God Of football Chapter 503: Incoming Side Quests

Chapter 503: Incoming Side Quests.

The fourth official held up the board — #10 in bright red, and #53 in green beneath it.

Izan glanced at the sideline, nodded once, and jogged toward the touchline as the ball settled in midfield after the goal.

The referee waited patiently to restart play, holding up the whistle and gesturing toward Izan.

The entire stadium — not just the Arsenal faithful but the Southampton fans too — rose to their feet.

Applause thundered through St. Mary’s.

So fans clapped with polite respect, others with sheer admiration.

Even a few Saints fans near the dugout leaned over the barriers, phones out, capturing the young Spaniard’s final steps off the pitch.

There was admiration in the air — that rare silence between rival fans where awe levels all loyalties.

The comntator’s voice softened with reverence.

“Izan Hernandez does it again. Three assists, a goal to match, and a performance soaked in genius. Izan Hernandez leaves the pitch to a chorus of appreciation — and rightly so.”

Nwaneri gave him a firm slap on the back as they crossed paths.

Izan whispered with a smirk, “Get your goal. I’ve done the rest.”

Nwaneri grinned, and Izan took his place on the bench, wrapping his arms in his jacket as Arteta gave him a light pat on the back, whispering sothing too quiet for even the nearby microphones.

The match resud, though the edge was gone.

Arsenal cruised — calm and dominant, like a team with the wind already at their backs.

Nwaneri showed flashes down the middle, gliding past two before flicking a pass to Saka, whose low drive was just tipped wide by Ramsdale.

Gabriel Jesus — also brought on late — danced in the box, backheeled to Havertz, who dinked it past the keeper.

For a mont, the fifth seed inevitable.

But the linesman’s flag went up.

Offside. No goal.

No one protested much.

Even Havertz just chuckled and nodded, jogging back into shape.

“It’s all icing now,” said the comntator.

“The cake was baked by Izan in the first half. Anything after that is garnish.”

As the minutes ticked down, Southampton huffed a bit, trying to squeeze in one or two counters, but Arsenal’s backline was rigid and assured.

The likes of Lewis Skelly and Kiwior calmly played their way out of trouble, content to ride out the final monts.

And then — the whistle blew.

Full-ti: Southampton 0 – 4 Arsenal.

The Arsenal bench rose.

Izan stood too, stretching, before hopping down from the dugout.

As he strolled onto the pitch, the referee was already unclipping his whistle and jotting in his book.

Izan approached, a sly grin on his face, mock-serious.

“Ref,” he said, “I think you owe a match ball.”

The officials turned, bemused.

One of the assistants raised a brow. “A hat trick, was it?”

“Assists,” Izan replied, hands on hips.

“Three of them. Surely that counts?”

The head referee chuckled and wagged a finger at him.

“If you do that a few more tis, we might send a petition to Mr. Infantino. Change the rules. Hat-trick of assists, one official match ball. Just for you.”

The others laughed.

Izan bowed slightly in jest, hand over heart.

“I’ll start preparing my trophy shelf.”

“Go on, magician,” the referee said, nodding toward the tunnel.

“Before we make you officiate the next one.”

With a last grin, Izan turned and walked toward the tunnel, the night cool on his skin, boots slung over his shoulder.

As he disappeared beneath the stands, the lights above St. Mary’s glimred down on a performance already settling into mory — and perhaps, into legend.

……….

The low hum of the Arsenal team bus filled the air as it rolled through the dimly lit streets, leaving St. Mary’s Stadium behind.

Inside, the atmosphere was llow — music played softly, players reclined in their seats, bantering lightly or scrolling through their phones.

The buzz of victory still lingered, but with the international break looming, thoughts were already beginning to drift elsewhere.

Izan sat alone in a window seat near the middle of the bus, a pair of over-ear headphones hanging around his neck.

He stared at his screen, a simple smile curving his lips as he replied to a fan ssage and scrolled through the thousands of ntions flooding in.

His phone buzzed with a na that now appeared often on his screen — Miranda.

He answered with a small, “Hey,” his voice still light from the post-match glow.

Miranda didn’t waste ti.

“Just got the confirmation through Arsenal’s end — Spain want you back. They’ve already contacted the club. You’ll join up with the squad next week in Madrid.”

Izan gave a quiet nod, brushing a knuckle against his lips.

“Yeah. I figured it was coming today or tomorrow.”

There was a pause — not prideful, not smug.

Miranda’s tone was clear and clipped, the tone of soone already juggling logistics.

“We’ll coordinate your travel with the Spanish federation. Adidas is also already talking about doing sothing quick before you report to camp — they want so dia content shot in Madrid.”

Izan grinned faintly.

“Another ad?”

“No,” Miranda said.

“A light one. You won’t even notice. Just look cool, say a few words, let them do the rest.”

He chuckled, then leaned back into his seat, watching the rain-slicked road through the window as the bus rolled forward.

“By the way… did you get a chance to think about what I ssaged you? About the house?”

There was a beat of silence.

“I did more than think,” Miranda said.

“I’ve already started looking.”

He blinked. “You serious?”

“Izan,” she said plainly, “you’re 16 with a professional contract at Arsenal and an Adidas deal that made grown athletes shake. We needed to start this anyway.”

He shook his head slowly, amused. “You don’t waste ti.”

“I’ve learned not to. Especially with you.”

Izan leaned forward a little, lowering his voice.

“Make sure it’s not too crazy, though. I don’t want what the others have — those massive villas with like twelve rooms and marble fountains.”

Miranda laughed. “So what’s the vision then? Be specific.”

“I don’t know. Like… five rooms. One for , one for guests, a study, or sothing. The rest is just for space. Not too many. I don’t want to live in a museum. Just sleek and light.”

Miranda’s tone softened. “You want a ho.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Sothing that feels like mine.”

“I’ll find it,” she promised.

“Give until next week. I’ll send you so shortlists. We’ll go through them together. You’ll make the final call.”

He smiled to himself as he watched streetlamps streak past the windows.

“Alright. Deal.”

The call ended, and Izan pulled the headphones over his ears again, the music returning to fill the gentle quiet around him.

His thoughts were already shifting ahead — to Madrid, to the call-up, to the house and to sothing else looming.

“Dad,” Izan muttered as he looked at the rain droplets racing down the window.

……….

The next morning brought a llow stillness to the apartnt — a sort of quiet that only ever settled in before travel.

Sunlight spilled lazily through the tall windows, dusting the hardwood floors with pale warmth as Izan zipped open a luggage bag at the foot of his bed.

A few loose fitting pants were folded neatly in the corner, with his travel boots already waiting in their custom carry-case by the door.

Olivia was crouched by the closet, folding a few of her own things into a smaller suitcase.

“You sure you’re not going to be late on anything?” Izan asked, looking over his shoulder as he tucked his toiletry pouch into a side compartnt.

“With college, I an.”

Olivia glanced up at him and grinned.

“I figured sothing like this might happen. I switched to the online module for these weeks — applied for it just after I saw the October break schedule.”

He blinked, then gave a low whistle. “You planned ahead?”

“Izan,” she said, sitting back on her heels with a smirk, “You think I wasn’t going to be ready?”

He chuckled and tossed a pair of socks at her. “Okay, okay. I see you.”

They finished packing in comfortable silence, the soft rustle of fabric and the hum of the dishwasher filling the background.

Eventually, they found themselves seated cross-legged on the floor around two bowls of hot noodles, steam curling lazily into the air as they dug in.

Izan had just slurped a mouthful when his phone buzzed across the table.

A call.

He wiped his fingers on a napkin and glanced at the screen.

No na, just a Spanish country code and the tag Madrid.

He t Olivia’s eyes briefly, then accepted the call.

“Hola?” he answered, voice calm but curious.

Izan held the phone to his ear, thinking the call might have been a mistake since no one was talking.

He looked at the number again and was about to hang up, Until a voice ca through.

A/N: Okay. First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in the afternoon.

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