God Of football - Chapter 558: Carabao Tie [Gt ]

Chapter 558: Carabao Tie [Gt Chapter]

The aftershocks of the Koenigsegg–Izan partnership didn’t just ripple through the fanbase or marketing teams—it detonated in boardrooms.

At Aston Martin headquarters, a tense silence hung over the top floor like a fog of blame.

And at the center of the storm was Darius Ellwood—the executive who’d put his faith in Laurent Virelli to land the deal with Izan.

He didn’t even get a chance to sit before the board’s fury descended.

“You handed the brand over to a circus act!” one member barked, slamming a folder on the table.

“You said Virelli was the connection!”

“He ghosted us!” another barked.

“We had the perfect fit—young, sharp, British club. And now it’s Sweden and a hypercar!”

“Koenigsegg doesn’t even sell volume!” a third spat.

Ellwood’s defense was weak at best. “We had verbal confirmation from Virelli that Izan was—”

“No,” came the ice-cold voice of the chairman, cutting through the chaos.

“You had a whisper from a glorified parasite. And now look at us.”

Phones buzzed on the table—new headlines, engagement charts, social metrics that read like humiliation. All flashing Koenigsegg.

Meanwhile, in Maranello, the mood wasn’t fury.

It was a fracture.

Ferrari’s boardroom was split in two.

“You fumbled the cleanest shot we’ve had at marketing to the next generation,” a senior strategist said, glaring across the room at Lorenzo Bellini.

Bellini, now visibly sweating, offered nothing.

“You were in talks!” another man pressed. “He had lunch with you, for god’s sake!”

“We’re not desperate,” one of the old guard finally interjected. “This is Ferrari. We don’t need to chase anyone.”

“Yes, but the world’s chasing him,” the strategist snapped back. “And while you cling to heritage, Koenigsegg just hijacked the entire football world.”

“Izan is a kid,” someone else muttered. “Let’s see if he can carry that weight.”

The room quieted.

But Bellini knew the writing on the wall. He’d been spared—for now. But the leash had grown thinner. One more mistake and demotion was a formality.

Meanwhile, in Ängelholm, Sweden, the Koenigsegg team could barely keep up with the traffic.

The site was overloaded.

Their social numbers had ballooned.

The “Izan x Koenigsegg” clip was trending first in four countries, Spain, England, Sweden and Japan, and among at least the top 20 trending in other countries.

And in the center of it all: one name. One face.

Their bet.

Their boy.

And so far, it looked like they’d won.

…..

At Aston Martin’s London headquarters, the tension was thick enough to choke on.

The boardroom lights glared down on a long table littered with printouts, phones, and one large flatscreen—still frozen on the headline that had detonated their week:

“Izan Signs with Koenigsegg in Record-Breaking Brand Partnership.”

Marcus Alden, head of athlete partnerships, sat at the center of the chaos.

His jaw clenched, eyes locked forward as the room erupted.

“You trusted Virelli?!” barked a sharp voice from his left.

“You handed the deal to that glorified leech and expected what, a handshake?”

One of the older directors slapped the table with the back of his hand.

“We had the deal. The deal. All he had to do was finish it.”

A marketing exec chimed in, voice strained: “He said he had it locked. Said Izan was one signature away.”

“Koenigsegg didn’t just outbid us,” the COO muttered from the far end.

“They embarrassed us. And now every other brand in our pipeline is asking why we let the arguably, the kid who is slowly becoming the biggest footballer on the planet slip through our hands.”

Marcus tried to speak—tried to offer some half-baked defense—but the room had already moved on.

“He cost us more than a name,” said another.

“He cost us momentum. Relevance. Our pitch to younger markets was built around this.”

They didn’t say it out loud, but the message was clear.

This could cost him his job.

……

Across the channel in Maranello, Italy, the tone at Ferrari wasn’t any less heated—but it was quieter.

Meaner.

Andrea Bellini, once the golden boy of Ferrari’s athlete strategy team, sat alone in a much smaller room.

His phone buzzed with unread messages—half from PR, half from colleagues avoiding direct blame.

“Idiota,” one board member muttered in a closed meeting nearby.

“He had the edge. He had the boy. He just had to press.”

Another sighed.

“They act like we need a child star to carry our brand. We are Ferrari. Let Koenigsegg chase Instagram likes.”

Suddenly a voice tinged heavily with an Italian accent, broke through.

“That stupid ideology is why everybody wants a Lamborghini and not a Ferrari.”

“Visibility is what we need and since Messi and Ronaldo left Europe, which player has more visibility than Izan? Especially after his advents this season.”

The former who had talked about Ferrari not needing Izan to carry them had no choice to but keep his head down.

Still, the annoyance lingered.

Some called for demotion.

Others wanted him gone.

“He fumbled the bag,” someone said flatly.

“Next time he does it, we won’t wait to cut him.”

But the earlier voice spoke again.

“Try to find any clauses in the deal that we can take advantage of and break the deal between the two parties without causing too much damage to us.”

……..

Meanwhile, in Ängelholm, Sweden—Koenigsegg HQ was glowing.

Their analytics team stood around the screen displaying engagement numbers that kept climbing by the hour.

Website traffic had surged by 600%.

Merch sales saw a slow, but sudden spike.

Social media impressions were climbing into the tens of millions.

One exec leaned over to Vittorio in the breakroom.

“You know this might be the biggest win we’ve ever had, right?”

Vittorio didn’t even blink.

He just smiled and stirred his coffee.

“We haven’t even started yet.”

……..

A couple of days later, Arsenal and Izan found themselves on the pitch again.

This time, under a cold London sky, where the floodlights at Selhurst Park shimmered through a low-hanging mist, casting a hazy glow over the pitch.

The air had a bite to it.

A damp, restless chill that seeped through gloves and kit alike.

It wasn’t just the December weather—it was the weight of the occasion.

A Carabao Cup quarter-final.

“Welcome to Selhurst Park,” came the low, composed voice of commentator Jon Champion.

“Crystal Palace hosting Arsenal, and we’ve got a few surprises already—starting with Mikel Arteta’s lineup.”

“Nine changes,” his co-commentator Chris Sutton replied.

“Only Saliba and Martinelli stay in from the Everton win. Arteta’s playing a risky game here. The Premier League is one thing—but this is a cup quarter-final.”

That risk looked shaky from the start.

Palace came out like they hadn’t forgotten the roar of their home fans in weeks.

They pressed hard, flew into challenges, and disrupted any kind of rhythm Arsenal’s second string tried to find.

Eberechi Eze moved like a ghost in the fog—gliding between lines, dancing around Elneny’s mistimed tackles.

Nine minutes in, he turned a simple carry into a moment of panic—cutting in and firing just wide.

The ball kissed the post on its way out and that made Selhurst Park respond in a wall of sound.

The warning signs kept flashing.

Ethan Nwaner tried to spark something on the right.

He twisted, turned, and beat his man once—but the final touch was lacking.

A shot zipped wide from the edge of the area.

Arsenal’s first effort of the half—and it came twenty-five minutes too late.

Palace smelled blood.

Mateta bullied Tomiyasu like a veteran playing a youth teamer.

Long balls stuck to his chest, and he spun defenders like cones on a training ground.

In the 36th minute, it broke, finally.

A cross deflected high into the sky.

Kiwior shouted and Ben White came—but then stopped.

Mateta didn’t.

He shielded, turned, and stabbed it to the edge of the box for Eze.

One touch.

One breath.

One whip.

Neto dove full stretch.

Too late.

The ball curled low, kissed the inside of the far post, and dropped into the net.

Selhurst erupted.

Red and blue flares waved behind the goal.

Olivier Glasner pumped his fist on the touchline.

Arteta didn’t move—only folded his arms tighter, jaw clenched, like he was memorizing every lapse for later.

“Eberechi Eze breaks the deadlock!” Champion said, voice rising.

“Palace lead and Arsenal look stunned.”

Arsenal pushed in the final five minutes of the half.

Jesus charged down a back-pass.

Martinelli tried to wriggle past Lacroix again.

Nwaneri sent in a hopeful corner—but it was cleared without fuss.

And soon, the half-time whistle came like a slap of cold air.

Crystal Palace 1. Arsenal 0.

The away end—usually rowdy—stood still.

Meanwhile, the Palace fans cheered their boys off the pitch like it was a final whistle.

Sutton gave the last word before they cut to the commercial.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. But Palace have shown what happens when you treat a cup like a final—and Arsenal haven’t. Not yet.”

A/n: Sorry for the late release. GT chapter here. See you in a bit.

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