God Of football - Chapter 576: Los Blancos Again.

Chapter 576: Los Blancos Again.

INT. ARSENAL – EXECUTIVE MEETING ROOM, LONDON COLNEY – MID-MORNING

The room wasn’t tense.

Not at first.

It was quiet in the way early meetings always were—mugs half-full, sleeves rolled just past the wrist, everyone trying to ease into a rhythm.

The kind of meeting where things usually start with gate revenue and end with someone mentioning training ground landscaping.

But not this time.

The conversation had wandered, then circled, then fully landed on one thing: Izan.

The club’s Managing President sat at the head of the glass-and-stone table, listening as numbers and praise drifted around the room—not in bullet points, but in the kind of language people use when they’re still trying to wrap their heads around what’s actually happening.

“He hasn’t just elevated the team,” said Simon, the commercial director, looking around as if asking someone to challenge him.

“He’s elevated us. The badge. The club. We’re not just playing better football—we’re being talked about differently.”

“He’s made us feel relevant again,” said Harris, the Head of Media Strategy.

“Not just for what we’ve done—but for what we could become.”

Katherine, sitting just left of the President, added, “The impact isn’t just digital. It’s cultural. Kids are wearing our shirts in airports in South Korea, Ghana, Lagos, and in Japan, they revere him. We haven’t seen this kind of crossover pull since—”

Since the founding of the club. Henry came close, but” murmured the grey-haired director across from her.

“Even then, Henry came up in a team. Izan is the story.”

No one pushed back.

The numbers weren’t up for debate.

Sales were up.

Attendance was up.

Global impressions across their social platforms had nearly doubled since October.

Instagram alone had jumped by twenty million new followers.

Merchandise spikes in Asia and Latin America were hitting thresholds they’d never seen, not even during title chases.

But it wasn’t about that.

Not really.

It was the feeling that was harder to pin down.

The way the crowd buzzed differently when Izan warmed up near the touchline.

The way commentators spoke about Arsenal now—not as hopeful contenders, but as something more precise.

Sharper.

Dangerous.

“He’s got us standing taller,” Katherine said quietly.

“Even the away ends feel different when he’s on the pitch.”

The President hadn’t spoken yet.

He’d listened, as he often did— longer than necessary, more than most.

He wasn’t someone who rushed to talk. He waited until he had something.

He glanced at a closed folder beside him but didn’t open it.

Th𝕀𝕤 𝘤h𝒶pƚꬲr 𝑖𝑠 pɵʂ𝕥℮𝗱 b𝘺 𝗞𝑖𝑡ꬲ𝗇𝐨ν𝘦𝗹

Then, just as Simon leaned in to speak again, the glass door at the back of the room swung open fast.

Too fast.

Natalie stepped in—sharp, composed, but clearly not entering with routine intent.

She didn’t smile.

Didn’t apologize.

Just crossed the room with a pace that turned heads and set everyone on alert.

She placed her tablet in front of the President without a word.

He gave her a look.

Slightly puzzled.

Then tapped the screen.

A video link loaded.

Low resolution, shaky from being screen-recorded.

Fabrizio Romano.

“Here we go,” someone muttered before the audio even started.

“We can confirm—Real Madrid have met with Miranda, the agent of Arsenal star Izan Miura Hernandez. Sources close to the club are reporting that Madrid are preparing a record-breaking transfer offer—reportedly in the region of £270 million. If confirmed, this would become the most expensive signing in football history…”

Silence.

No shifting.

No coughing.

Just silence.

The kind of stillness you only get when people aren’t shocked by the numbers, but by the nerve.

“Are you serious?” Harris said, voice low, eyes still on the screen.

“Now? After yesterday?”

Natalie nodded.

“It’s not confirmed, but I’ve had it cross my desk from three different monitoring agencies in the last ten minutes.”

“They didn’t even call?” Katherine asked.

“Not a whisper,” Natalie said.

“They went to Miranda directly.”

The President closed the tablet and pushed it away slightly.

There was no anger on his face.

No immediate bark or fist to the table.

Only a tightening in his jaw.

A pause in his breath.

“They’re playing this public,” he said quietly.

“Do we really know if they met with Miranda, ’cause I don’t think she’s like that,” he continued, but no one spoke.

Simon leaned forward.

“No matter how much money they wave, this isn’t a transfer window move. This is a statement. They want to see if we flinch.”

“They’re used to clubs folding,” Harris added.

“To players leaning in when the badge says ‘Madrid.’”

“They’re used to being the final destination,” said the grey-haired director.

“And we’re just supposed to roll over?” Katherine asked.

“No,” said the President, flatly.

His voice wasn’t raised, but it hit.

“I don’t care what figure they name. This isn’t a financial opportunity. This is a disrespectful play. Two days after the boy scores four, assists two, and walks off the pitch like he’s always done it. They knew what they were doing.”

“They think the badge is enough,” someone muttered.

“They think he’s just waiting for them,” another added.

“But he’s here,” the President said, sharper now.

Then the latter’s phone buzzed.

He glanced down.

The name lit up clean and undeniable.

Stan Kroenke

Owner of Arsenal Football Club.

The President picked up the phone.

Stood.

Turned toward the windows, away from the table.

The room behind him was quiet.

No longer a boardroom, not really.

Now, it was a club sitting on the edge of a fight they hadn’t expected—one they weren’t planning to lose.

Not this time.

Not with him.

……

The wind outside the club shop had that bitter London bite to it, but no one seemed to care.

Fans stood in clusters—some with scarves wrapped tight, others checking their phones every few seconds as if waiting for someone to deny what was already out there.

The headline had landed like a punch.

Madrid had made a move for Izan.

Not a whispered interest.

Not vague links.

A number.

A figure that almost didn’t look real.

£270 Million.

“You seen this?” one fan asked, holding up his phone to his mate, the screen still showing Romano’s clip.

“I thought it was fake at first.”

“I don’t care what they offer,” the other muttered.

“He’s ours. You don’t just rip that up and hand him over because it’s Real Madrid.”

“Yeah, but you know how it goes, bruv. Madrid knock. Players listen.”

“This one doesn’t.”

A younger fan—maybe seventeen, maybe younger—chimed in without looking up from his phone.

“You lot sound scared. Izan ain’t leaving. He’s not built like that.”

The mood wasn’t angry, and it wasn’t fearful, either.

It was protective.

Around the corner, in cafés, on forums, in replies under the club’s latest Instagram post, comments piled up.

Supporters from around the world speaking in one tone:

“Not for sale.”

“We don’t fold.”

“You can’t buy a soul.”

The chant had already begun circling in group chats and Discord servers:

Seventeen years, already a star—he’s not going anywhere, he’s Arsenal’s heart.

They weren’t pleading.

They were drawing a line.

….

REAL MADRID HQ – FLORENTINO PEREZ’S OFFICE – MADRID

The sun pushed through the blinds at a sharp angle across Perez’s desk, casting clean, angled shadows against the lacquered wood.

The office, as always, was silent, only the faint sound of air-conditioning and the occasional tap of a shoe heel on the marble floor.

Florentino sat back in his chair, flipping through a report on a digital tablet, eyes calm but focused.

The Real Madrid crest sat embossed in gold on the edge of his desk, untouched.

His assistant entered quietly, tablet in hand.

“It’s moving,” he said.

Perez didn’t look up.

“How far?”

“Over sixty million mentions across platforms in the last three hours. Arsenal’s fanbase is loud, but divided. Some are angry. Some are… nervous.”

“And the press?”

“Mostly calling it bold. Some call it disrespectful. But they’re all talking.”

Perez allowed a slight nod.

“Good.”

The assistant stepped forward.

“Do you want to respond publicly?”

“No,” Perez said.

“We’ve done enough today. Let them feel it.”

He set the tablet down, then finally looked up.

“Get me the Saudi contact,” he said simply.

The assistant blinked. “Vinicius?”

“Yes. See if they’re still serious.”

“You want to—”

“I want room,” Perez interrupted.

“If we’re bringing in something bigger, we may need to move something else out.”

“But Vinicius is—”

“Loyal,” Perez cut in.

“And valuable. But even loyalty has its price.”

The assistant hesitated, then nodded and left the room, already dialing as he exited.

Perez leaned back again, alone now.

On his screen, a paused replay of Izan’s third goal against Brentford glowed.

He watched the boy—still image, mid-shot, body twisted in perfect balance—and said nothing.

But his eyes, sharp and knowing, said everything else:

I don’t chase talent.

I collect legacy.

And this one?

He wanted it framed in white.

A/N: Golden ticket chapter. Okay, I have an assignment and a lecture in 30 minutes so have fun reading and I’ll see you if I’m still alive after the class.

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