God Of football

Chapter 898: Still Strong.

The afternoon had that calm, golden stillness that usually followed a long day of sun.

Izan’s car slowed along the row of brick buildings as students streamed out of King’s College, laughter echoing over the sound of closing doors and revving engines.

He spotted Olivia near the gates, phone in hand, waving when she noticed him, amid the stares and all the attention on her and the car he was picking her up in.

From his seat, he could see people from farther away whispering to one another and pointing towards Olivia as she slipped into the passenger seat, her bag thudding softly against the floor.

The scent of her faint perfume filled the air as she buckled up, pulling her hair over one shoulder.

Izan glanced at her briefly before steering back into the main road.

”How did it go?” he asked, eyes on the traffic but voice easy.

Olivia leaned back in her seat, a sly grin tugging at her lips.

”Well, someone told me this morning,” she said, turning to look at him, ”that there’s no way I’m failing when my boyfriend’s a genius and a serial winner.”

Izan shook his head, laughing quietly at her playing with his remarks from the morning earlier.

”Well, I guess that means you won against the paper?”

”Was there ever any doubt?” she said, stretching her legs.

”Yeah, I am pretty sure there was one or some when I dropped you off in the morning,” but Olivia just rolled her eyes at these words from Izan before twisting to face the back of the four-seater vehicle.

Miko was curled up on the seat, white fur rising and falling with each sleepy breath.

Olivia reached out, brushing a hand gently through the fluffy coat, whispering something soft that made the dog stir for a second before drifting off again.

The touch lingered on her face, calm and tender, before she turned back toward Izan.

The city slipped by in a blur of fading sunlight and slow-moving cars.

Olivia’s voice trailed off mid-sentence as the rhythm of the drive pulled her closer to sleep.

By the time they reached the bridge out of the city, her head had tilted toward the window, eyes closed, the faintest smile still caught on her face.

Izan glanced her way for a moment, his expression softening.

Between the sleeping girl beside him and the quiet dog in the back, the world felt okay for him.

He turned back to the road, one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other brushing against the bracelet on Olivia’s hand.

”I’m content,” he muttered as he turned onto the road leading to Hampstead.

Over the next couple of days, Miranda and her team sorted out the contract details with Adidas, making sure nothing was going against their biggest and only client, and soon, Izan was on his way to Adidas’s headquarters.

The private plane touched down in Herzogenaurach just after noon, sunlight spilling over the wide expanse of green fields that surrounded the small Bavarian town.

From the window seat, Izan watched the sleek silhouette of the Adidas headquarters come into view in the distance.

It wasn’t his first time here (obviously), but each time there, the complex looked like something out of a futuristic brochure: clean lines, glass walls, and a kind of quiet confidence that mirrored the brand’s history.

The car waiting for them at the airport whisked them straight to the campus.

Miranda sat beside him, a folder balanced on her lap, her eyes scanning through the last few pages of the contract as if to double-check what she already knew by heart.

Izan, on the other hand, leaned back, earphones in but not playing anything, just staring out at the world that seemed to blur past with the soft hum of the engine.

By the time they arrived, a light breeze had picked up.

The Adidas logo loomed large above the main building, sunlight glinting off the mirrored windows.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of new fabric and polished floors.

A young staffer, Webber’s secretary, led them through the lobby, where screens flashed with images of athletes, past and present, each wearing the three stripes like an unspoken badge of honour.

There were a few of Izan, too, mainly of the big moments in his short career, though there were too many to put them all on the moving walls.

Hans Webber was waiting in one of the glass meeting rooms upstairs, the same easy grin on his face as always.

He stood as they entered, shaking Izan’s hand first before turning to Miranda.

”Good to see you both again,” he said warmly. ”I trust the flight was fine?”

”Smooth,” Miranda replied, taking a seat.

She opened her folder, sliding the final version of the contract onto the table.

”I went through every clause again this morning. No hidden traps, no binding fine print. Everything’s as we discussed.”

Webber chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

”You wound me, Miranda. You think I’d risk a relationship like this over legal gymnastics?”

”Experience teaches caution,” she said, though there was a faint smile tugging at her lips.

”That I do not mind,” Webber said before turning to Izan, who sat quietly, with a short stick in hand, tapping lightly on the table and listening to the rhythm of their exchange.

Webber turned his attention toward him, his tone warm but sharp with interest.

Miranda then glanced toward Izan, a small nod giving him the go-ahead.

The pen met the paper, and in a few clean strokes, the new deal was sealed.

Cameras clicked almost immediately, first from the company’s in-house team, then from the small press crew invited to capture the moment.

Izan sat between Miranda and Webber, a broad smile on his face, the new contract folder resting on the table in front of them.

A few more shots followed: the handshake, a few of Izan pointing towards the Adidas logo and then the customary pose in front of the Adidas wall.

Minutes later, the world knew.

Adidas’s social pages lit up almost at once: high-resolution photos of Izan, the headline bold, simple, and almost comedic, with the little sentence at the end of the announcement.

”Adidas x Izan Hernandez: Still going strong after 1 year.”

The post said little about terms or figures, only hinting that it was a first-of-its-kind agreement.

Izan’s own accounts echoed the announcement, his caption brief and straight to the point.

Within minutes, the comment sections were flooded, fans, teammates, and media outlets all weighing in.

The buzz was instant and relentless, like a current that had been waiting to break.

Webber scrolled through the live metrics on his phone and gave a low whistle.

”Looks like it’s working already,” he said.

Miranda closed her folder, satisfied.

”It always does when the right story meets the right name.”

Webber turned to Izan again, his tone shifting slightly, more measured now.

”This is just the beginning,” he said. ”We have a lot to discuss once the cameras cool off.”

Izan nodded, resting his hands on the table.

”I’ll be ready.”

Webber smiled, nodding once before gesturing towards the door as the trio made their way out of the room.

....

The villa overlooked a stretch of green that could have been mistaken for a painting.

Evening light poured through the glass doors, spilling across the wooden floor and catching on the edge of a half-finished glass of juice beside Izan’s phone.

The air smelled faintly of the rain that had fallen earlier, fresh and quiet, the kind of stillness that makes you slow down whether you want to or not.

He sat on the couch in a white T-shirt and grey joggers, legs stretched out, the fatigue of the past few days finally catching up to him.

The extra rounds of meetings with Adidas had eaten through their schedule, and when Miranda suggested they stay a day longer instead of jumping back on a plane, Izan hadn’t argued.

The idea of another flight after barely 6 hours on the ground felt like punishment.

Miranda was in some part of the Villa on her laptop, typing softly while the TV played something muted in the background, not enough to distract him.

Izan scrolled lazily through his phone, half paying attention, until a post caught his eye.

”Manchester City eye Pietro Luis Cava as long-term replacement for Rodri.”

He stared at the headline for a few seconds, then tapped the video beneath it.

It showed clips of Pietro in Valencia colours, gliding across midfield like he always had, gritty but composed, playful in moments that shouldn’t allow for play.

Izan smiled faintly, shaking his head.

It wasn’t surprising, not really.

Pietro had been too good for Valencia over the past year, and it wasn’t only him.

Even his former Captain, Jose Gaya, his replacement, Lorenzo Piatelli and a few other players like Sosa had all sort of outgrown the club in their own way, with Izan even hearing some rumours about Piatelli joining Chelsea, with other clubs interested too in the other players.

What amused him was the way the post was written, the hype already building around a move that hadn’t even happened yet.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a moment before opening FaceTime.