God Of football - Chapter 545

Chapter 545: Not As It Seems
“Izan is the kind of player you build a decade around,”

Florentino Pérez said in a quiet, deliberate voice.

“And I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

The words dropped with the weight of a chess piece slamming onto the board.

Real Madrid’s president hadn’t raised his tone or grinned like a man trying to stir headlines. He just said it. Calm. Measured. Final.

And it hit like a warning.

…..

“No cometas el mismo error dos veces.”

“Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

That was the quote.

And in Spain, no one missed it.

By early morning, El Chiringuito was live.

Cameras ready.

Hosts sharpening takes like knives on stone.

The set was electric—bright under studio lights, with slow pans across the table of familiar faces.

Josep Pedrerol, as always, presided from the center like a man hosting both a war council and a sermon.

“Florentino has spoken,” he said, voice slow.

“And when Florentino speaks, it’s not noise. It’s movement.”

A video played behind him: Pérez seated calmly, saying it again.

“Izan es un jugador con el que se puede construir una década. No voy a cometer el mismo error dos veces.”

(Izan is a player with whom you can build a decade. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.)

The moment it ended, Tomás Roncero practically exploded.

“¿Pero qué les dije?” he barked, pointing at the other panelists.

“What did I say?! The moment Madrid let him go to Arsenal, I said it would be the regret of the decade!”

Edu Aguirre tried to interject, but Roncero kept going, rising slightly out of his chair.

“You see a talent like that once every twenty years! And Arsenal… credit to them—they’ve given him the platform. But Madrid? We had him in our sights! And now Florentino says he regrets it? That’s not an opinion. That’s a signal!”

“Tranquilo, Tomás,” said Juanma Rodríguez with a small smirk.

“Madrid doesn’t need to chase anyone. If the boy is as smart as he looks, he’ll come. This is destiny—Madrid doesn’t call twice. They call once. And if he’s listening? He’ll answer.”

Cristóbal Soria, leaning back with arms crossed, broke his silence.

“This isn’t about destiny. It’s about leverage. Izan doesn’t need Madrid. Let’s not act like this is a one-way street. That kid is writing his own story, and he’s doing it outside of Spain. You think he wants to come back just because someone blinked too late?”

“The club is so full of itself that they think they can get anyone they want so they don’t give their all when signing players. But not everyone likes the white shirt.”

Roncero slammed his palm on the table.

“Cristóbal, you’d sell your soul to deny Madrid this kind of player. You’re scared. That’s all. If he comes to the Bernabéu, it’s over. Over for your Sevilla. Over for the footballing world. This is the next one. The only question is when.”

Pedrerol raised a hand to quiet them.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “We can argue all night. But the message is clear. Florentino regrets not signing Izan when he could. And now? The door may be closed—or just slightly open.”

He turned to the camera.

“Either way… the world is watching. And Arsenal?”

A beat.

“They should be very careful. Because when Florentino wants something… he usually gets it.”

And across social media, across fan accounts in Spain and England alike, the same sentence echoed again and again:

Florentino’s watching.

And Madrid doesn’t knock twice.

…

The sun peeked through the half-drawn curtains, painting soft lines across the wooden floor.

Izan blinked into the light and pulled the covers back with a half-hearted grunt.

The sheets were warm but the air outside them wasn’t.

He dragged himself upright anyway.

From the kitchen, Olivia’s voice rang out—not annoyed, but amused.

“You’re just now waking up?” she called. “How were you still asleep?”

Izan rubbed the sleep from his eyes, stood, and stretched.

“Blame training,” he muttered as he padded across the room in his socks.

“Or the three games in a week. Or just… sleep.”

By the time he’d showered and gotten dressed, the smell of something fresh—eggs, maybe toast—was curling out of the kitchen.

He joined Olivia at the table, hair still damp, plate already waiting for him.

She was on her second cup of coffee and scrolling something on her phone, lips curled in that half-smile she wore when reading comments she probably shouldn’t be.

He started eating without a word, only looking up when she tilted her head.

“You check your phone yet?”

He shook his head, still chewing.

“You probably should.”

With a shrug, Izan reached for his phone and unlocked it.

Dozens of notifications lit up the screen.

Mentions. Tags.

And a message.

Yamal

8:13 AM:

Don’t join those snakes

Izan frowned at the screen, thumb hovering over the text.

Izan:

What snakes???

No reply.

He stared for a few seconds, then assumed Lamine was just being dramatic.

Maybe a joke or maybe something stupid.

He rolled his eyes and went back to his toast, nearly setting the phone down—until it buzzed again.

Lamine:

[Video Link]

The preview was from a sports channel, and Izan recognized the thumbnail instantly—Florentino Pérez, sitting in that same velvet studio chair, hands folded, looking presidential as always.

Izan tapped the link.

The audio played immediately.

Florentino’s voice—measured, certain, unmistakable.

“Izan is the kind of player you build a decade around. And I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

Izan’s chewing slowed.

He watched, silent.

Then he looked up at Olivia, who was already rinsing her plate in the sink, back turned.

“That’s why you asked how I was still asleep,” he said.

She didn’t turn around, just smiled at the faucet.

“You’re a bit late to the storm,” she said. “It’s been raining all morning.”

Izan leaned back in his chair, one arm draped across the backrest as he stared at the phone screen in his other hand.

The video had ended, but the tremors it left were still echoing.

Below the clip, the comment section was a battlefield—fan opinions clashing in every language, every tone.

He scrolled.

@Jessie_Ball:

Florentino, you’ve got enough. Jude, Vini, Endrick, Mbappe maybe. Leave Izan where he is.

@PremierProphet:

If Madrid gets Izan too, FIFA needs to step in. Straight up. It’s not even a joke anymore.

@Culer_Soul:

Nah, man. This is Figo 2.0 waiting to happen. Arsenal fans, don’t sleep. Madrid always gets who they want.

@IzanFC_UK:

He’s ours. He’s building something in the Prem. Don’t let one old man’s regrets rewrite history.

@WhiteWallMadrid:

Don’t be naive. If you’re a player like Izan and Madrid calls, you answer. Simple as that.

@GoatWatchSpain:

Real Madrid already looks like the Avengers. Adding Izan? That’s Thanos snapping the league.

Izan raised an eyebrow and kept reading.

@nojoyleague:

Bro if Izan joins that squad it’s actually done. Wrap the Champions League. Hand them La Liga for five years. Football’s supposed to be competitive, not scripted.

@HighburyHeart:

If Arsenal lets this happen, it’ll be another RVP moment. But worse. This kid IS the project.

He paused, thumb hovering above the next batch of comments.

Some were worried.

Some were angry.

A few were already resigned.

He looked up from the screen.

Olivia was drying her hands now, glancing over her shoulder at him.

“Well?” she asked, casually.

Izan didn’t answer immediately.

He just let the phone rest on the table, the comments still rolling up beneath the paused thumbnail of Florentino’s face.

Finally, he muttered, more to himself than to her:

“I just joined this season and I made a promise. I am not going anywhere for now until I complete the targets I set for myself.”

…….

By the time Izan reached the gates of Colney, the sun had begun its steady climb.

The winter morning mist was clearing, and the frost clinging to the fields was giving way to the soft gleam of light.

But at the entrance to the training ground, the air still felt heavy.

Not from the cold.

From the crowd.

A modest swell of supporters had gathered near the main gate—too many to call it nothing, too few to ignore.

Most were quiet, their phones already pointed toward the road as Izan’s car pulled in.

Some had scarves tucked around their chins, others wore hopeful eyes and homemade signs that wavered gently in the wind.

One sign read: “Madrid’s got stars, but we’ve got the sun.”

Another: “Izan, you are the project.”

He noticed those.

The moment he stepped out, a low ripple moved through the group—half whisper, half anticipation.

There were no chants, no yells.

Just that muted reverence people carried around someone who might be slipping away.

He could’ve ignored it.

He could’ve walked inside and left it all outside the gate.

But Izan didn’t.

He turned.

A few kids had made their way to the front, pressing cautiously against the low fencing.

Their cheeks were red with cold.

Their voices were shy.

“Is it true?” one of them asked.

“About Madrid?”

Izan exhaled once, soft and white in the morning air.

He walked over and crouched down slightly so he was level with the boy who’d asked.

He smiled—not the kind for cameras, but the kind that kids understood.

“Let me tell you something,” he said gently.

“Not everything you hear on the news is real. Not everything said in interviews is the truth.”

The kid nodded slowly, not fully grasping it, but trusting him anyway.

Izan reached over and ruffled his curls, then turned to the other kids and added, “I’m right where I want to be. Plus, we haven’t won what I said we’d win.”

He looked up once, met the gaze of a few older fans behind them.

He gave a small wave, turned, and headed through the gate.

A/n: Imma head to bed. See you in a bit.