God Of football - Chapter 582: Not Alone

Chapter 582: Not Alone

The doors leading to the parking lot, hissed open behind them, releasing a gust of warmth into the freezing air.

“Man,” Declan muttered, zipping up his coat to his chin, “this cold bites.”

“You’re built for it,” Ødegaard grinned, nudging him with a shoulder.

“It’s the heat that scares you.”

“I’m not built for any of this,” Trossard groaned.

“Snow is for slopes and ski lifts, not on matchdays. I almost broke my toe off when I met Baleba for the ball.”

Saka jogged ahead, clapping his gloves together like it might scare off the cold.

“Move quicker, you lot! No point standing around unless you’re trying to grow icicles on your eyebrows.”

The cold was that kind of cold—dry January chill, all sharp edges, and quiet breath.

The snow wasn’t heavy—just enough to coat the pavement, to crunch under boots and cling to collars.

The kind that made your fingers feel like glass if you stood still too long and most of them didn’t linger.

Saka was already halfway to his Audi.

ØDegaard followed, hood up, car keys ready.

All moved swiftly towards their cars, except for Izan.

He stood still for a while, letting the cold embrace him.

He stepped off the main path, onto the untouched snow that sat like powdered glass across the parking lot.

Then he tilted his head back and let the sky find him.

Snowflakes danced lazily down, dotting his trims, landing against his cheeks and lashes before melting into his skin.

The others moved on.

Engines coughed to life.

Heaters kicked on and one car door slammed after the other.

Then:

“Oi!”

Saka’s voice, loud and unmistakably teasing, cut through the stillness.

“If this man aura farms one more second, I swear—”

Izan looked over, half-smiling, eyes lazy.

“Like we get it, bro. We see the fit,” Saka called hands on his wheel.

“You’re that guy. We all know. You don’t gotta pose like you’re in a cologne ad.”

“I’m just appreciating the snow,” Izan said, voice calm.

Saka raised a brow.

“You’re appreciating the weather? Mans be doing everything to look good and cool these days that they don’t even take hypothermia and frostbites seriously. You think you, Elsa?”

“Can’t rush greatness,” Izan said, grinning now.

“Man, get in your spaceship,” Saka groaned, waving him off.

“I’m trying to defrost my kneecaps.”

Izan’s chuckle misted the air.

He turned, shoes crunching as he walked to the Gemera.

The gullwing door lifted with a soft hiss, a thin curl of warmth escaping like breath from the car’s lungs.

He climbed in, the leather seat swallowing him wholeand then just drove.

London unspooled around him like a black-and-white reel.

Streets half-cleared.

Storefronts glowing dimly behind frosted glass.

Everything hushed.

Thı𝓈 𝗰hӑpṯɛr 𝒾ѕ pɵ𝑠𝘵𝕖ḍ b𝗒 Ⱪ𝚒𝕥𝕖Ƞ𝟬𝐯𝖾𝗹

Tucked beneath a winter coat of its own.

He passed Camden.

Then the silent shoulder of Westminster.

And finally, the Thames.

He didn’t plan to stop—but something in the water’s endless, rolling silence called him.

He pulled into a narrow turnout beside the bridge.

No tourists.

No lights.

Just a strip of pavement and a railing worn smooth by hands that had leaned too long.

He stepped out again.

The snow was falling thicker now, clinging in quiet layers across the rail and the road.

The river moved slowly, a dark mirror of the city’s lights—rippling gold and grey.

Izan stood still, hands deep in his pockets, staring out at the space between chapters.

He didn’t stay long.

But long enough.

Then he turned, stepped back into the Gemera, and drove off.

He was ready to go home.

…….

The next morning, that sparse, silent moment by the Thames burst into life online.

A crisp photo surfaced: Izan, feet planted just beyond the bridge’s railing, shoulders relaxed, watching the river flow beneath the falling snow.

The internet took one look—and then ran with it.

@RedsSniper23

Wait, how’d they even get this?

@NorthEndNostalgia

“Guy leaves Colney in a damn spaceship and doesn’t think people are watching? Bro probably thinks the tinted glass on the Gemera makes him invisible. Worst disguise merchant ever.”

@SouthStandFaithful

“Izan walking around like London isn’t filled with 8 million people and at least 12 photographers per block. ”

@FauxMidfielder88

“Nah man, for real. Why was he standing out there? That’s deep. You don’t go stare at the river at night unless something’s cooking in your head.”

@ClappedFc

“Don’t do that. He could just be vibing. Not every quiet moment means depression.”

@JanuaryBlues44

“Bro’s carrying Arsenal like Hercules carried the sky. Probably needed a break from holding Arteta and the bottle jobs.”

The quote tweets multiplied.

Some users joked.

Some speculated.

Some stayed quiet, just reposting the photo with a red heart beside it.

But by midmorning, the mood had shifted.

The jokes slowed and concern trickled through the cracks.

@PsychSupportUK

“He’s seventeen. Let that sink in. Seventeen. The media’s dragging him like a 30-year-old professional and the fans are running daily commentary on his every blink.”

@Nightsinthelowlands

“He’s a kid who grew up too fast. Maturity isn’t armour. Somebody check in.”

@RedHeart88

“Y’all ever think maybe he’s just tired? Not sad but just… tired.”

The image hit all corners of the fanbase.

Even one or two of the tabloids tried to spin it into something louder but the only person who knew what was up was still asleep in his bed.

The bedroom curtains had let in more light than usual—London’s pale winter sun slipping through the soft linen in gentle beams across the carpet.

The sheets barely moved.

Not a twitch from the lump in the bed.

Olivia stood at the foot of it, arms crossed over the blouse she was wearing—eyes narrowing.

“Izan,” she called, voice half-soft, half-threatening.

“You’ve been awake for fifteen minutes. I saw you open your eyes.”

Nothing.

She tugged one corner of the duvet.

Nothing again.

Then, with a sharp yank, she pulled the entire top half of the covers off in one go.

The chill of the room rushed in.

“How long are you planning to stay in this bed?” she asked, half amused, half exasperated.

Izan didn’t answer.

Just blinked once.

Then—

Without warning, he reached up, grabbed Olivia by the waist, and pulled her down onto the mattress like a net snapping shut.

She shrieked—half laugh, half protest—as she landed beside him, her legs tangling in the mess of kicked-up sheets.

“Izan!” she gasped, swatting at his arms.

“Let me go! You absolute—!”

“I regret nothing,” he muttered, burying his face in the side of her neck, arms locking tighter.

“You’re bad,” she huffed, trying to wriggle out.

“Let me go before your mum walks in and sees me like this!”

Right on cue.

The door creaked open.

Komi stood in the doorway, one brow raised, a mug in hand.

“I heard a scream,” she said calmly, her gaze falling to the tangle of limbs on the bed.

“But now I see the source,” she said with a little smirk.

Olivia froze, wide-eyed.

“It’s not what it looks like—”

“It looks like a boy refusing to get out of bed and a girl trying to escape his very warm hold,” Komi said with a slight smirk.

She sipped her tea, turned slowly, and added over her shoulder, “I’ll leave you two teenagers to your… morning routine.”

The door clicked shut again.

For a beat, silence.

Then Olivia flopped fully onto the bed, face-down, groaning into the pillow.

“We are never living that down.”

Izan shifted, pulling her in tighter with a quiet chuckle.

“You weren’t exactly putting up much of a fight.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said but didn’t move away.

After a moment, she settled into the space beside him, her cheek against his collarbone.

They stayed like that for a while, just breathing.

Then Olivia’s voice came, softer.

“Are you okay?”

A beat passed.

Izan hummed low in his throat—something between a yes and a maybe.

“You can’t just keep it all in, you know,” she said, turning her face to look at him.

“You don’t have to be the calm one all the time. We’re here. I’m here.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her.

The way she said we.

The way she didn’t press, but didn’t let it slide either.

He nodded.

“You’re starting to sound like my mum.”

Olivia blinked.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“She’ll be proud.”

She rolled her eyes.

“So proud she walked in on us in bed, apparently.”

“You didn’t walk in. I trapped you.”

“Right.”

He smirked.

“Also—technically, you’re my sugar mommy.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The age gap. A year and nine months. Gotta count for something.”

Olivia stared at him, then reached across and smacked his shoulder with the heel of her hand.

“Take that back.”

“Never.”

She exhaled, dropped her hand, and let her head rest on his chest again.

They didn’t need to talk more.

Not yet.

For now, lying there—in that pocket of quiet between chaos—was more than enough.

A/N: Okay, late with it but it’s here. Happy men’s mental health awareness month. Late to the party but hope Y’all stay safe and locked in. There’s so much in life to give up on so don’t go, you knowing deleting yourself from the lobby. Anyways, have fun and open up when you feel the need to. Don’t keep things bottle up. Love Y’all and I hope you keep enjoying this novel.

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