God Of football

Chapter 871: You’re Enough.

The morning sun spilt softly across the MetLife pitch, its grass trimmed to a blade and painted with white lines so clean it almost looked new.

The air echoed faintly with sound, mainly with the sound of boots meeting the ball, the echo of coaches calling out directions, and, beneath it all, the click-click-click of cameras tracking every move.

On the far side, the Arsenal squad went through their final session before the Club World Cup final.

The players looked sharp, focused.

There was laughter here and there, a few inside jokes when someone overhit a pass or took a poor first touch, but none of them had forgotten what would be at stake in the afternoon of the next day.

Away from them, reporters watched from a fenced-off section behind the advertising boards, their lenses fixed on the pitch.

Every sprint, every smile, every small word exchanged between Arteta and a player was captured, waiting to be dissected and turned into something headline-worthy.

From where they stood, the Arsenal players looked untouchable, but Izan, as usual, drew the longest stares.

It was that easy when you were the biggest thing football had ever seen.

He moved like he had all the time in the world, cutting through the drills effortlessly.

Every time he touched the ball, the cameras followed.

After a while had passed, Arteta clapped once, sharp and loud, and the noise carried across the field.

The drills slowed, then stopped altogether while the players gathered around as the session came to its end.

The cameras zoomed in immediately, eager for that final shot, that one image of the team’s last huddle before the biggest night of their season.

From the press enclosure, they couldn’t hear the words, but they could see the gestures.

Arteta spoke with his hands, his voice low and controlled, his players standing close in a half-circle.

Then he turned slightly, looking toward Izan, and said something brief.

Izan nodded, wiping his face with a towel as the manager started walking toward the barrier separating the field from the media section.

The journalists straightened up, microphones already in hand for what was to come.

When they reached the edge, Arteta rested a hand on Izan’s shoulder.

”You lot want him?” he said simply, a faint smirk crossing his face. ”There you go.”

He gave Izan a small pat on the back and stepped aside, just far enough to make it clear he wasn’t taking questions, but close enough to listen if anything interesting happened.

The reporters swarmed quickly but still with a strange kind of restraint.

They knew the line between boldness and being shut out completely.

One of the French journalists was first to speak, his accent cutting through the crowd.

”Izan, Luis Enrique said earlier that this match won’t be like the second leg in May. He says PSG have learned from that night. What do you make of that?”

Izan smiled faintly, shifting his weight on one leg, eyes steady.

”I think that’s a fair thing for a coach to say,” he replied.

”He’s doing what he should do. You learn from your losses, right? It’s his job to prepare his players, and I respect that. What he said isn’t harmful. It’s just a projection of what he thinks he can bring to the final.”

The journalists nodded, a few scribbling down his words.

Another one raised his voice almost immediately and changed the whole flow of the questions being asked.

”And about the Ballon d’Or, Izan, how are you feeling about that now that everyone’s been talking about it?”

That made him pause for the first time.

He looked away, squinting toward the empty seats of the stadium as if the question floated somewhere there.

When he turned back, his answer came out even, measured.

”I don’t really think about it that much. Everyone keeps talking about it, saying how it shouldn’t even be a question for them to hand it over to me. I’m not the one voting. I don’t have any inside information or anything. All I can do is play my football.”

But another voice jumped in right after, this time from the Spanish side of the press area.

”Still, seventy-seven goals, thirty-seven assists, four trophies already, maybe a fifth tomorrow. Surely that has to mean something, right? You must feel confident.”

The tone wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t innocent either.

Izan’s eyes flickered, the corner of his jaw tightening just slightly.

He gave a short laugh, one that didn’t fully reach his eyes.

”Honestly, I don’t even know the criteria or how and what it is judged by,” he said.

”If it happens, it happens. I just play. You guys know the rest better than I do.”

The reporters chuckled lightly, but their expressions didn’t soften.

They were fishing, waiting for a sentence they could turn into a headline, and Izan could tell.

Despite his short but well-fulfilled career, he’d been around this too many times to miss it.

For a few seconds, nobody said anything else, and it felt like they were all just staring, waiting for him to slip and say something that could be twisted.

He folded his arms loosely, giving a polite nod instead, signalling that he was done answering that line of questioning.

Before anyone could push again, a voice came from behind the cameras.

”That’s all for now,” one of the Arsenal staffers said. ”Players need to head in for recovery.”

The reporters let out a quiet collective sigh, some disappointed, some satisfied that they’d at least gotten something to work with.

Izan gave a short nod to them before turning away, jogging lightly toward Arteta, who was waiting just beyond the sideline.

The coach didn’t say anything at first.

He just started walking, and Izan matched his pace.

The rest of the squad was already beginning to head back toward the tunnel, boots crunching softly against the ground.

Arteta glanced sideways at him after a few steps. ”Handled that well,” he said.

”I know,” Izan replied quietly.

Arteta gave a small smile, not looking at him.

They reached the tunnel entrance as the rest of the players disappeared into its shadow.

...

Back at the hotel and now freshened up, Izan sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, the dim bedside lamp washing his face in a soft amber hue.

On the other end of the line, Olivia’s voice carried a mix of teasing curiosity and genuine nerves.

”How do you not feel nervous about these things?” she asked, half laughing.

”I get shaky just presenting in class, and you’re out there with cameras, fans, all that noise. It doesn’t even look like you flinch.”

Izan smiled faintly, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his phone.

”You get used to it,” he said quietly.

Olivia scoffed, a small snort cutting through her words.

”Yeah, sure. Like that’s ever going to happen.”

The line went silent for a moment, like both of them were just sitting there breathing the same air from two different places.

Then Olivia spoke again, voice softer now.

”Do you... want to go sightseeing after the game?”

Izan’s lips curved slightly, though his voice came with a tired exhale.

”Why do you sound like it’s a bad thing?” he asked, tone light, curious.

”I don’t,” she said quickly, then hesitated. ”I just—”

He cut in gently.

”Liv, if you want to go, just say it. Be a bit more assertive.”

Olivia went quiet, and when she spoke again, her tone dropped lower, a touch fragile.

”It’s not that. I just feel like...” she paused, ”you’re too big now. Like, I don’t really contribute anything to you. And you are only going to get bigger from here.”

Izan leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling.

For a second, he didn’t know what to say because he knew this wasn’t the kind of thing you brushed off with a laugh or a compliment.

He stayed silent, thinking, before finally speaking, his voice steady but warm.

”You’re enough for me,” he said simply.

Olivia let out a small, unsure breath. ”Izan...”

”Who do I go to after a game?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated. ”Me.”

”Right,” Izan said. ”And who do I ask for cuddles from?”

That earned a tiny laugh through her nose.

”You make it sound like I’m a comfort blanket.”

”You are,” he said. ”And that’s okay. Because you are mine and we are okay together.”

You could almost hear Olivia smiling faintly through her sniffle before she muttered, ”Thank you.”

”Yes, Olivia,” Izan replied gently. ”You’re enough.”

The sound of her breathing came uneven for a moment, and Izan could tell she was holding back a few tears.

He grinned a little.

”You’re older than me, but you’re such a big crybaby. And why on the night before a trophy-winning game do you choose to do this?”

She sniffed again, laughing through it. ”You can’t hype me up and then start bullying me. That’s not how it works.”

”I’m not bullying,” Izan said with mock seriousness. ”If I don’t do it, nobody will.”

Olivia giggled softly, and the heaviness that had lingered between them began to fade, replaced by something only the two would know and feel.

”Alright,” Izan said after a pause, his tone brightening.

”You pick a few places you want to see, I’ll pick mine, and we’ll go together. Just us two. After the game.”

”Deal,” she said, her voice small but smiling.

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him, and for a few seconds neither of them spoke again.

Then Izan looked at the phone screen before the call dropped and smiled to himself.

”I’m a cool Boyfriend,” he muttered to himself before falling back on his bed.