God Of football - Chapter 567: New Crib

Chapter 567: New Crib

Miranda’s call came the moment the last box cleared the apartment.

“Everything’s packed,” she said, voice clipped and efficient.

“We’re rolling now. Should be ahead of you by about ten minutes.”

Izan stood just outside the building, phone pressed to his ear, eyes still fixed on the flat above.

He didn’t say anything right away.

The balcony door was half-open.

Curtains swaying slightly in the breeze.

The place wasn’t exactly full of memories, but it had been a starting line.

A launchpad.

It had seen his early mornings, his bruised ankles, his post-match silences.

His first nights with Olivia.

Now it was empty.

“Alright,” he said into the phone.

“We’ll follow.”

He hung up, turned, and walked toward the Gemera parked across the lot.

The ashy silver finish gleamed under the late morning light, aggressive but calm.

He reached for the gullwing door and pulled it open.

Behind him, Olivia clicked her side of the door open and didn’t speak, just caught his eye as she moved into the passenger side.

Once she was in, he slid into the driver’s seat and keyed the ignition.

The Gemera lit up like something out of a different timeline—engine purring low, ready to launch.

The moving trucks had already pulled away from the curb, slow and steady, their hazard lights blinking like breadcrumbs.

Izan gave them a thirty-second head start, then eased the car forward.

The convoy took shape.

One truck in front.

The hypercar in the middle and the modest SUV that used to take Izan to train behind it.

As they moved through central London, the looks started almost immediately.

People stopped mid-sentence.

Some slowed their walking.

Others tilted their heads with expressions that blurred between confusion and curiosity, like they’d just seen something that shouldn’t exist yet.

Something unplaceable.

Not quite from now.

Because it wasn’t.

The Gemera, still glorious, looked like it had jumped five years ahead of the rest of the traffic—sleek, wide, low to the ground, its profile throwing off the rhythm of roundabouts and side streets.

At a red light, a pedestrian took out their phone.

Another just stared with their brows furrowed like they were trying to remember which sci-fi film this had come from.

Izan, oblivious to the glances—or choosing to be—revved the engine twice.

Loud. Unapologetic.

The sound ripped through the street like a warning shot.

From the passenger seat, Olivia flinched and smacked his arm.

Th𝙞𝕤 ςhɒp𝘵𝖾r 𝖎ʂ p𝗼𝙨𝓉ℯ𝐝 b𝙮 𝒌𝖎𝕥℮𝓃ɵ𝖛℮𝗹

“Seriously?”

“What?” he asked, smirking.

“You’re not in Monaco. And I’m not trying to die in surround sound.”

She adjusted her seatbelt, pulling it tighter across her shoulder. ”

Just follow the truck and behave.”

He offered a small nod, eyes still forward, grin still there.

And the Gemera rolled on, silent again—for now—its engine ready, the road opening ahead.

…….

The convoy finally pulled through the quiet, iron gate with barely a sound, the morning light spilling clean across the private drive.

The moving trucks rolled forward first, their engines low, professional.

Behind them, the Gemera slipped in like it had been built for this exact stretch of road.

The driveway curved just enough to reveal the main structure—two levels of sharp lines, muted glass, and steel edges softened by manicured greenery.

Modern, but not loud.

Sleek, but grounded.

Izan eased the car into the short drive that dipped slightly into a sunken garage, wide enough to hold five, maybe six cars if you were clever about it.

The engine hummed once before cutting off, its silence more impressive than its growl.

He stepped out slowly, stretching his back, and glancing at the unblemished concrete walls.

Then he gave a small scoff, eyebrows raised.

“How many cars do you think I’m planning to get?” he said, voice dry.

Miranda answered before Olivia could laugh.

“Enough,” she said, stepping out from behind the open side door.

Izan turned with a blink. “You are already here?”

Miranda raised a tablet in one hand.

“I don’t do convoys. I do results.”

She gestured toward the garage.

“Four-point-six million, paid, signed, secured. In your name. No mortgage. No strings. You’re welcome.”

Olivia stepped beside Izan, eyes sweeping the exterior.

“You sure he needs all this?”

“He doesn’t,” Miranda replied.

“But he will,” she said, smirking at Olivia, who held her belly and shied away.

They crossed to the front steps, movers beginning to unload as the front door unlocked itself with a quiet chime and a green flash above the handle.

Izan pushed it open.

And stepped inside.

The entrance opened into a clean, seamless foyer—concrete flooring fused with dark-stained timber panels along the walls, all under soft recessed lighting that adjusted automatically to the time of day.

To the left, the hallway lights blinked once and lit up as they passed.

To the right, a small tablet mounted to the wall glowed to life.

> Welcome, Izan. Indoor temperature: 21°C. Lighting profile: Neutral. Security mode: Off.

The house wasn’t just modern.

It was intelligent.

AI-managed everything—temperature control, lighting, sound, security, and appliance scheduling.

Every room could be voice-controlled or run from the clean wristband Miranda had slipped onto the kitchen island with a smirk.

“You can override it manually, of course,” she said as Olivia picked it up.

“Old-school?”

“No—control.”

The living space sprawled ahead, with wall-length smart glass windows that adjusted tint on cue.

One gesture toward the far screen lit the hidden projector, while integrated speakers tuned automatically to the number of people in the room.

The kitchen was minimalist but deeply functional—touch-reactive surfaces, induction panels invisible until in use, and a fridge that reminded him to refill groceries before he even realized they were gone.

Every drawer opened with a press.

Every cabinet closed without a sound.

The lights didn’t flick on—they knew when to.

Upstairs, the bedroom lights dimmed before they entered.

The master suite mirrored the calm below—automated blackout shades, voice-activated ambient noise profiles, and a glass wardrobe that lit by presence.

In the center of the bedroom, above the headboard, a quiet line of text glowed softly on the wall screen:

> Rest mode enabled. Morning preset active.

Izan said nothing at first.

He just walked to the center of the living room, turned a slow circle, and took it all in.

This wasn’t temporary.

It wasn’t borrowed.

It was his.

And everything in it moved like it already knew who he was.

The last box was finally carried inside.

The final dolly rolled out.

And just like that, the movers were gone.

Their trucks pulled away without fanfare, leaving the driveway still and the new house quiet for the first time since they arrived.

No more footsteps.

No more tape being ripped.

Just sunlight pooling across the foyer and a soft breeze through the barely opened patio door.

Izan stood by the entryway, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping the edge of the doorframe.

Miranda checked something on her tablet before tapping it shut.

She looked up at him.

“So,” she said, voice firm but warm, “Komi and Hori will be arriving on the first.”

Izan turned to her. “Three days?”

“Yeah,” Miranda nodded.

“Everything’s arranged. Flights. Drivers. I’ve booked a suite nearby for Komi and Hori to rest if they land early, but they’ll all be here for dinner.”

She took a breath and studied him for a moment, longer than usual.

“You’ve done well,” she said finally.

“And don’t give me that look. This—” she gestured around the house, the air, the silence, “—this is all you. Earned. Nothing given.”

Izan didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“But,” she continued, stepping closer, “this isn’t the end of anything. You’ve set the bar. And now?”

She paused.

“Now, you don’t get to lower it.”

She let the words land—sharp but fair.

“You carry more than your name. You carry a club. A fanbase. A league watching what a seventeen-year-old is doing to seasoned defenders.”

Another breath.

“You don’t get to run from that. You face it. Head up.”

He nodded once, quiet, steady.

Miranda gave a final approving look, then pulled a slim envelope from her coat and set it on the counter.

“Dinner reservation. January first. Don’t be late. Komi picked the place—so I don’t want to hear any complaints about candles or small plates.”

With that, she turned and walked out to the car waiting for her at the curb.

The engine started.

The door shut.

And she was gone.

For a moment, silence returned.

Then—Olivia’s voice.

“You seem to get taller every time she gives one of those speeches.”

Izan turned to see her walking toward him from the hallway, already in her socks, sliding across the smooth floor.

She got close, then smacked him on the chest lightly.

“Tag,” she said. “You’re it.”

Then she turned on her heel and ran.

Not a sprint—more like a half-daring dash down the hallway, grinning over her shoulder.

Izan didn’t wait.

He took off after her, catching her almost instantly while she called it unfair after it was her turn to chase Izan.

A/N: Okay, the privilege was for five extra chapters. Sorry for that. Have fun trying to read and I’ll see you in a bit with the next to finally back it up.

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