Chapter 501: Against The Saints
The call ended, and Izan set the phone down again, stretching both arms behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.
“Was that Miranda?” Olivia said, stepping out from behind the counter.
Izan nodded as Olivia approached before realising she had gotten closer now.
“Olivia, don’t-” Izan tried to say, but the forr hurled herself onto him, sending them both to the ground from the couch, Izan wheezing slightly while Olivia chuckled in silence.
The vibration of Izan’s phone ca again—this ti with a ping from Miranda.
He reached for it and opened the ssage thread to see a PDF file attached alongside a short note.
Miranda:
Here’s the official statent for your socials. Adidas is posting theirs at 2PM sharp. Sync your posts to go out at the sa ti. The 30-sec ad is already embedded for Instagram and X. You just have to hit post.
He sat up properly on the edge of the couch now, Olivia peeking at the screen over his shoulder.
“Is this it?” she asked, brushing her fingers against his forearm.
Izan nodded.
“Yeah. It’s official now.”
The statent was clean, sharp, and powerful.
His na appeared in bold at the top, right under the Adidas logo, with a caption beneath it:
“We Got HIM, Our Future.”
There was no need to overdo it.
The visuals did the heavy lifting. A dark backdrop.
Quick flashes of his most recent free-kick goal from the PSG ga intercut with slow-motion clips of him in Arsenal’s blacked-out third kit.
Street football footage from the shoot they did last month in Camden.
The final scene showed him walking into the tunnel, back turned, the na IZAN and number 10 clear, as the screen faded into the Adidas three stripes.
The 30-second spot was precise, cinematic, and soaked in intent.
He selected the prewritten caption Miranda sent and scheduled it for both X and Instagram:
Proud to announce a new chapter with @Adidasfootball. Honoured to represent the three stripes. Let’s go further.
#TeamAdidas #HIM10
The tir hit 2:00 PM.
He pressed “Post.”
Within seconds, the numbers started ticking garnering a hundred thousands likes in the first few minutes as well as comnts flooding in.
Adidas’s global accounts echoed the sa visuals and ssaging, amplifying the announcent to millions.
Across the internet, the response was imdiate.
Sky Sports:
“Adidas land teenage superstar Izan Hernandez in a long-term deal rumoured to be one of the biggest in football in recent years.”
The Athletic:
“Exact figures remain confidential, but sources close to the deal estimate a base package of €25–30M per year, excluding bonuses and performance triggers.”
Daily Mail:
“16-year-old signs multimillion-euro deal with Adidas—despite not being old enough to drive.”
Fan accounts took it further, breaking down projected clauses, boot sponsorships, and even special edition kits that might be released next season.
@ArsenalBuzz
This Izan x Adidas deal is wild. If the rumours are true, it’s bigger than what Bellingham got after he joined Real Madrid.
@FootballVerse
Adidas just secured their ssi 2.0. And no, that’s not an exaggeration. The boy is different.
@GuntalGooners
Can we just take a mont to realize our number 10 is sixteen and pulling numbers Premier League legends would’ve dread of?
@CescTheGoat
Got Lamine and now resigned Izan on a better deal. The person who has being doing these deals should get a raise. Much better than Nike getting that crybaby from Real Madrid.
Izan watched the storm unfold from the living room, legs curled up on the couch, Olivia beside him, scrolling through her own feed.
Notifications were pinging endlessly.
His follower count had already jumped another 50K in less than an hour.
He leaned back, quietly soaking in the mont.
He exited his socials and went to his ssages, pulling up his chats with Miranda.
“Should we buy the house now?”
He looked at the ssage for a but before hitting the send button, resting his head on Olivia’s chest after that.
……….
[Thursday]
Colney was quiet, but not sleepy.
Most of the senior squad had reported early for a routine post-match recovery session.
No intense drills, no ball work—just light stretching, cold baths, physio-guided exercises, and keeping the legs ticking over.
The mood was easy, heads a little heavy, legs a little sore, but the buzz from the win still lingered faintly in the air.
Izan arrived in a black Adidas hoodie, wireless earbuds in, nodding slightly to a track only he could hear.
The receptionist greeted him with a knowing smile whispering a small ‘Congratulations’ with Izan furrowing his brow before realising what she ant then mouthing a ‘Thank You’ in response.
Inside the gym, a few of the lads were already halfway through the routine.
Gabriel Jesus had his shirt off and was seated on a foam roller, groaning dramatically as he worked the tightness out of his quads.
Martinelli was in a corner, laughing at sothing on his phone with Kiwior.
Near the stretching mats, Nwaneri and Saka stood like two younger brothers waiting for their chance to stir trouble.
“Ah, look who’s here,” Saka called out, hands on his hips.
“Mr. Adidas.”
Izan gave a tired grin as he set his bag down and walked over.
“Don’t start.”
“Too late,” Nwaneri said with a sly smirk.
“We were just saying how it’s only fair you get us so gifts. You know, a little sothing for the team. Teammates of the Year.”
“Yeah, bro,” Saka added, already pacing alongside him toward the stretching area.
“Couple pairs of Yeezys, new Predators, throw in a few wristbands. I’m not greedy.”
Izan lay flat on the mat and began stretching his hamstrings, eyes closed.
“You both want gifts, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” said Nwaneri.
Izan popped one eye open.
“Okay, I’ll get you matching teddy bears.”
Zinchenko, just walking in with Trossard, caught the last line and burst out laughing.
“Teddy bears? Is that where all the Adidas money’s going?”
Without missing a beat, Izan replied dryly, “Candies and teddy bears. Sotis gummy worms. Depends on the week.” Izan said, earning a chuckle from Trossard.
“He’s not even joking, is he?”
“Course he’s not,” Zinchenko said, mock-serious.
“I bet his savings account is just a big toy chest sowhere in Spain.”
Saka raised his hand, pretending to pitch an idea.
“New ad campaign: ‘Three Stripes, One Bear at a Ti.’ What do you think, Izan?”
Izan just laughed, then finally stood up and rotated his shoulders, letting the mood hang light for a second before asking, “Has anyone heard if Arteta’s gonna rotate for Southampton?”
Jesus wandered over with a half-eaten protein bar.
“Doubt it. We’ve got the break after that, innit? He’ll want the montum.”
Indeed, murmurs of the international break were already making their rounds through the hallways of Colney.
Players were receiving preliminary calls and notifications through their agents.
Several mbers of the staff had been coordinating with national federations about release dates and logistics.
Saka and Rice were already confird for England duty, while Gabriel had Brazil.
Zinchenko was being monitored by Ukraine, though his minutes were still being managed post-injury.
Still, for today, it was ice baths and banter.
The lads rotated from cold plunges to infrared saunas, through resistance bands and stretch ropes.
Izan followed every instruction from the physios without complaint, keeping his ears open, laughing when jokes were cracked, and never drifting too far from the group.
Later, as they towelled off and prepared to head out for lunch, Zinchenko threw an arm around Izan’s shoulder, shaking him slightly.
“Hey, when you hit a hundred mil, let be your financial advisor. I’ll teach you how to invest in Ukrainian potatoes.”
Saka nearly tripped laughing. “Bro said potatoes.”
Izan looked deadpan.
“Only if you promise to bring the teddy bears returns up to 20%.”
They all erupted.
Just another day at Colney.
They were visiting the Saints next.
Another three points were up for grabs before the world of international duty pulled them all in separate directions.
And for Izan, perhaps, another step toward sothing even bigger.
……….
[3 days later]
St Mary’s Stadium – Halfti
The roar inside St Mary’s was deafening—but not from the ho crowd.
It was the travelling Arsenal faithful who had turned the south coast into a north London outpost, their chants spilling into the sky, echoing off the red-seated stands, while the ho supporters sat stunned and hollow-eyed behind their flags and foam hands.
On the digital scoreboard, the numbers glared like a wound.
SOU 0 – 3 ARS
The cara panned across the Southampton players trudging toward the tunnel, heads bowed, jerseys already streaked with sweat and frustration.
On the opposite end, Arsenal moved like n who knew they had done a job already—but whose standards wouldn’t let them rest yet.
The match had been only 45 minutes old, and yet Izan Hernandez had already laced it with his fingerprints.
A/N: Okay, a reader asked for an extra chapter in addition to the day’s regular one. So here it is. It won’t happen every day, but ask once in a while. Who knows, I might be less hungry that day and whip up a chapter for you. Okay, have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit with the last chapter of the day.
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