God Of football - Chapter 547

Chapter 547: Proper English Night [GT Chapter ]
Miranda lifted her glass again—this time just sipping it as if the day’s chaos hadn’t already emptied her reserves.

“They said they could arrange a test drive,” she added, tapping a fingernail against the Koenigsegg folder.

Izan raised a brow, still half-lounged in his chair.

“Like, just take it out on the streets of London?”

She scoffed.

“Please. Do you think they’re putting a prototype anywhere near Shepherd’s Bush? They’ve got connections to a closed course—one of those highly specialized automotive grounds. Perfect visibility. Total privacy.”

“Private track,” Olivia echoed with a low whistle.

“Now that sounds expensive.”

“It’s Koenigsegg,” Miranda said dryly.

“They invented expensive.”

Izan stood, stretching his arms over his head.

“Then let’s do it early.”

Miranda looked at him. “Early?”

He nodded, walking over to grab a bottle of water.

“Fixtures are about to pile up. You’ve seen the calendar—late December’s a minefield. Premier League. FA Cup. The Champions League continues. If we wait, I won’t have time to breathe, let alone test-drive a million-euro piece of carbon fiber.”

She was already reaching for her phone.

“I’ll tell them to lock something in by next week. Are you free the day after the United match?”

“Morning, yeah,” he said, twisting the cap off his bottle.

“By midday I’ll probably be knocked out on the couch, recovering my legs.”

Olivia smirked from the sink. “You better not nap through your own luxury car debut.”

“I’ll try to stay awake,” Izan said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “For the drama.”

Miranda was already typing, thumbs flying.

“Alright. I’ll coordinate with them, set up the security clearance, have the track booked, and get their people to fly in.”

He took a sip of water, then added over his shoulder, “And no press, yeah?”

Miranda didn’t look up.

“Izan,” she said, almost smiling.

He nodded once, satisfied.

They were doing this their way.

……

The bell above the café door chimed with that soft, familiar ding, as another customer announced himself to the shop.

Izan ducked in, hoodie damp with sweat from his morning run, earbuds looped around his neck, and hair slightly wind-blown from the cold.

The smell hit first—roasted beans, cinnamon, and that clean baked air of morning pastries still sitting under warm glass.

Behind the counter, the barista looked up from the espresso machine and grinned like she’d seen a friend from school.

“Well, look who it is. Early prep?”

Izan smiled, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

“Early jog,” he said.

The barista started prepping his usual without asking.

“Hope you’ve got something good planned for United tonight,” she said as she tamped the coffee.

“My dad’s a City fan—he said he’d buy us all a round if you lot win.”

“Guess I can’t let him down then,” Izan replied, leaning slightly on the counter.

By now, a couple of other customers had turned their heads.

No phones out yet.

But recognition was spreading—eyes widened, half-smiles forming, a small wave from a woman in the corner seat whose daughter mouthed ‘that’s him’ to her.

The barista slid a small paper bag across the counter, two drinks tucked inside.

“You’ll need the fuel,” she added.

“Appreciate it,” Izan said, adjusting the bag by the handles.

“And tell your dad I’ll try to give him a reason to toast.”

He took a half-step back toward the door.

The wave came naturally—fingers flicked up, nothing theatrical.

Just polite and curt.

“Good luck tonight!” someone called from a table by the window.

Izan nodded once, then jogged lightly back into the street—feet slapping the pavement, breath steady, the chill still rising off the concrete.

….

The Arsenal bus turned off Holloway Road in a low growl, rolling toward the Emirates like a ship docking in familiar waters.

Outside, the sky was a flat iron sheet, clouds hanging heavy and low like a threat no one wanted to name.

The December air pressed cold against the windows, already spitting the kind of drizzle that made your bones ache before it made you wet.

Inside, the mood was strangely light.

“Proper England, this,” Rice muttered, tugging his beanie down tighter as he peered out the window.

“Cold, wet, and just sad enough to ruin your hair.”

Saka chuckled across the aisle.

“That’s why I shave mine.”

“Smart man,” Timber added from behind, slipping his phone into his jacket.

“Wish I’d thought of it before today.”

The brakes sighed as the bus came to a halt behind the East Stand.

Fans had already clustered at the barricades, bundled and waiting—some in ponchos, some just soaked and buzzing.

A few saw the movement through the darkened glass and roared as if they could already see who was coming.

The door hissed open.

Izan was the first to stand, pulling his hood over his curls, cinching the strings just enough to fight the wind.

“Think the rain’s holding off?” Martinelli asked behind him, already bracing for the cold.

Izan didn’t answer.

He just glanced at the sky, shrugged, and stepped off the bus.

The wind greeted them instantly—sharp, unwelcome, but not unfamiliar.

A few drops followed, fat and spaced, the kind that hit with a plop on your jacket and made you think, any minute now, it’ll pour.

“Warm-up’s gonna suck,” Ben White muttered, zipping up.

“And yet, here we are,” Ødegaard replied, shouldering his bag.

“Heroes of the North fighting for glory.”

They walked the short stretch into the stadium tunnel, past chanting fans and waving flags, the noise picking up with every step.

A boy near the barricade shouted Izan’s name, his voice shrill with excitement.

Izan turned briefly, smiled, and gave a small nod—quick, quiet, like a promise not to let the night slip away unnoticed.

As they disappeared into the tunnel, a gust blew harder.

Then came the rain—fine, needling stuff, right on cue.

“Right,” Saka said under his breath.

“This is going to be a proper English night.”

And the doors closed behind them.

……

The cameras panned across the sodden surface of the Emirates as the crowd swelled beneath a thickening rain.

Umbrellas flared open across the lower rows, but many fans stood bare-headed, arms crossed or fists pumping—already soaked but unmoved.

Up in the gantry, under the cover of glass and steel, the voices of Ian Crocker and Andy Townsend came through crisp against the patter of droplets on the roof and the unmistakable pressure in the stadium.

“Well, good evening from a drenched North London,” Ian began, his tone calm but heavy with anticipation.

“It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s miserable—but this one’s massive.”

Townsend nodded beside him, glancing through the rain-slicked panel toward the far stand.

“Yeah, it’s got all the ingredients, Ian. December fixture congestion, Arsenal trying to keep their hold at the top, United desperate to close the gap, and now the weather’s shown up to test every ounce of focus. This is going to be a battle of discipline—and moments.”

Crocker leaned forward slightly.

“And what a stage. These two don’t just play matches. They write stories with every game and even if one of them seems ahead at the moment, there’s a legacy behind every clash—and tonight, maybe a little warning about the road ahead.”

Down in the tunnel, the lighting was stark, buzzing faintly overhead as boots thudded softly against the concrete.

Players bounced on their toes, rolled shoulders, and flexed their fingers in gloves.

The noise from the crowd was faint here, more a pressure against the walls than a sound but still, it pulsed.

Izan stood a few paces back from the front of the line.

A staff member passed him a black hair band, which he took without a word.

He pulled back the top portion of his hair, twisting it once, then tying them neatly into a loose, compact bun.

The rest fell freely around his temples, damp already from the warmup.

Then came the gloves.

He tugged them on slowly, fingers stretching inside the tight fabric.

Around him, teammates were locked in their own rituals—neck rolls, quiet prayers, blank stares ahead.

The official at the front turned.

A nod. A beckon.

It was time.

As the players stepped out into the corridor that led to the pitch, the murmur of the fans cracked into a full, fevered roar.

Izan blinked as the first drops hit his brow.

Cold. Sharp.

The sky had opened just in time.

And then—it began to fall heavier.

Not a drizzle anymore.

Rain, real rain. Sheets of it.

The kind that slicked the grass like oil and sent steam rising from the turf under the stadium lights.

The players emerged.

The Emirates roared again.

Izan squinted up once, the rain tracing down his cheeks like it was drawing lines on a canvas.

He pulled his shoulders back and walked into the storm as the ones who had come for a show, waited for one.

A/n: Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the last of the day.