God Of football - Chapter 427

Chapter 427: Mi Casa
September 2nd —

London, Izan’s Apartment

There was a particular kind of chaos that came with packing fifteen minutes before a scheduled airport pickup.

Izan’s suitcase lay open on the bed, half-zipped, with socks sticking out like they were trying to escape.

He was shirtless, squatting on the floor and trying to match the right kind of sock with its counterpart.

His phone buzzed twice — first from Miranda confirming the car was on its way, and again from the national team group chat, where someone had just sent a meme of Lamine Yamal dunking on everyone in training.

“Where’s my charger?” Izan muttered, lifting a pile of clothes like he expected it to be hiding under his jeans.

From behind him, Olivia walked into the room with a tote bag in one hand, and a stuffed duffel slung over her shoulder.

“I’m ready,” she said.

Izan didn’t look up. “Cool. I’ll be done in five.”

“You don’t get it.”

He finally turned.

Olivia dropped the duffel next to his suitcase.

“You weren’t gonna say anything, were you?” she said, crossing her arms.

He blinked. “What?”

“You were just gonna leave me behind.”

“I thought you were staying,” Izan replied, now genuinely confused. “Didn’t you say you had to go back to King’s for some offline procedure thing?”

“I did it yesterday.”

“You what?”

“I filled out all the stupid forms, submitted everything. I’m done.” She pointed at her bag.

“I’m coming back to Spain.”

There was a pause.

“You mean—”

“I’m coming with you, yes,” Olivia said flatly.

“I’m moving back for the year. You thought I was gonna stay here while you went and trained under the Spanish sun?”

Izan scratched his head, smiling now.

“I mean… I didn’t think you’d want to deal with my snoring every night for twelve straight months.”

“You don’t snore,” she muttered, visibly trying to keep her sulk intact but already cracking at the edges.

He stepped forward and gently pulled her arms away from her chest. “Liv…”

She didn’t meet his eyes.

“…you’ve been doing everything for me lately. If anything, I thought maybe you’d want a few days to yourself.”

Olivia exhaled. “I want to be there, yeah—but not like that. I’m heading back to Spain to get my stuff in order. Then we’ll come back together. That was always the plan.”

Izan nodded, the smile lingering. “Right. I just didn’t think you’d be flying out with me.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna let you sneak off with my charger again.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

She moved to grab her bag again, but he beat her to it.

“I got it.”

“I could’ve carried mine,” Olivia said, walking beside him toward the door.

“You’re already carrying the emotional damage of dating me,” he replied without missing a beat.

She snorted. “You’re lucky you have a nice face.”

“You’re lucky I like your sarcasm.”

Izan opened the door, slinging both bags over his shoulder, and peeked down the hallway.

“Elevator?”

She nodded.

They stepped in, side by side. Olivia leaned lightly against the mirrored wall as it descended.

“You know,” she said suddenly, “if I’d waited even thirty more seconds, you really would’ve left without me.”

“Yeah,” Izan said, grinning. “But I would’ve noticed halfway through the flight.”

She shot him a look.

“…Probably,” he added.

Her groan echoed softly in the lift as the doors slid open at the ground floor.

Waiting at the curb just outside the entrance, the black car Miranda had arranged was already parked, spotless, and punctual.

The driver, dressed in a clean blazer and cap, stepped out and opened the back door with a polite nod.

“Right on time,” Olivia muttered.

“Miranda doesn’t miss.”

Izan passed her the lighter of the two bags. “You sure about this?”

She adjusted the strap and gave him a look. “You’re flying to Spain, not the moon.”

They walked toward the car, the last of the early morning air brushing past them.

Olivia ducked into the back seat first. Izan followed, tossing his bag in the trunk as the driver closed the door behind them.

London faded quietly behind the glass as the car pulled away—no fanfare, no dramatic music.

Just them, and the road ahead. Spain next. Then back again. Together.

……

Barajas Airport

Izan had barely stepped off the plane when the shutter clicks started.

Someone at arrivals had clocked him and Olivia walking through side by side — and just like that, the internet did its thing.

By the time they reached the blacked-out SUV Miranda had arranged, the first blurry photo was already on X (formerly Twitter):

“Izan Hernandez was spotted arriving in Spain with his girlfriend. Not with the team. Was he even called up?”

Then came another, this one sharper, Olivia mid-laugh as Izan reached to grab her suitcase.

Her hair still held that London air fluff that hadn’t quite flattened from the flight, and Izan had on those oversized sunglasses that made him look more celebrity than a footballer.

The caption?

“BREAKING: Rumors swirl as Izan Hernandez appears to have turned down national team duty??”

By the time they reached the hotel, Spanish social media had basically turned into a warzone.

@futbolmaniaco: Wait. He was on the official list this morning?

@its_valen: yeah, he’s literally in the forwards list. Right under Morata lol

@totallynotbiased: bro declined Spain to go on vacation with his girl lmao

@laligathreads: Sources say he asked to skip the break. Too good for international football now?

Even the usual sports accounts had joined in:

@marca: Izan Hernandez was called up by Spain, but has not yet reported to the federation’s camp. The reason? Unknown.

@elchiringuitotv: Is Izan Hernandez committed to Spain… or just to Olivia?

The last one made Olivia laugh out loud when she saw it while scrolling beside him in the hotel lounge.

“Oh my God. ‘Committed to Olivia’ — as if that’s a scandal,” she said between bites of a churro.

Izan raised a brow, phone still face-down beside his iced bottle of water. “They think I ghosted the national team.”

“Honestly? Kind of hot.” She leaned back with a grin.

“It’s giving ‘dangerous man who doesn’t care about borders.'”

“I literally have a meeting with the team doctor in two hours.”

“Does the doctor know you’re dangerously obsessed with me?”

“Olivia.”

She laughed again, then showed him another post — a collage of him, her, and the squad list with a giant red question mark edited between them.

The comment underneath read:

“Izan Hernandez is playing his own game.”

He exhaled through his nose, finally flipping his phone open and sending a voice note in the group chat to Fabián Ruiz and Rodri:

“I’m in Madrid. Calm down. Stop making it sound like I’m on strike.”

Within a minute, Fabián replied with a selfie of him looking fake-sad and holding a sign that said: “We miss you, superstar.”

Rodri just sent the shrug emoji.

“You think I should tweet something?” Izan asked, tilting his head.

“No,” Olivia said without looking up. “Let them cook.”

He watched her for a second, then smiled. “You like this attention too much.”

“I like watching people lose their minds over nothing,” she said, wiping her fingers on a napkin.

“Also, you’re in Spain. With me. Preparing to play for the national team. That’s a flex.”

“Fair.”

Still, he opened his Instagram and typed something anyway before doing the same for the other handles.

Just landed. Reporting soon. Spain knows what’s up.

Then added a picture: his boots by the window of the hotel room, sun spilling in through the curtain.

He turned and set his phone on the bedside but before he could move any further, his phone buzzed on the bedside table, the screen lighting up with a single message.

[Raúl – La Roja]: I’m outside. Black SUV.

He glanced at it, then let the phone drop onto the sheets with a soft thud.

“That’s my cue,” he muttered, rolling his shoulder and reaching for his hoodie.

He was already dressed—track pants, clean trainers, and the national team polo folded neatly on the edge of the bed.

Olivia looked up from the little vanity mirror where she was tying her hair.

“That the rep?”

“Yeah.” He zipped the hoodie up halfway and checked his watch.

“Right on time. They said the pickup would be sharp.”

She stood and walked over to him, arms folding around his waist like it was routine.

“You gonna miss me?” she asked, muffled.

“Not even a little bit,” he teased, before leaning in and kissing her—slow, deep, familiar.

When he pulled back, she blinked like she needed a second to find her breath again.

“Showoff,” she muttered, cheeks flushed.

He grinned, grabbed his duffel bag from the corner, and slung it over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you in a few days,” he said, turning toward the door.

“You better FaceTime me.”

“I’ll pretend I’m too jet-lagged,” he shot back.

“You do that, I’ll change the locks.”

He laughed as he walked out, boots thudding against the carpet.

At the elevator, he glanced back once to see her still standing there, arms crossed, but now smiling faintly.

Then the doors slid shut.

Downstairs, the black SUV was waiting exactly where the text had said—right in front of the hotel’s main entrance.

The rep, Raúl, stepped out, crisp in his red La Roja windbreaker, and gave a sharp nod.

“Izan,” he said.

“Raúl.”

They shook hands quickly. No press, no camera crew—just a quiet exchange between a player and the man tasked with getting him back in red and gold.

As Raúl opened the back door, Izan turned for a brief second.

Through the glass doors of the lobby, Olivia could just barely be seen near the edge of the lounge, already checking her phone as she waited for her ride home.

Then he ducked into the car, the door clicked shut, and Spain—international duty—began.

A/n: Sorry guys. I didn’t schedule it well. This is the 2nd chapter of the previous day. Have fun reading. Will be back with the other chapters soon.