till the last possible minute.” He stretched, yawning as he began heading toward the stairs.

”I’m off before anyone else gives me homework.”

While Izan and Miranda continued bickering, Komi, without missing a beat, reached for the remote and switched the channel.

The bright colours of a rainforest documentary filled the room, birds shrieking, water dripping, and sunlight cutting through the green canopy.

”Ah,” she sighed contentedly, leaning back.

”Now this... is real football.”

Olivia snorted softly at that, and Hori rolled her eyes as the sounds of Izan’s footsteps faded upstairs, his mock complaints echoing faintly down the hallway, swallowed by the calm hum of nature on screen.

Upstairs, Izan pushed his door open before closing it with his feet.

He tossed his phone onto the bed, only to pick it up again a second later, grinning as he dropped a message into the team group chat.

Izan:My little sister just said we looked mortal. Said we didn’t even look like Arsenal out there.

The typing bubbles popped up instantly, first one, then two, then five, like the whole squad had something to say at once.

The notifications rolled in for a second, his phone vibrating in his palm... and then suddenly, everything stopped.

The typing bubbles vanished. Total silence.

Izan blinked, waiting.

Then he started laughing, shaking his head.

”Yeah,” he muttered, ”Arteta must’ve walked into the locker room.”

A single message finally came through, from Nwaneri.

Nwaneri: Bro, even though I didn’t play much, I’m too tired to argue. Tell your sister it’s easy to talk from the couch when you’re not running in that heat.

Izan chuckled again, dropping his phone on the pillow and stretching out, a grin still on his face.

The chat stayed quiet after that, proof enough that the boss reallyhad shown up.

....

[5 DAYS LATER]

The hum of the terminal filled the air, distant chatter, rolling luggage wheels, a faint announcement echoing through Philadelphia International Airport.

Izan sat near the pick-up lane, his suitcase turned into a makeshift seat.

His hoodie was pulled up, the drawstrings cinched tight, a black mask covering most of his face.

It was the perfect disguise, or so he thought.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun glared off the glass panels as a black SUV rolled up to the curb.

One of Arsenal’s player liaisons stepped out, phone in hand, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on Izan.

”Welcome to Philly,” the man said warmly, reaching for Izan’s bag.

Izan shook his head, pushing himself to his feet.

”It’s okay, I’ve got it,” he said, his voice muffled through the mask.

He wheeled the bag to the back of the car and lifted it in.

He was just about to pull open the passenger door when a voice came from behind him.

”Excuse me, but are you... Izan?”

The tone was uncertain, but hopeful.

Izan turned, his brow raising slightly.

The speaker was a young guy, maybe early twenties, clutching a hoodie and a marker with the kind of nervous energy only true fans carried.

Izan hesitated for a beat, then nodded.

The guy’s reaction was instant, a small, disbelieving laugh, half-cheer, half-gasp, before he stammered, ”Could you—uh—could you sign this? Please?”

Izan’s eyes softened.

He reached up, tugged his mask down, revealing a faint smile.

”Sure,” he said, taking the marker. ”What’s your name?”

”Gray,” the fan replied quickly, his voice trembling a little.

”Gray,” Izan repeated, testing the name, a faint smirk tugging his lips.

”Nice one.”

He leaned the fabric against the car door and wrote carefully:

Thanks for supporting me, Gray.

— Izan

Gray held up the signed cloth like it was a relic, eyes wide, grin wide enough to hurt.

Izan chuckled under his breath, sliding the marker back into the fan’s hand.

”How’d you even know it was me?” Izan asked, curiosity flickering across his face, as he put one hand on the doorknob.

”I mean—hoodie, mask, airport—it’s not exactly obvious.”

Gray grinned, pointing at Izan’s sneakers.

”Those,” he said confidently.

”Those are part of the SPZL lineup, with Liam and Noel of Oasis. They are supposed to be released only in Japan. They’re not even out yet. I figured if anyone was wearing them this early, it had to be you. You’ve got that build, too, so I took a shot.”

Izan blinked, then laughed quietly, shaking his head.

”Fair play,” he said, a bit unconvinced but with a half-smile before tugging the mask back over his face.

He gave Gray a small nod before slipping into the SUV, the door shutting with a clean click.

Through the tinted glass, Gray was still standing there, holding the signed hoodie like something sacred.

Izan leaned back against the seat, eyes glinting faintly under the shadow of his hood, before the SUV rolled out of the airport and into the hot Philadelphia evening.