God Of football - Chapter 538

Chapter 538: Functioning Again
The private café in Mayfair was quiet enough to hear a sigh.

Tucked off a narrow lane frequented only by chauffeurs and those who didn’t need to Google their dinner reservations, the place felt like a whisper—intentional, selective.

The air smelled faintly of cardamom and oiled leather.

Laurent Virelli sat with his blazer draped neatly over the back of his chair, white shirt cufflinks gleaming.

In front of him, a modest spread: untouched espresso, a few notes scribbled on a legal pad, and two sharply dressed men representing Aston Martin’s Global Brand Expansion Team.

The conversation hadn’t been rushed, but it had become surgical.

“You need momentum,” Laurent said, leaning back, eyes calm but blade-sharp after he had set aside his phone.

“Miranda is playing for exclusivity. She’s slow-rolling you because she wants leverage—maybe another offer to play against yours. But let’s not pretend. If you want Izan fronting the wheel, you can’t afford to wait.”

Across from him, Klaus Vogel, older, heavier, and precise in speech, folded his fingers and studied Laurent.

His partner, René, younger and more image-driven, tapped a finger against his phone screen, clearly agitated.

“Miranda promised us mid-December,” René said finally.

“And she hasn’t responded to the last two follow-ups.”

“She won’t,” Laurent said flatly.

“She’ll let you dangle until someone else jumps in and raises the price. That’s the game. I’m not saying she’s not good. She is. But she’s not built for global execution.”

Klaus gave a skeptical grunt.

“You think you can lock him?”

Laurent didn’t blink. “No. I know I can.”

Klaus shifted, his gaze hardening slightly.

“That’s a tall promise. Especially since one of our board members is personally backing this deal. He’s already asked for updates. We stall another two weeks, and I’m answering for it. You understand me?”

Virelli nodded slowly, expression unchanged.

“Then don’t stall. Let me work. I’ll bring Izan to the table—not next year. This week.”

René raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Klaus still wasn’t smiling.

“Then get it done. Because if this slips, your name won’t just be whispered in Monaco anymore. It’ll be blacklisted.”

Laurent stood, smoothed his jacket over his arm, and offered a tight nod.

“It won’t slip.”

He stepped out into the soft drizzle just beginning to coat the curb and pulled out his phone.

Henry.

Saint Laurent’s Head of Athlete Partnerships.

The man who had been in every room that mattered for over a decade.

More importantly, the man who had helped bring Izan into the fold early—back when most brands were still whispering his name, not screaming it.

Laurent dialed.

Henry picked up on the second ring.

His voice was casual, familiar.

“Laurent. To what do I owe this?”

“I’ll make it quick,” Laurent said, stepping under the awning of a boutique storefront.

“I need Izan’s contact. Direct line.”

A pause.

Henry laughed softly. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“What are you planning Virelli.”

“This isn’t random,” Laurent said, tightening.

“It’s from a sponsor he already knows and I am representing them. They want to run it directly past him and Miranda’s sitting on it.”

Henry’s voice flattened slightly. “So call Miranda.”

“She’s not picking up.”

“Then wait.”

Laurent didn’t pause this time.

“I don’t have the luxury. If this doesn’t move, the sponsor walks. If they walk, we lose the whole window. You know what I’m talking about.”

Henry sighed. “Which sponsor?”

“I’m not naming names over the phone. But you’ll recognize the initials on the prototype. And if this goes through, Saint Laurent gets a co-branded shoot on the backend. I’ve already cleared that.”

Henry was quiet again. The kind of quiet where you could feel the weight shifting.

“Still. Izan hates this stuff. Unannounced calls. He’s sixteen. You know he shuts down if it feels greasy.”

“I’ll keep it clean,” Laurent promised. “One call. No pressure. He can hang up in ten seconds if he wants. Just give me that opening.”

Henry hesitated.

Then—slowly—relented.

“Alright. But if he’s not in the mood, I’m not cleaning up after you.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Laurent said, smiling now as he tucked his phone under his chin and scrolled through the contact file Henry forwarded.

“Good luck,” Henry muttered. “Don’t blow it.”

Laurent ended the call and immediately dialed again.

One ring.

Two.

Then:

“Hello?”

Izan’s voice came through the line, half-distracted, half-curious, but very much present.

Laurent took a slow breath, then let the charm sharpen just slightly in his tone.

“Izan,” he said smoothly.

“Hi. I’m glad you picked up. I’ve been waiting to speak with you for a long time.”

“Who’s this?” Izan said with a slight frown.

“Laurent Virelli,” came the reply, smooth and unhurried.

“I apologize for reaching you directly. I imagine you’re just leaving the stadium.”

There was a pause.

Then Izan spoke again, clearer now. “Yeah. Just closed from the match.”

“I watched,” Laurent said with a practiced softness.

“Brilliant second half. The trivela—beautiful work. You played with real maturity out there. Electric, but measured. Not many can do both.”

A longer silence this time. Izan didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t hang up either.

Laurent took that as an opening.

“I won’t take your time now,” he said.

“I wanted to talk properly. About your path. About things you might not be hearing in your current circle. But I get it—it’s late. You’ve earned your evening.”

Izan’s voice returned, a little more grounded now.

“Yeah. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

Laurent nodded as if Izan could see him. “Of course. What time works for you?”

There was a beat.

“Seven,” Izan said. “Evening.”

“Perfect,” Laurent replied, already locking the slot into his phone.

“I’ll keep it brief. Just a conversation.”

Another pause.

More tired than wary now, Izan muttered, “Alright then,” before the line clicked off.

Laurent lowered the phone, slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket, and turned slowly toward the passing headlights that lit the London street.

The corners of his mouth pulled into a cool smile—not victorious, but satisfied.

The door was open.

……..

“Back, back—tighten, go tighter!”

“Two touch, move it!”

“Saka! Don’t let it slow!”

The training pitch was a storm of voices and feet.

Bibs flashed in color as red and yellow shirts zipped through rondos and transition drills.

One pitch over, keepers dove to their sides like synchronized swimmers.

On another, forwards circled tight cones before smashing shots into mini goals from impossible angles.

Izan was already soaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead.

He wasn’t slacking—he never did—but his touches were tighter than usual.

A little heavier.

Passes still sharp, but not effortless.

He darted through a dummy press from Partey, burst forward with a cutback, then took a shot from way out that skimmed just over the crossbar.

A few of the coaches turned to Arteta after Izan’s hot but the Arteta just watched.

Arms crossed.

Lips pressed into a line.

He didn’t move for another few minutes.

The players broke into groups.

Midfielders rotated into the wing drills.

Coaches yelled for bib changes and water.

Izan wiped his face with the hem of his shirt and turned toward the cooler.

“Izan,” Arteta called.

Izan jogged over.

Calm face, but alert.

Arteta nodded toward the corner of the pitch and walked.

They stopped near a rack of cones, out of the way.

For a second, he said nothing.

Then:

“You good?”

Izan nodded. “Yeah.”

“Really?”

Another pause.

A slower nod. “Yeah.”

Arteta didn’t look away.

“Listen,” he said.

“I thought you were okay after last nights but it seems something still lingers. Saka was wide open and I know you saw it so why did you go for the shot.”

Izan’s eyes didn’t move.

But his jaw twitched.

“You have to let others do the hard work sometimes. You already have their respect. The fans.Your teammates. Me.”

Arteta tapped his chest lightly with two fingers.

“After you came on last night, it was like you weren’t playing for us but rather, playing against something.”

Izan’s brow furrowed.

“You forced it,” Arteta went on.

“Too many solo runs. Too many bad angles. No trust. Then the trivela—yes, it worked. But football isn’t about proving you still have it. It’s about proving you still understand why you play.”

Izan looked away for a second, tracking Timber as he volleyed a ball into the mini-net across the pitch.

Arteta didn’t press. Just stood beside him.

“You’re sixteen, and you carry pressure grown men would collapse under,” he said quietly.

“But don’t confuse pressure with permission. We don’t need a highlight. We need the heartbeat of our team functioning again.”

Izan finally spoke, voice low. “I got caught up.”

“I know. The past couple of weeks haven’t been too kind to you.”

Arteta glanced at him, a flicker of empathy in his eyes.

“That’s why I’m talking to you here. Not in the dressing room. Not in front of the others. Because I know what it looks like when someone starts chasing shadows. I have done it and I’ve seen others do it.”

A long breath passed between them.

On the far side of the pitch, coaches whistled for the next rotation. Izan didn’t move.

“Get your rhythm back,” Arteta added.

“Not for the gold but for the team .”

Izan nodded slowly. “I got it but I’ll still go for gold when I can.”

Arteta clapped him once on the shoulder.

“Good. Now go embarrass someone in this next drill—but pass when it’s time.”

That made Izan crack the smallest grin.

He jogged back into the drill.

And this time, when the ball came to him—he didn’t hesitate.

The shouts started again.

But this time, no one was shouting at him.

A/n: Last of the day. I’ll follow up with two chapters soon, one for the GTs and the other for tomorrow