God Of football Chapter 535: Since Paris

Chapter 535: Since Paris

The clouds outside the plane cracked open just enough for a glimpse of the Irish coastline as Izan shifted in his seat.

The hum of the engines remained the only real noise in the cabin, but his screen still buzzed occasionally in his palm.

It had been three weeks since Paris.

Since the tuxedos, the velvet claps, and the envelope that read Rodri.

Three weeks since he’d smiled politely, congratulated publicly, and said nothing else.

But the world hadn’t moved on.

Not online.

If anything, the debate had mutated—grown louder, pettier, funnier, more tribal.

The further the ceremony faded in ti, the sharper the argunts beca.

@BallonWatchdog:

“Player of the Tournant at the Euros. Tied Platini’s goal record. Youngest Pichichi winner. Copa del Rey winner. 33 goals. 19 assists. All at sixteen. I’m sorry, it was Izan’s year.”

@RodriTruther:

“Football is not a TikTok highlights ga. Rodri is a midfield anchor and the most important cog in two title-winning systems. He won the Euros and the Premier League. Easy choice.”

@NextGenAgenda:

“Rodri’s ti is now. Izan’s ti is forever. This was a chance to say ‘We’re ready for the new generation.’ Well, we this showed that they weren’t.”

But amidst all the tactical breakdowns and stat graphics, one post had lit the tiline on fire.

From Vinícius Jr., three days after the ceremony.

No context. No tagging.

@Vinijr:

“If I have to do it ten tis to win it once, I’ll do it. They’re not ready.”

Fourteen words.

Two million likes.

And a tiline split in two.

@ViniSzn:

“He’s right. That trophy ain’t about talent anymore. It’s politics. It’s narrative. Vini’s cooking sothing different this season. Mark this tweet.”

@EliteWingerWatch:

“This man just dropped the coldest villain arc in Ballon d’Or history. We need the Netflix doc now.”

But others weren’t buying it.

@Bigboyenergy:

“Bro is acting like he was robbed when he wasn’t even top 3. One final goal doesn’t erase the whole season. Vini’a G/A isn’t even up to 35 but he wants to win over Izan. SMH ”

@ColdFactsOnly:

“Imagine being 24 and tweeting like a revenge poet. anwhile, Izan posted a handshake emoji and went back to training. The maturity gap is showing.”

The real kicker?

Vinícius hadn’t started the new season the way he’d hoped.

5 goals in eleven matches wasn’t bad but it didn’t help when the person you are making a case against has 12 goals and 6 assists in 10 gas since Izan had missed the match against Brighton.

Injury flare-ups.

Missed chances.

And still—he talked legacy like it was destiny.

@MadridMirror:

“Love Vini. But if you tweet ‘they’re not ready,’ you gotta be ready yourself. This season’s not helping the campaign.”

@FuturoEspaña:

“We’ve entered the weirdest era. Viní arguing with ghosts. Izan saying nothing and sohow still dominating every argunt.”

Izan didn’t respond to the tweet.

He was above it—or maybe just past it.

Instead, he’d posted one photo the morning after the ceremony.

Him, walking down a training pitch at Colney, back turned to the cara, ball under his arm.

Just shadows. And movent.

Still, the internet filled in the blanks.

@NeutralFutbol:

“Say what you want about the award. But if you think that kid won’t have it in his hands within the next couple of years? You’re not ready.”

@IzanFC16:

“He’s 16. This isn’t the peak. This is the start.”

Miranda glanced across the aisle at him.

She could tell he was reading.

He always said he didn’t, but she knew better.

And yet—his face didn’t twist. Didn’t tense.

He just read them like weather reports.

Wind coming. Rain building. Still flying.

The captain’s voice ca over the intercom.

Descent starting.

The screen darkened again in Izan’s palm.

London was almost below them.

The debate wasn’t over.

The storm hadn’t passed.

But he wasn’t chasing the noise.

He was heading for the pitch.

…

The sun was just starting to settle into a grey November haze as the car pulled out from Heathrow and rged into the traffic heading toward North London.

Rain streaked the windows but didn’t fall hard—just enough to blur the lights, just enough to remind them what ti of year it was.

Izan sat back in the rear seat, hood down now, dressed in black sweats and a dark jacket zipped halfway.

His eyes tracked the familiar streets passing by, half-listening to the soft radio buzz from the front.

Miranda sat beside him, her tablet closed now, her voice calm and casual.

“I finalized the house,” she said, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Your pick. The one in Hampstead. They accepted the offer last week. It’s yours now.”

Izan turned his head just slightly, the smallest smile brushing his face.

“Good.”

“We can move in by Christmas if you want,” she offered.

“Or wait for the January window if it’s easier. Less noise.”

He nodded, slowly. “Handle it. January’s fine. I’ll just keep the flat till then.”

Miranda tilted her head. “I’ll make sure everything’s smooth. You won’t have to lift a box.”

Izan gave a quiet, tired chuckle. “You say that like you’d let anyway.”

She smirked. “Not a chance.”

They rode in silence after that.

Miranda’s phone buzzed once—an update from the PR team on a sponsor call—but she silenced it.

Sothing needed to rest for a bit.

Eventually, the car pulled up to his building.

Miranda reached for the door.

“I’ll let you get your rest,” she said, pausing a second.

“But Izan?”

He looked at her.

“You know what this next stretch ans.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

She left him there, alone again with the rain.

The flat was just as he left it—neat, quiet, understated.

Still a temporary space.

The new house would change that, give it permanence.

Maybe.

But for now, this was enough.

He dropped his bag, kicked off his shoes, and stretched out on the couch without turning the lights on.

His mind wandered to the next stretch ahead of them before going to the past 3 matches.

Three matches since the Ballon d’Or.

Three very different headlines.

The first was quiet—a 1–0 win against Bournemouth at the Emirates.

Tense, tight, not pretty.

But in the 67th minute, Izan had ghosted between lines, slipped a no-look ball into rino’s stride, and rino buried it.

Three points.

Nothing dramatic.

Then ca the stumble.

Inter Milan.

Champions League, league phase.

A war of attrition at the San Siro, where Arsenal finally looked mortal.

In the 78th minute, Hakan Çalhanoğlu stepped up to the spot after a clumsy challenge from Timber in the box.

The penalty was buried clean and cold.

Arsenal pushed, but nothing broke as they were handed their first loss of the season.

1–0.

The headlines called it a wake-up.

A reality check.

Izan had drawn two defenders every ti he touched the ball.

But no magic that night.

And then—Chelsea.

Back in the Premier League.

A London derby with old shadows.

Arsenal looked flat, tentative.

Chelsea scored first.

Sat back.

Dared them to break through.

For 88 minutes, the Gunners looked tired. Predictable.

But Izan didn’t stop moving.

In the 89th, he made the difference—collected a loose ball off a ricochet, took two touches, and curled it past the keeper’s left side to make it 1–1.

A point salvaged.

The fans in the away end had scread like it was a winner.

But the press?

@PLDramaDaily:

“Arsenal rescue a draw at Stamford Bridge. But is this how it starts again?”

@RedAndBottled:

“Déjà vu in motion. Gunners still ahead of 2nd place Liverpool by 4 points but questions rise.”

@WatchIzzy:

“Izan saves the point. Again. But he can’t carry them every match. He’s sixteen. This isn’t sustainable.”

Izan scrolled through a few of those now, barely blinking.

He wasn’t angry.

But he wasn’t at peace, either.

Three gas since the Ballon d’Or.

Two were not won.

Izan blinked at the headlines on his phone once more, then exited the page with a quiet sigh.

The apartnt was still and warm, the distant rain muffled through thick glass.

He scrolled through his contacts, tapped once, and brought the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he said as soon as it connected, voice soft but expectant.

“Where are you? I thought you’d be here.”

On the other end, Olivia chuckled—a light, unbothered sound that instantly cut through the tension still clinging to his chest.

“I was trying to surprise you,” she said.

“You’ve been gone for almost two weeks, and I thought… I’d cook sothing nice. Light the place up a little. But I didn’t know you’d land this early.”

He smiled faintly, sinking deeper into the couch.

“So you ran errands?”

“I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t buy half the grocery store,” she teased.

Izan let out a breath of a laugh, resting his head against the back of the sofa.

“Just get ho safe.”

“I already am,” she said—and he heard the unmistakable sound of a door unlocking.

Seconds later, the apartnt door creaked open.

He didn’t even look up.

Olivia’s footsteps shuffled forward.

She dropped her bags just past the threshold, kicked the door shut behind her—

Then ran and jumped onto the couch with zero hesitation.

Izan caught her mid-flight with a grunt, instinctively steadying her as she curled up against his chest.

Her hair slled like outside—cold air, city wind, and sothing faintly sweet.

He let his fingers drift lazily through it.

No words for a long mont.

Izan leaned his head back again.

And let the silence hold.

A/n: I know, a lot of you might not like how this went, cough *_Xyz_*, but this was the best I could do. Let’s wish Izan good luck on the next. This is the 2nd of the day but ell_gar245 just spamd a few of the Golden tickets so see you in the evening with an extra chapter. Have fun

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