God Of football

Chapter 880: What To Do Next

Red and white confetti drifted like soft rain as Izan, still half-smiling from the podium moments earlier, jogged along the touchline with the trophy in his hand.

The crowd roared each time he lifted it high, a thousand flashlights flickering back like stars.

Near the advertising boards, a reporter stepped forward, her mic trembling slightly from the noise.

”Izan,” she called out with a grin that carried both awe and exhaustion, ”first of all, congratulations, world champion.”

Izan stopped, catching his breath, before handing over the trophy to Nwaneri beside him, who walked away.

”Thank you,” he said, nodding lightly while positioning his medal well.

The reporter leaned closer.

”So, I have to ask... how was it celebrating up there with Donald Trump?”

That got a small laugh out of him.

”Honestly?” he said.

”I was surprised. I didn’t expect that. But he was there, smiling, celebrating... and we just kind of went with it. It’s been that kind of night.”

She smiled, almost disbelieving.

”Fair enough. Now that it’s all over, the season, the tournaments, the trophies, what’s next?”

He shook his head, eyes wandering toward the stands still chanting his name.

”A bit of everything, I think,” he said quietly.

”Rest. Family. Maybe some sunlight that’s not from stadium floodlights.”

The reporter laughed, thanking him, and offered one last congratulations for the sweep of individual awards.

Izan just nodded politely, gave a short wave to the camera, and turned toward the tunnel.

Waiting there were Olivia and Hori, no Miranda, no Komi.

His brows knit as he approached.

”Where are the other two?” he asked.

Hori glanced back toward the stadium seats, already sliding her phone into her pocket.

”Miranda said she wasn’t feeling too good, so she went back to the hotel. Mum went with her.”

Izan nodded, wiping sweat off his temple.

”We’ll check on her later then.”

”Of course,” Hori said, before drifting off again, adjusting her cropped Arsenal top with her brother’s name and number ten printed boldly across it, already posing for photos with a group of fans nearby like she was the star and not her brother.

Olivia, still beside him, slipped her fingers into his.

”I’ve got a place in mind,” she said, eyes bright. ”We should all go, Miranda, Komi, Hori... you too.”

He raised a brow, smiling faintly.

”I thought this was going to be just us. This works too, though.”

Olivia giggled.

”We’ll have our time, don’t worry. But tonight, it’s all of us.”

He nodded, leaning in to press a quick kiss on her cheek before a familiar voice cut through the hum again.

”Hey, Izan!” Hori jogged back toward them, grinning.

”Where’s your medal?”

Without thinking, Izan slipped it off his neck and handed it to her.

”Keep it safe. Don’t go selling it though,” he teased, earning a playful glare as Hori walked off.

Just as she did, a staff member appeared from behind, carrying Izan’s three golden awards, their surfaces shimmering under the lights.

At his feet, the man nudged a ball to halt.

”Your awards, Izan,” the staffer said, smiling.

”Thanks,” Izan replied. ”Could you keep them in front of my locker for me?”

”Of course.”

The staff member bent slightly to collect the ball, but Izan stopped him, rolling the ball to his own feet.

”I’ll take this one,” he said softly.

”Just take these ones with you.”

The man nodded and walked away, leaving Izan standing there with the ball at his feet, the noise of the celebration echoing behind him.

....

The morning came in fragments as a pale light crept through the half-drawn curtains, bouncing off of Izan’s face as he stirred.

The hum of an air conditioner filled the room, low and steady, almost covering the faint groans that came from somewhere on the floor.

He blinked awake, face half-buried in a pillow, body stiff from how he’d slept.

His head wasn’t aching, but it felt heavy, like an entire house had been placed on his head for a while and then taken off.

He exhaled slowly and pushed himself upright.

For a moment, his mind was blank, no thought, no memory, just the dull ache of reality after a night of celebration.

When he tried to get off the bed, his foot met something soft and warm.

Then came a muffled sound.

Izan froze and looked down.

Nwaneri.

The other teenager was sprawled across the carpet in his Arsenal tracksuit, arm tucked under his face.

Izan had stepped right on his leg, and though the kid shifted a bit, he didn’t wake.

”What the hell...” Izan muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as his eyes scanned the room.

Bodies.

Everywhere.

Two on the couch, one slumped on the armchair, another half under the table with an empty water bottle clutched like a trophy.

Someone’s jacket hung off the lampshade, and another had their leg kicked up on the minibar.

It looked like the aftermath of a festival no one remembered leaving.

He shook his head, half amused, half confused.

”We, I mean I didn’t even drink though...” he mumbled, stepping carefully between the mess of limbs and shoes.

He made it to the bathroom, turning on the tap and splashing cold water on his face.

The sting was sharp, but it helped.

The band holding his long hair loosened and slipped, his hair falling over his face and getting soaked.

He sighed, leaning closer into the sink and letting the water run over it anyway.

No point fighting it.

After a while, he finally straightened up, drying his face with a towel, but just then, something flickered at the edge of his vision.

His system.

It was faint at first, like light reflecting off glass, then it solidified before his eyes, the translucent screen that had been the secret to his success.

The same metallic blue glow.

[Congratulations, Izan. You have completed a major achievement.]

”Could have at least greeted first,” he said, tossing his towel over his shoulder.

[You have won the Club World Cup, completing five trophies in a single season. Achievement unlocked: ’The Quintuple Crown.’]

Izan’s brows raised slightly.

”Five trophies, huh,” he said under his breath, but just then, a new message blinked at the bottom of the screen: ”Click to claim rewards.”

His hand hovered in the air, finger almost reaching for it, but then, a loud thud came at the door.

He froze, glancing toward the noise.

A groan followed.

Then footsteps.

He walked to the bathroom door and opened it just as Nwaneri stumbled inside, drool solidified on his cheek, with his eyes barely open.

The kid didn’t even see him before dropping to his knees and vomiting into the toilet.

Izan blinked, then chuckled, leaning against the wall.

”Good morning to you, too,” he muttered.

Nwaneri groaned something inaudible just as Izan reached for the roll of tissues, tore off a few sheets, and handed them over.

”Here,” he said, trying not to laugh.

”You might need that more than me.”

Nwaneri took them weakly, wiping his mouth without looking up.

Izan waited a second, then pulled his phone from the counter, holding it up.

”Smile.”

Nwaneri squinted, confused, but before he could react, the flash went off.

”For the future,” Izan said with a grin, tucking the phone into his pocket before walking out.

Behind him, the sound of running water, mixed with groans, returned as he stepped back into the room, still littered with sleeping teammates.

The screen of his system lingered faintly in the corner of his vision, the unclaimed reward still pulsing softly in the blue light before he willed it away.

He was going to ignore it for now.

”Yeah, whatever happened last night... they earned it,” he said while glancing around the room.

...

”Arsenal conquer the world.”

”Izan Hernandez leads Arsenal to quintuple glory. What is next for him?”

”Seventeen years old and rewriting football’s limits.”

Izan just exhaled through his nose, a small puff of amusement at the flashy headlines on his phone.

Across from him, Nwaneri sat slumped forward, one arm draped over the table, the other clutching his stomach.

His eyes were half-open, his expression the kind you only saw on someone who regretted life itself.

”You might want to have it checked out soon if it’s that bad,” Izan said quietly, without looking up.

”Yeah, I should”, Nwaneri muttered, voice hoarse.

He shifted in his seat and groaned again, dropping his forehead onto the table.

Izan chuckled under his breath.

”You didn’t even drink..... much, I think”

”My body’s telling me I did.”

Before Izan could reply, a familiar voice came from the doorway.

”Morning, champions.”

Heads turned slowly at the door where Bukayo Saka stood, eyes bright, in a white Arsenal hoodie and in his arms was the Club World Cup trophy, cradled almost like a child.

A few players started laughing while others broke into small applause as Saka began walking forward.

”You actually brought it,” someone said from one of the tables.

Saka grinned, parading it around like he owned the place.

”You lot left it in the hallway last night. Couldn’t risk security getting ideas, you know. I’d rather sell it myself on Amazon.”