God Of football - Chapter 568: Second Half Of The Season

Chapter 568: Second Half Of The Season

The next morning was slower.

No alarms, no rushing.

Just the soft hush of filtered light through the tinted glass and the quiet hum of the house gently waking up before them.

Izan lay sprawled across the edge of the couch, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, an iPad in hand but doing absolutely nothing with it.

Olivia sat cross-legged on the rug, sorting through kitchen lists and pantry apps like she was prepping for a cooking show they’d never film.

“We have exactly three things in this house,” she said, glancing at the fridge display.

“Almond milk. Sparkling water. And regret.”

“Not even real water?”

“Nope. The smart fridge keeps pinging me to buy some.”

Izan rolled his eyes.

“Even the appliances have opinions.”

She stood up, tugging on a loose t-shirt.

“Let’s fix it. You drive. I’ll pretend we’re normal people.”

He smirked. “So… acting. Got it.”

A while later, the Gemera pulled into the mart lot like a low-slung spaceship landing on the wrong planet.

Olivia had cried, suggesting they bring the black SUV but Izan called out, about how having a horse and then leaving it in a stable to eat would make it develop static sickness, if that ever existed.

People didn’t look right away.

It took a second.

Then the double-take.

Then the head tilts.

They parked in the far corner—more for space than secrecy—but it didn’t help much.

“You wait here,” Olivia said, grabbing a tote bag from the back seat.

“I’ll do the recon.”

“I’m the one in disguise.”

“You’re the one in denial. Be useful—make a playlist.”

She disappeared through the glass doors, and for a while, Izan just waited.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

He looked toward the entrance.

No sign of her.

Another two minutes.

He sighed, grabbed the low cap from the backseat, slid it down tight, pulled the black mask up high, and made his way inside.

The supermarket was quiet.

Fluorescent lighting.

Light pop music in the background.

The smell of onions and bakery sugar trying to overpower each other in the air.

He moved through the front aisles fast—bread, canned goods, produce.

Then he found her.

Standing motionless in front of a freezer, arms crossed, four pints of plant-based ice cream lined up on the cart rail like suspects in an interrogation.

“You solving a crime or picking dessert?” he asked.

She jumped. “Finally. I need adult supervision.”

He scanned the labels and tossed one into the cart.

“Wait, how did you choose so fast?”

“I looked at the sugar content. If it lies the best, it tastes the best.”

They moved through the store together, collecting everything from fruit to cleaning supplies, all the while arguing over which cereal mascot had the best longevity and whether almond butter was worth the hype.

By the time they reached checkout, the cart was full.

Olivia insisted on scanning.

“You go loiter somewhere inconspicuous,” she said.

“You’re wearing a two-million-euro red flag.”

Izan drifted toward the side near the magazines, half-hiding behind a stand filled with cookbooks and pre-packed gum.

Then—

“Hey.”

The voice was too confident to be random.

He turned slightly.

A kid.

Maybe ten.

Cargo pants, oversized hoodie, curly hair that needed a trim, and a face that already knew what it was doing.

“You’re Izan.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I think you’ve got me confused—”

“I don’t.”

The kid stepped closer.

“Saw you last week. You did that pass over your shoulder, spun the guy, and curled it near post. Ipswich. Seventy-fourth minute.”

Izan said nothing.

“Also, your mask isn’t low enough. Also, that’s a Gemera outside. I’ve seen it a few times now on the news. Also, those trainers haven’t dropped yet. My brother’s on four raffle lists trying to get them.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Izan finally pulled the mask down.

The kid grinned like he’d won the lottery.

“Let’s gooo. I knew it.”

“Gamble?”

“My brother told me—if someone feels famous, just push. Don’t back off. Worst case, awkward moment. Best case?”

He pointed. “This.”

The kid reached for his pocket, then hesitated. “Can I get a pic?”

Izan chuckled. “Sure. Got a phone?”

The kid held up his mom’s iPhone like a holy relic.

“Always prepared.”

They took the photo—quick, clean.

Then the kid did the unthinkable.

He took off his shoe and held it out.

“Sign the sole.”

Izan blinked. “You serious?”

“Dead serious. I’m framing it. And selling it in twenty years if I need college money.”

Izan crouched, signed the sole, and handed it back.

“You’re too smart for ten.”

The kid shrugged. “That’s what my therapist says.”

Izan laughed as the kid jogged back toward a very confused mother at register three.

He found Olivia again just as she was scanning the last item, reaching for her card.

“You good?” she asked without looking.

“Met an investor.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll explain in the car.”

They stepped out into the sun, bags in hand.

As they moved toward the Gemera, a familiar voice rang out:

“BYE, IZAN!”

Heads turned and Olivia froze.

Izan grinned, tossed the bags over his shoulder, and bolted toward the car with Olivia following behind as a few more seemed to recognize who, or what was going on.

Izan opened the front storage and left the groceries inside before he slid into the driver’s side, still grinning from the shout-out.

“That kid’s going places,” he said, glancing in the mirror as the lot faded behind them.

“Probably stockpiling NFTs of my stats as we speak.”

Olivia laughed, feet on the seat like leaving them on the car rugs would hurt.

“Imagine explaining to your coach that you got outed mid-errand by a ten-year-old with better-scouting instincts than half the league.”

“I’d hire him.” Izan retorted as she turned her head, eyes softening as the grin lingered.

“Arteta would probably play him if you asked him to.”

They drove in silence for a while after that—no rush, just city air, and soft background music.

Izan kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the back of her seat in rhythm.

When they reached the gate, it opened without a sound and the house lit up the moment they pulled in.

By the time they stepped inside, the quiet had returned.

That kind of quiet that didn’t feel like absence—but calm.

Olivia headed to the kitchen first, dropping her tote on the counter.

“We should label the shelves before your mom and Hori arrive,” she said.

“Your sister’s going to destroy the snack stash in one night.”

“She’s consistent.”

“Like you?”

“Like a tax bill.”

Izan grabbed two water bottles from the fridge and handed her one.

She took it, eyes still scanning the room like she couldn’t believe it was all real.

“You know,” she said, unscrewing the cap, “this might actually be the first time I’ve seen you in a normal rhythm. Not prepping for a match, not recovering from one. Just… living.”

Izan leaned against the counter.

Thought about that.

Then nodded.

“It won’t last,” he said quietly.

“But I’ll take it while I can.”

She smiled and pressed a kiss to his cheek before heading upstairs, trailing her fingers along the wall as the sensors adjusted the lighting behind her.

He stood in the kitchen for a minute longer, alone.

Thı𝙨 ςh𝗮pţ𝑒r 𝚤𝕤 pοʂţ℮𝙙 bყ 𝙆𝑖ƚꬲ𝙣𝕠𝙫ꬲ𝗹

Still.

The hum of the fridge.

The soft blue underglow from the cabinets.

Outside, the faint sound of wind sliding against the glass.

He walked to the living room, dropped onto the couch, and stared at the ceiling for a long second.

….

The morning light, the next day spilled across the hallway as Izan zipped up his track jacket, tugging the collar high.

The house was still—comfortably so.

Olivia’s soft breathing drifted faintly from upstairs.

She hadn’t stirred once.

No physical classes today.

He grabbed his duffel from the side and slung it over his shoulder.

Keys sat in a small tray by the island.

Not his keys—those keys but the ones Arsenal had handed him when he first arrived.

He took them planning to give them to the player-manager before stepping out of the house main house.

The Gemera slipped through quiet roads, gliding past joggers and delivery vans without so much as a hum.

By the time he reached Colney, the frost on the windshields had barely started melting.

He parked around back near the east lot—same spot as always—and took the side entrance that led through the recovery wing and straight into the heart of the facility.

The cafeteria was already alive.

Not loud—just breathing.

Declan sat sideways at one of the long tables, legs wide, nursing a coffee and scrolling through his phone with the same thumb he probably used to clear headers.

ØDegaard sat across from him, halfway through a bowl of oats, gesturing like he was pitching a screenplay.

Saka was there too—head down, focused on buttering toast like it was a competition.

Izan stepped in, bag sliding off his shoulder, and grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler.

He passed behind Saka, who barely glanced up.

“You’re late,” Bukayo said with a mouthful of toast.

Izan glanced at the clock.

“I’m not,” he said as he took the empty seat across from him without a word.

“Good morning gents” Arteta’s voice rang from behind.

“I hope you had a wonderful two days because, it’s on for today. Finish and join me on the pitch” he finished before turning away from the Cafeteria.

A/n: Finally, I think it should come this time. Sorry for the delay and the wait, have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

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