God Of football - Chapter 487

Chapter 487: On My Terms.
Izan nodded absently, standing shirtless by the open wardrobe, considering his outfit.

A navy shirt in hand, he reached for his phone on the dresser just as it buzzed with a call.

Miranda.

He answered it, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder while buttoning the shirt.

“Hey,” he said.

Miranda’s voice was sharp, measured.

“Just a heads-up. Adidas set a meeting for the evening.”

He paused, a shirt button half-done. “Tonight?”

“Yes. They want you there. It’s important. Hans Webber flew in for it personally.”

Izan’s lips parted slightly as the words registered, and across the room, Olivia caught the shift in his expression.

She turned toward him slowly, curling iron paused mid-air, as Izan dropped the jeans he had picked up.

“Tonight? Like today, tonight,” he repeated into the phone, his voice low, quiet, but clipped with disbelief.

Miranda’s voice was calm but firm.

“Yes. I know it’s late notice. But Hans Webber’s here, and they’ve cleared a private venue. They’re serious. Adidas wants to close.”

Izan let out a slow breath, running a hand through his thick, brushed hair as he moved toward the window.

He looked out, the London skyline, muted by the soft grey glow of early evening.

Then, he turned slowly, facing the bed where Olivia sat on the edge, her hair half curled, one hand resting on her thigh.

She was staring at him, waiting for an explanation he hadn’t given yet.

“They couldn’t let us know at least a day in advance?” Izan said, irritation sliding into his voice.

“I’ve had this day planned for a week.”

Miranda sighed.

“I didn’t know about it. But it’s business. This is how it goes sometimes. Plus, I told them you’d be available. They’re trying to close out the deal before anything irregular happens.”

He shut his eyes briefly, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Tell them I’ll come.”

“Smart call, Izan. I’ll send a car and tell Olivia I’m sorry,” Miranda replied before hanging up.

Izan lowered the phone slowly, as if it weighed more than it should.

He turned toward Olivia.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice softer now.

“They just dropped this out of nowhere. Hans Webber’s in town. It’s… huge.”

Olivia looked at him for a moment, her eyes scanning his face, then her expression softened.

“It’s okay,” she said, with a little nod and a smile that was kind even though it carried a faint disappointment.

“Your future’s on the line, Izan. The date can wait. We’ve got forever for stuff like that.”

Izan stepped forward, leaned down, and kissed her forehead gently.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

He turned back to the wardrobe, taking off the half-buttoned shirt, pushing aside a few blazers before pulling out a white Saint Laurent shirt — soft-threaded and stylishly punctuated with subtle holes, just enough to be rebellious.

He tugged it on, buttoning it halfway before reaching for a pair of dark, loose pants.

From the velvet-lined drawer nearby, he picked up his Seiko Grand Line IH17-Hyperion — the one made in his name, a symbol of just how fast his image had soared.

The cold steel clasp clicked into place on his wrist as he gave one last glance in the mirror.

The shirt draped sharply against his frame, minimalist but defined, the faint threads catching in the light.

His long ruffled hair fell naturally, his features calm but slightly heavy.

Izan turned to the door, then looked back.

Olivia was sitting on the bed, her legs tucked beneath her, curling iron unplugged, her makeup half-finished.

She tried a smile — and it reached her eyes — but something about the sight struck him.

She looked small.

Still in her soft navy blouse and jeans, she looked not left behind… but not brought along either.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said as he reached for the handle.

Olivia nodded, giving him a softer smile now.

“Go on, Mr. Future-of-football.”

He lingered a moment longer, as though some part of him didn’t want to go anymore, then stepped outside.

The hallway was quiet, the air cooler.

He took a breath — deep, heavy — and let it out through his nose.

His hand stayed on the doorknob, and he looked back at the white wood for a moment, lost in thought.

And then, something flickered in his eyes.

A smile began to form.

An idea.

Something that hadn’t quite taken shape yet, but it was there, forming like a constellation from scattered stars.

His expression relaxed, and the tension in his shoulders loosened as he walked down the corridor, the idea now flickering gently behind his gaze, a quiet plan that would bloom soon enough.

………..

Miranda ended the call with a soft tap of her screen, the blue glow of her phone dimming in her hand.

She leaned back against the velvet-lined booth of the private suite inside The Arkle Room, one of Mayfair’s finest, tucked discreetly inside.

The room was warm and subtly lit, a hush of exclusivity in every polished edge of the wood and gleaming gold detail.

Across from her sat Hans Webber, dressed with trademark precision, flanked by his assistant and a younger executive in a navy turtleneck, sharp-framed glasses perched low on his nose.

Miranda didn’t speak right away.

She simply exhaled. A slow, cold breath. Then, her eyes lifted.

“You really should’ve told us at least a day in advance,” she said, her voice clipped but calm.

“You dropped this out of nowhere, Hans. You know how tightly scheduled he is—and you just derailed his evening plans.”

Hans gave a slow, apologetic nod.

He removed his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.

“I know. And I’m sorry for that. But this meeting couldn’t wait. We’re already late to the window. If we want to corner Nike before they solidify anything long-term, it has to be tonight.”

Miranda narrowed her gaze.

“You could have still given us a warning.”

Hans didn’t counter that. He knew better.

Instead, he looked to the door.

“He’s coming?”

She nodded. “He’s on his way.”

Exactly thirty-eight minutes later, a quiet knock tapped at the outer door of the Arkle Room.

One of the restaurant’s managers moved forward to open it, ushering in the figure they had all been waiting for.

Izan stepped in first.

Under the soft lights, his white Saint Laurent shirt caught the glow like silk, the delicate threading glimmering faintly.

Loose, dark pants moved easily around lean legs, and on his wrist, the IH17-Hyperion Seiko Grand Line shone like a statement piece.

He looked calm—unbothered—but those who knew him well could see the quiet alertness in his eyes.

His gaze scanned the room before falling on Miranda first.

But Hans Webber, who had risen halfway from his seat, did not look at Izan.

His eyes were fixed on someone else.

Trailing just behind Izan, hand looped casually but possessively through the crook of his elbow, was Olivia.

A white blazer, clean-cut and threaded like Izan’s shirt, rested on her shoulders.

She matched him deliberately, clearly, and the soft glint of silver around her wrist mirrored his own.

She looked elegant and somewhat reserved as to her day-to-day personality, her eyes sweeping across the room with curiosity before briefly dropping in deference as she stood half a step behind Izan.

Hans blinked.

A slight frown creased his brow—not of offense, but of surprise.

He hadn’t expected this.

Next to him, Miranda had turned in her seat.

She followed his line of sight, then let a slow smile pull across her face.

She didn’t seem fazed—if anything, she looked pleased.

“Nice idea, Miura,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching as she leaned back into the plush seating.

Hans shot her a look. “You knew?”

Miranda’s tone was effortless.

“He didn’t say it, but I knew the moment he stepped out alone that he wouldn’t stay that way.”

Izan stepped forward with an easy nod.

“Hope we’re not too late.”

“Right on time,” Hans said smoothly, regaining composure as he extended a hand, and Izan took it, firm and brief.

Olivia simply gave another soft nod before taking the seat nearest the far end of the booth, staying close to Izan without encroaching.

“Evening,” Miranda said, reaching for her water.

“Evening,” Izan returned, settling in.

Hans cleared his throat, adjusting.

“You surprised me. I didn’t expect company.”

Izan glanced at Olivia with a smile.

“She’s not company,” he said simply. “She’s part of who I am currently.”

Hans raised a brow but said nothing.

Across the table, the assistant scribbled something quickly into a notepad.

Miranda tapped her nails once against her phone and said nothing.

Izan had done what she suspected he would: if Adidas wanted his future, they had to take all of him, including the not-so-quiet girl with matching eyes and a mind sharp enough to melt his edges.

“Well then,” Hans said, smiling diplomatically, “Let’s get into it.”

But as the menus were passed out and small talk floated like mist over the table, Izan leaned back in his seat, one arm across the booth behind Olivia.

He was here for business.

But tonight, he’d made sure the world knew—on his terms—what mattered most to him.

Hans Webber, watching the young star fold into his seat with elegance and calm, knew Adidas would have to work harder than ever to keep him.

They weren’t just re-signing a kid like they did previously.

They were trying to win over a future they didn’t entirely control.

A/N: Hello, last of the day. Have fun, and I hope y’all are satisfied with the chapters