God Of football

Chapter 895: The HIM Division.

The silence inside the Cafe stretched as Hans Webber straightened a folder on the table, his movements almost a tad bit ceremonial.

For a while, he said nothing, only exchanged a knowing glance with his secretary before finally meeting Izan’s eyes.

”I imagine you’ve both been wondering why we didn’t just send a new contract,” Webber began.

His voice carried a calm steadiness that instantly drew attention.

”That’s because this isn’t about a contract anymore.”

Miranda frowned slightly, tilting her head. ”Then what is it about?”

Webber’s lips curled into a small smile. ”A company.”

She blinked. ”A company?”

”Yes,” he said, sitting back in his chair.

”Money will always be money. We could offer more than what is being thrown around, but at the end of the day, it will be just that,” he continued, meeting the gazes of Izan and Miranda before speaking again.

”A new division created specifically for Izan is what we are planning on doing, or might I say, have already started. But it won’t function like a typical brand partnership.”

”Go on,” Miranda said, taking the cup of tea in front of her into her hands while Webber shook his head at her impatience.

”Think of it as a subsidiary, run independently, though fully supported by Adidas. We’re taking care of the registration, the staffing, the salaries, everything. All operations would exist solely for Izan, under the banner of the HIM. Hernandez Izan Miura.”

Miranda exchanged a quick look with Izan, who seemed almost unsure if he’d heard correctly.

Webber continued, his tone measured but proud.

”This division will produce and manage everything related to you,” he said.

”Boots, apparel, training wear, promotional campaigns. The HIM line will not just represent Adidas, it will represent you. And to make that tangible, we’re tying it to a stock. A stock based entirely on your brand’s growth and performance.”

Miranda leaned forward slightly, her brows furrowing in thought.

”A stock tied to Izan,” she said slowly. ”So the more he achieves, the higher the value rises.”

Webber nodded approvingly.

”Exactly. It’s a private stock, part of the Adidas structure but independently held. Izan would own one hundred per cent of it with none of the hassle it comes with and all of the benefits.”

The words hung there, heavy and electric.

Then Webber paused, tapping a finger against the folder before him.

”That said, Adidas would like to buy twenty per cent of that private stock, for four hundred million euros. You know, as a good show of faith, and a way to buy into the true, unrestrained potential we see.”

Miranda exhaled quietly, glancing at Izan, who sat still, his hands clasped lightly in front of him.

The secretary slid a stack of documents across the table, thick with freshly printed pages and neatly tabbed sections.

Webber waited until the rustle of paper settled before speaking again.

”We’ve seen the Nike contract,” he said finally, turning his gaze to Miranda.

There was no accusation in his tone, just a quiet understanding of her doing what was best for her client.

Miranda met his stare, a small smirk tugging at her lips, though she said nothing, and Webber gave a faint chuckle.

”And so, aside from everything I’ve just mentioned, Adidas will match every figure they offered.”

Silence took over as even the faint buzz of conversation in the café seemed to fade.

Izan leaned back slightly, still processing what he’d just heard.

Miranda’s expression didn’t change much, but her eyes flicked toward the folder, studying it with a kind of quiet calculation.

”So what’s the catch?” Miranda finally said after Hans Webber didn’t speak for a few moments.

”Of course,” Webber said after a moment, breaking the stillness, ”that kind of commitment comes with terms. Two years. No negotiations, no talks with Nike, no reconsiderations. You stay with us, no matter what heights you reach in that time, and if this is all fulfilled, we will talk”

He looked directly at Izan, then at Miranda again, his smile faint but weary.

”All these shocks tied to you, Izan,” he said softly, ”are making me age faster than I should.”

Miranda smiled faintly while Izan just nodded, the weight of the offer settling between them.

Webber leaned back slightly, his eyes moving between the two of them before settling on Izan.

”So,” he said, his tone measured but probing, ”what do you think, Izan?”

Miranda’s gaze cut toward him, sharp enough to make most people back off, but Webber held it without flinching.

”What?” he asked with a faint smirk. ”Last time we renegotiated, the details were out before I even got back to my office. Competitors knew, the media knew. This time, I wanted to make sure I controlled every inch of it.”

He gave a small chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

”My orders were clear. Do whatever it takes to keep you. So I did most of this myself.”

Miranda raised a brow. ”This is all you could do with everything they gave you?”

Webber shrugged easily.

”I can’t throw the entire vault at Izan now and be left scrambling when he’s twice as valuable or most definitely more in two years,” he said.

”I know what’s coming. This deal is built to keep him here, not just for now, but when things get louder.”

Miranda gave a small, crooked smile. ”You tell all your clients that?”

That earned a genuine laugh from Webber.

”I don’t have other clients. My title sounds grand, but it’s mostly for show. I only deal with Izan.”

That drew a faint raise of Miranda’s eyebrow, her expression unreadable as she turned slightly toward Izan, who had been quiet, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the folder.

After a moment, he looked up at Webber. ”What I always want to know is what if I don’t live up to what you’re banking on?” he asked quietly.

Webber’s response came without hesitation.

”You’re not potential, Izan,” he said, his tone calm but certain. ”You’re an improbable truth. That’s rarer.”

For the first time in a while, Izan’s mouth curved into a small, genuine smirk.

He gave Miranda a small nod, the kind that said everything without needing words.

Miranda looked back at Webber.

”It seems my client likes the deal,” she said simply.

Webber dipped his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

”I put a lot into it,” he said. ”Glad to hear it.”

Miranda rose, smoothing her coat.

”We’ll go through the contract again with my people,” she said. ”We’ll be in touch soon.”

”Of course,” Webber replied, standing as well.

He extended his hand, shaking Miranda’s first, firm and brief, then turned to Izan.

”I hope we meet again at the signing.”

Izan met his gaze for a moment before nodding once and shaking his hand.

”We’ll see,” he said quietly.

Miranda gave Webber a polite smile before turning toward the door with Izan following close behind, stepping out into the cool air, leaving Webber and his secretary watching them go.

....

The car ride back was quiet.

Miranda had her eyes on the road, her fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, while Izan stared out the window, the city lights flickering across his reflection.

Neither spoke, but the silence wasn’t that loud.

When they finally pulled into the driveway in Hampstead, both stepped out almost in sync, the crunch of gravel underfoot breaking the stillness before they stepped onto the brickway leading up to the house.

They entered the house without a word, hanging their coats by the door before the familiar warmth of home settled around them.

Komi appeared from the hallway, a questioning look on her face.

”You two look like you just lost a final,” she said, studying their unusually dull expressions.

”Was it bad? Because of Nike pulling out?”

She crossed her arms, her tone softening as she tried to lighten the mood.

”You know, the last deal was already massive. It’s not like you—”

Before she could finish, Izan brushed past her, taking a turn into the kitchen.

Komi blinked after him, a little confused, before hearing the faint clink of a bottle.

When he came back, a champagne in hand, she could only stare, half-amused, half-bewildered, trying to piece together what was going on.

Miranda had already dropped onto the couch in the living room, one heel dangling lazily off her foot.

Izan walked straight to her, bottle in hand, as if he’d just come back from scoring a goal, while Komi followed cautiously, frowning a little.

Then, without warning, music filled the room, something upbeat, completely at odds with the earlier silence.

Izan grinned, twisted the cork, and popped the champagne.

The sudden burst made Komi flinch, but Miranda only laughed, tossing a few crumpled bills from her purse at him.

Champagne fizzed onto the rug, Miranda was laughing, and Izan was shaking the bottle like a kid.

Komi just stared at them, her frown melting into disbelief.

Then she sighed, shaking her head with a small laugh. ”You two are impossible.”

Izan raised the bottle toward Miranda; she lifted her glass, still laughing, and the sound of their clinking glasses drowned out all of Komi’s complaints.