God Of football - Chapter 592: Breather.

Chapter 592: Breather.

[Colney]

The sun had long dipped below the horizon, casting an amber glow on the far edge of the Colney training pitch.

Most of the players had already left, slipping into warm recovery gear or idling in the treatment rooms.

But Izan stayed—out near the sideline, inside the quiet hum of the floodlights.

He was working on set pieces again.

Over and over, his boots cut clean divots into the turf.

Ball. Step. Whip.

The net rustled again and again like it had grown used to his rhythm.

Arteta watched from a distance for a while, arms folded with a thoughtful expression as Izan struck another ball into the empty net.

After a few more strikes, the manager finally stepped onto the grass, the cold crunching beneath his shoes as he approached the teenager.

“You planning on camping here?” Arteta asked, voice dry but calm.

Izan looked up mid-swing, his breathing measured but his brow damp.

“Just finishing,” he said, brushing back a loose strand of hair.

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

Izan let a small smirk flicker across his face before stepping back from the next ball.

“Been hitting the post for a while now. Trying to get back in rhythm.”

Arteta walked closer now, eyes on the scattered cones and fading chalk outlines.

“Rhythm’s good,” he said. “But so is rest.”

Izan raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting more.

“You don’t have to prove anything every session, Izan,” Arteta continued.

“You’ve earned the trust. The respect. Now, you’ve got to protect your body. Burnout’s a real thing, no matter how strong you think you are.”

“I know,” Izan said simply, then after a moment added, “But I’m not tired. Honestly, the pressure—it doesn’t get to me. It keeps me sharp.”

He looked out at the net again, then back at his coach.

“They can’t beat me. Not the fans. Not the noise. Not even the ones who want me to fall. They don’t even know how to try.”

Arteta studied him.

The words would have sounded cocky coming from even the most established of players but coming from Izan, it sounded more like a promise.

A kind of quiet defiance he’d come to recognize.

“Still,” he said, nodding toward the training centre, “I need you ready for April. Not just tomorrow.”

Izan chuckled, slinging his jacket over his shoulder as he finally gave in.

“I’ll be there. Just… let me stay a few more minutes.”

Arteta gave a soft shake of his head and walked off, his voice faint behind him.

“Five. Then recovery. Non-negotiable.”

—

By the time Izan returned home, the smart lights had already shifted to their evening dim, washing the main room in a soft slate-blue hue.

Miranda was in the living room, tablet in hand, scrolling through something with a slight furrow on her brow.

Her blazer was draped over the back of the couch, a rare sign she’d actually allowed herself to sit still for more than ten minutes.

She looked up when she heard the front door slide shut.

“You look like you fought a war,” she said, eyes sweeping over his scuffed boots and drying hair.

“I won,” Izan replied, throwing his duffel down beside the console table.

She tapped the side of the tablet.

“I hope you saved some energy.”

Izan raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“The foundation,” Miranda said, turning the screen so he could see the page.

“The legal side’s done. Officially recognized. The first donation just cleared—ten million dollars into targeted pediatric cancer research.”

There was a moment of stillness.

Just a quiet settling.

Izan stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly as he read the headline.

“Ten million,” he said, almost under his breath.

“You said you wanted it to matter. This… this matters.”

He nodded slowly, eyes still on the screen.

His expression was unreadable for a beat, then shifted—softened.

“Well,” he muttered with a small, crooked smile, “guess now I’ve got another reason to be the best.”

Miranda chuckled softly, letting the tablet drop to her lap.

“And here I was hoping it’d make you slow down.”

Izan was already halfway to the stairs, peeling his sweatshirt off by the hem.

“No chance.”

“Sleep before midnight yeah,” Miranda called after him.

“Yeah,” he replied, halfway up.

“Right after I check if I’m still trending.”

“God help us,” Miranda whispered, laughing to herself.

Th𝙞𝕤 𝖼hаpƚ𝓮r 𝚤𝑠 p𝙤ʂ𝐭𝙚∂ b𝐲 Ḱ𝙞𝙩ꬲ𝕟0𝙫ҽ𝗅

And somewhere upstairs, the lights clicked on automatically—.

……

The frost bit faintly at his jaw as he stood alone on Parliament Hill.

London stretched below, veiled in the mist — rooftops soft with snow, the streets not yet stirring.

It felt far away.

Smaller.

Like a painting sealed behind glass.

Izan’s gloves were damp.

He hadn’t meant to stop running this long, but his legs didn’t want to move yet.

Not because they were tired — they weren’t.

He just needed stillness.

That kind of stillness you only get when the world forgets you exist for a second.

His breath curled in the air like smoke from a candle, rising in clean, slow.

He could hear the echo of things.

“Can I still breathe in this world I am building?” he muttered to himself.

He shifted his weight, boots crunching faintly in the frost.

He loved football and didn’t regret any of what was going on— not the choice, not the money, not the stage.

But it was a high place to live.

And high places could get lonely.

People talk like it’s easy.

Like the game lifts you up.

Like all you need to do is show up and shine.

But they don’t talk about the part where you don’t know if the glow around you is from the light you made — or the fire that’s about to burn through it.

He inhaled deeply through his nose once again, held it and then let go.

He pulled the hood back over his head.

Then turned and began walking.

…….

[Emirates]

The stadium hummed with anticipation long before kickoff—Matchday 22, Arsenal hosting Aston Villa under a crisp late winter sky as the commentators’ voices crackled to life:

“After scraping a draw last time out, Arsenal will be desperate to rediscover their momentum tonight. On the other side, Villa arrive off the back of a morale-boosting 1–0 win at Everton.”

“It’s shaping up to be tight—both teams hungry, both managers keen to make a statement.”

The players emerged in a cascade of colour: red-and-white Arsenal kits brushing against Villa’s claret-and-blue.

The tunnel spat them out onto the pitch and the roar swelled.

Arsenal fans lifted scarves skyward, while a smattering of Villa supporters responded with respectful applause.

The whistle blew and Arsenal began with measured control.

The midfield shifted like water, flowing into spaces.

Villa tested their resolve, probing early gaps, but Arsenal’s defence remained vigilant.

A sequence of passing exchanges carved through the press, drawing the visitors across the field and leaving pockets of space behind.

A while after the ball kicked off, Izan Miura Hernandez gathered the ball just inside the Villa half.

He took one look at the wall of defenders blinking in his peripheral vision and then set off.

Two touches and he was past the first man; the third left the second defender grasping at thin air.

He drew a short pass from Odegaard, spinning the ball between his feet like a dancer finding rhythm.

With each stride, he gained ground, switching direction—right heel flick, left-footed shimmy—and suddenly he found himself inside the penalty box, one-on-one with the fullback.

The defender lunged.

A whisper of contact came, not enough to bring him down, but enough for the referee’s whistle to slice through the arena.

“Penalty!” the lead commentator announced, voice rising.

“Izan done brilliantly—splits them open, draws the foul. This is more than just a moment—it’s about who steps up.”

The pitch-shifted eyes to Gabriel Jesus, Arsenal’s striker who’d only just pushed his way back into the squad.

He nodded to the referee, then ran to the penalty spot.

The stadium hushed as he took one step back, a steady breath, before the run.

Goal.

Jesus slotted the ball low and hard down the middle as the keeper dove well but not well enough.

The Emirates erupted.

The red wave surged.

Gabriel pointed straight at Izan, acknowledging the latter’s selflessness.

The crowd picked up the thread, chanting his name in return.

“Look at that,” the commentator continued, voice thick with admiration.

“Crucial moment. Izan could have taken it—makes the professional, selfless choice. Gabriel finishes it. That’s what team football looks like.”

In the stands, fans roared—not just for the goal, but for the unity it represented: a teenager with ice in his veins and the wisdom to share the spotlight.

On the pitch, the match resumed.

Arsenal held the edge, riding on that first goal’s energy.

And now, with the game humming ahead, the question on everyone’s lips was obvious: what would come next?

A/N: Last of the day. I’m tired guys so let’s make the Golden ticket chapter as part of tomorrow’s. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit. Sorry for the lack of action in this chapter. It might feel like you would be better off skipping but this helps portray Izan as a human and not just some emotionless robot filled by my words. A 17 year old kid who carries the weight of not just his club, but dreams and wishes of kids.

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.