God Of football - Chapter 426

Chapter 426: International Break [Pistacho031_3]
A ripple of cheers echoed when Izan gave a subtle wave, but he was already guiding Olivia down the aisle before the focus shifted back to the pitch.

As they walked toward the stadium’s private exit, Olivia leaned in.

“They showed us on the screen again,” she said.

“I saw,” Izan replied, barely hiding his grin.

“They caught my good side.”

She nudged him with her elbow. “All sides are your good side.”

He looked over at her. “Alright, now you’re just trying to get us back home early.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And is that a problem?”

He didn’t answer. Just held her hand tighter as they stepped through the tunnel, the echoes of the win still lingering behind them.

____________

The Sunday afternoon light was golden through the living room windows, casting a soft glow over the quiet apartment.

Olivia sat cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, flipping lazily through a magazine while Izan lounged with his phone on the couch, one leg dangling over the edge.

The morning had been slow—sleep-ins, a late breakfast, and now this lull before the inevitable press of the coming week.

They hadn’t talked about the international break much, but it hung in the air now that Arsenal’s match was behind them and the league paused.

When Olivia’s phone buzzed with an incoming video call, she scooted toward the sofa and turned the screen toward him.

The call connected, and three familiar faces filled the frame: Komi, Hori, and Miranda.

“¡Hijo mío!” Komi greeted him first, cheerful as always. Her hair was pinned up and she wore an apron, clearly in the middle of preparing something.

“Did you eat well today? You’re too skinny these days, you know.”

Izan chuckled, straightening up. “Yes, mamá. Olivia makes sure I don’t skip meals.”

Olivia smiled proudly from beside him.

Then came the dramatic sigh from Hori.

“And she’s taken my job too,” his younger sister muttered, her voice exaggeratedly sulky.

“First it was walking with you to training, then popping up in interviews, and now even video calls. What am I supposed to do now?”

“You could always become a TikTok star,” Olivia teased.

Komi laughed from her side of the screen.

“She already thinks she is.”

“Watch it,” Hori warned, folding her arms with mock defiance.

Izan leaned closer, grinning.

“Come on, you know I miss our walks.”

“Then tell the media to bring me back!” she shot back.

“They used to take pictures of us. Now they only take pictures of you two holding hands like it’s a romance movie.”

Izan laughed, exchanging a glance with Olivia, who leaned her head on his shoulder.

Then, Miranda’s voice cut in from somewhere off-screen.

“Enough with the teenage drama.”

A moment later, she slid into view, holding a coffee mug, her expression as sharp as ever.

“We need to talk.”

“Uh-oh,” Olivia whispered, nudging Izan.

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “International break’s here.

The squad list drops tomorrow morning. Are you in, or should I speak to someone and buy you some rest?

You’ve had a whirlwind month, and they owe you one after that ridiculous Euro’s schedule for a kid.”

Izan didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the screen for a second, his fingers tapping softly on the arm of the sofa.

The idea of staying back—of lying low for a week, catching his breath—did hold a certain temptation. But he shook his head.

“No. If I want to be great… then these little moments matter.”

There was a brief silence before Miranda smirked. “I knew you’d say that. You’re just homesick.”

Komi lit up. “Aw, you miss your mamá?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Izan said, but his smile gave him away.

“I do,” he added more quietly after a second.

Miranda shifted in her seat. “Well, I’m glad. Because you’ve got a few sponsorship obligations in Spain we can tick off while you’re here.

Nothing too heavy—just a couple of shoots, one light meet and greet. Big brands like how you’ve handled your transition. They think you’re marketable.”

Izan’s expression twisted slightly. “As long as it’s not a shampoo ad.”

“You wish,” Miranda deadpanned. “You’re not pretty enough for that. Olivia maybe.”

Hori’s gasp was audible. “He is pretty!”

Komi laughed again. “He takes after me. Well, at least my personality. He got his dad’s eyes.”

The conversation drifted to lighter topics after that—family updates, Komi’s plans for the Local school where she had started helping out part-time.

Hori’s dance showcase coming up, and Miranda’s complaint about being stuck in a Madrid apartment with a neighbor who played reggaeton until 3 a.m.

But even as he smiled and laughed, Izan felt the weight of the coming days settle on his shoulders.

The Spanish call-up wasn’t just another match—it was another chapter in a story he would be building for years.

He glanced at Olivia once the call ended and they were alone again.

Her head was resting on his lap now, her eyelids fluttering closed.

Tomorrow, the list would come out. Then the flights. The training.

But for now, they had the quiet. And that, he thought, was just as important.

….

Monday morning broadcast.

“International Break: where reputations are tested and new ones are made.”

The studio was all sleek surfaces and bold banners—flashes of red, yellow, blue behind the presenter’s shoulder as the montage played.

“With domestic leagues on pause, this is the window where national teams recalibrate—blooding form players, protecting veterans, and gauging the pulse of world football’s next generation.

And with the 2026 World Cup cycle well underway, it’s no longer about sentiment. It’s about who’s ready. Right now.”

A list of upcoming squad drops slid onto the screen, timestamps and federation crests glowing beneath them. Spain’s was one of the last.

_____________

The sizzle of oil in a pan. A puff of saffron-scented steam curling into the air.

Izan’s kitchen—usually minimalist, pristine, underused—looked like it had been hit by a light-hearted war.

Chopped peppers scattered beside a cutting board, an opened tin of clams balancing precariously near the stove, and two very focused young adults trying really hard not to burn their masterpiece.

“I said gentle with the rice, not—” Olivia snapped, lunging to stop him from stirring too hard.

“It was clumping,” Izan defended, spoon in hand.

“It’s supposed to clump. That’s the crust. That’s sabor!”

“You’re just mad I stirred it first.”

She shot him a look, but couldn’t hide her grin.

The paella wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs. One of the few things they’d learned to make without YouTube videos or phone calls to Komi.

Between toast, pasta, and this, they’d basically mastered survival. Kind of.

Izan stepped back from the pan, wiping his hands on a towel. “At least it smells good.”

“It always smells good. That’s the trap.”

They moved like this for the next few minutes—him checking the time without looking like he was checking the time, her pretending not to notice the muted TV still tuned to the sports channel.

Spain’s list wasn’t out yet. But it was close.

The studio flickered again on the screen, now cutting to training camp arrivals from other countries.

Griezmann had just shown up to Clairefontaine. Bellingham was laughing with Saka at St. George’s Park.

A headline bar crawled across the bottom of the screen:

“Luis de la Fuente expected to name Spain’s squad within the next hour. Multiple surprise names rumored.”

Izan didn’t say anything.

He grabbed a lemon wedge from the counter, squeezed it over the paella, and set the pan down in the middle of the dining table.

Olivia brought over plates and then collapsed into her chair with a dramatic sigh.

“So,” she said, poking at the dish with a fork. “If they don’t call you up, does that mean we make another one of these next weekend?”

Izan blinked. “Are you saying you want me to get snubbed?”

“I’m saying I wouldn’t mind another quiet weekend. You, me, bad paella, and my Spotify playlist.”

“I’m starting to think this was your plan all along.”

She smirked.

But as the clock ticked closer, and the Sky Sports anchor returned to announce, “We are moments away from the RFEF’s official announcement”—Izan’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

And everywhere from Madrid to Valencia, Sevilla to San Sebastián… so was everyone else.

“Spain’s national team squad for the upcoming international fixtures has just been released by the RFEF…”

The broadcast anchor’s voice cut through the background noise in the apartment, but neither Izan nor Olivia moved to turn up the volume.

They were too focused on the stove, where the pan of paella was starting to crisp at the bottom—exactly how they liked it.

Olivia gave the rice one last stir while Izan plated the shrimp with practiced rhythm.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was the one thing they both knew how to cook without thinking.

On the TV, the squad list rolled across the screen.

Goalkeepers:

Unai Simón (Athletic Club)

Álex Remiro (Real Sociedad)

David Raya (Arsenal)

Defenders:

Dani Carvajal (Real Madrid)

Alejandro Balde (Barcelona)

Robin Le Normand (Atletico Madrid)

Aymeric Laporte (Al Nassr)

Pau Cubarsí (Barcelona)

Marc Cucurella (Chelsea)

Pedro Porro (Tottenham Hotspur)

Midfielders:

Rodri (Manchester City)

Fabián Ruiz (Paris Saint-Germain)

Pedro Gonzalez(Barcelona)

Aleix García (Bayer Leverkusen)

Gavi (Barcelona)

Álex Baena (Villarreal)

Forwards:

Nico Williams (Athletic Club)

Dani Olmo (Barcelona)

Lamine Yamal (Barcelona)

Álvaro Morata (Atlético Madrid)

Bryan Zaragoza (Bayern Munich)

Izan Hernandez (Arsenal)

Olivia glanced over first. “There it is.”

Izan didn’t bother looking. He just handed her a plate.

“Obviously.”

She smirked. “You tied Platini, Izan. They’d have to be insane to leave you out.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time Spain did something insane,” he muttered, finally flicking his eyes toward the screen.

Just a quiet nod like a man ticking off an item on a to-do list.

Olivia grabbed the remote, muted it, and joined him at the counter.

“I like seeing it. You know, seeing your name next to that crest. It looks good.”

Izan gave a short, amused exhale. “It always did.”

A/n: 4th of the Golden Gacha chapters.