God Of football - Chapter 551

Chapter 551: Companion.
[A Few Days After the Ballon d’Or]

The London wind bit across his face like it was in on the joke.

Grey London stretched around him — quiet, sharp-edged, cold in that distinct late October way that sank under the skin.

He didn’t care.

Hoodie drawn tight, headphones in but nothing playing.

He ran in silence.

No paparazzi.

No long stares.

Just Izan, the pavement, and whatever storm kept spinning in his chest.

His feet pounded out a rhythm — steady, familiar.

Until the street betrayed him.

A black sedan turned sharply at the junction up ahead.

Too fast, too close, and almost too late.

And then, something slammed inside his head — not a sound, not even a warning.

A roar.

[LEFT! NOW—]

Instinct took over.

Izan launched sideways off the curb, legs folding under him as he slammed into a metal bike rack, his breath ripping from his lungs in a single hard grunt.

The car barely slowed, blowing a honk and then it was gone.

Izan sat there, the chill sinking into the sweat lining his spine.

For a second, he just… stared at the sky.

Then:

[Well. That escalated quickly.]

The voice again.

Dry and wry.

Not even a trace of there being that robotic and synthetic echo it had even after assimilating Izan’s inner voice.

Izan blinked, chest still heaving. “What the hell was that?”

[Your guardian angel. Or, more precisely—System Companion Mode. Activated after Ballon d’Or position. Wouldn’t have hurt to win it but anyway: Congratulations. Also, you’re welcome.]

He rubbed his shoulder, wincing.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

[Better than giving you a limp. That car wanted your femur for breakfast.]

He stared out at the empty street, rain starting to spit across the tarmac.

“And now you talk this much?”

[Correction: now I sass. Verbal performance assistant. High-level mental interface. Personality module engaged. Because clearly, you’re going to need me if you keep spacing out like that.]

He pulled himself to his feet slowly.

His knee throbbed, but nothing serious.

“Right. Just what I need. A new disembodied update of the football Alexa in my skull.” Izan said as he walked slowly.

[Umm, that’s Rude. Alexa can’t track heatmaps. I’m not here to order groceries. I’m here to make sure you don’t crash — physically or mentally.]

Izan started walking again, the dull ache in his elbow fading into the cold.

“You’ve never even said hi like this..”

[Yeah, well. You weren’t almost winning the Ballon d’Or and nearly getting hit by cars before.]

He smirked despite himself.

“Is this part of the update?”

[System deemed it… necessary. You’re not a boy anymore. You’re a project. And projects need structure.]

“You mean therapy.”

[I prefer the term ‘inbuilt guidance system with attitude’ but you won’t think of me as such so let’s just forget it.]

He shook his head and pulled open the door to his apartment.

Quiet inside.

Olivia’s shoes by the door.

Her scarf, half-draped on the hook.

She wasn’t awake yet.

Steam filled the bathroom a few minutes later as he stood under the water, eyes closed, the city still in his ears.

Then, in his head:

[By the way—if you’d taken two more steps without dodging, your left ACL would’ve been singing Despacito by now. You’re welcome again.]

“Do you keep quiet? I’m starting to like the old you better.” he muttered, water hitting his face.

[No. But I do adjust verbosity settings. Just don’t make me.]

“Great. Just Great” Izan muttered as he turned off the shower.

……..

[Present]

Colney Training Ground – Afternoon

The sky had turned a dull, unbothered gray.

Not quite brooding.

Just indifferent.

The same way Izan felt as he jogged back toward the training circle, boots kicking up little sprays of cold turf.

Every word from Arteta grated against his nerves.

Not because it was wrong—but because it made him irk.

It wasn’t always like this but, Izan just wasn’t in the mood to hear sense.

Not with all that was going on in his head.

“Shift quicker in the channel, Izan,” the coach called.

“You’re dragging space when you should be splitting it.”

A curt nod but no words followed.

Rice gave him a quick glance as they repositioned.

Like he was checking for something.

Ødegaard didn’t say anything either, just flicked his eyes toward the ball and back again.

All their words had been said with their eyes.

Izan thumped the next pass toward Jorginho so hard it nearly stung the veteran’s foot.

Then peeled away, calling for the return ball.

No one spoke.

Another rotation.

A cross came in from Calafiori—looping, too high, too soft.

Izan was already annoyed before it landed.

He let it bounce, stepped forward, and buried it in one violent half-volley straight at Neto.

The sound it made smacking off the keeper’s gloves was like a gunshot in a church.

Neto didn’t try to catch it.

He barely moved.

Just blinked as the ball slammed off his palms and ricocheted back toward midfield as Arteta and his staff froze.

Saka turned to Rice and whispered something that ended with a quick and wide-eyed shrug.

Saliba didn’t even bother hiding his wary look.

It was like watching someone train with a storm cloud strapped to their back.

And then—

Ding.

A voice only Izan could hear broke through, dry as ever.

[That man didn’t sign up to be a crash test dummy, you know.]

Izan clenched his jaw as he jogged to retrieve the ball.

“Please be quiet”

[Oh, so we’re doing the brooding genius routine again. Fantastic. Let me grab my popcorn]

His foot clipped the ball forward, dragging it into stride.

“I’m trying to focus here, okay ?”

[Noted. And yet… here you are, launching missiles at your backup keeper like he’s the reason behind Disney’s recent movies.]

Izan exhaled sharply and heavily through his nose as he tried to keep calm, and yet,

[Just saying—maybe shoot at the goal next time. That’s where the actual opposition lives.]

The ball came back into play.

Arteta was watching, arms crossed now.

Izan received a pass from Timber, skipped past one cone like it had offended him personally, and cut in sharply, firing low toward the far post.

Goal.

But even that didn’t feel like enough.

He looked up briefly.

The staff were back to scribbling.

The squad was back to breathing and doing whatever they were doing before.

“For Christ’s sake, shut up” Izan muttered a bit loudly as a few staff near the end turned towards him.

[Love you too, sunshine.]

…

The apartment door clicked softly behind him, but the thud of his gym bag dropping to the floor echoed louder than it should have in the quiet apartment.

Izan didn’t even bother to untie his laces properly—just toed off his boots and padded into the living room in his socks, hair still damp from the cold air outside.

He looked… drained.

Not the usual “I trained hard today” kind of tired.

This was something heavier.

It showed in his posture, in the slow way he collapsed onto the couch like someone trying not to wake the silence itself.

Olivia glanced up from her seat at the dining table, spoon halfway to her mouth, brows already lifting.

“You look like someone put a dumbbell on your back and dared you to do laps,” she said.

Izan didn’t even argue.

He just let his head fall back against the cushions and sighed—long, weighty.

“They kind of did,” he muttered.

“Arteta was on one. He was on my back the whole session after I tried murdering Neto with a shot.”

Olivia stood, walked over, and didn’t say anything at first.

Just reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear, her hand lingering a second longer than necessary.

“Miranda called,” she said finally.

“Said the Gemera’s arriving tomorrow. Before noon.”

Izan opened one eye.

Then groaned.

Loudly.

“Of course it is,” he mumbled.

“Because what I need before the December crunch is more excitement.”

He sank even deeper into the couch like the cushions might absorb him fully if he just believed hard enough.

“The match against Fulham is in two days,” he added, eyes closed now.

“And then 5 more before New Year even. It’s not even football anymore. It’s a survival test.”

Olivia chuckled, dropped onto the couch beside him, and gently patted his head like he was some grumpy cat who’d seen too much of the world.

“Go take another shower,” she said, nudging him lightly with her knee.

“You’ll feel less like someone just ran over your soul.”

Izan didn’t open his eyes.

He just gave a low grunt and muttered, “I’ll die here.”

Olivia grinned.

“Nope. Not allowed. You’ve got a spaceship pulling into the driveway tomorrow.”

“And I have to pretend like I’m not excited about that.”

“Exactly.”

He groaned again.

But then, he finally sat up.

Sluggish and half-defeated.

“Fine. But only because I’m starting to smell like training room liniment.”

Olivia smiled, watching on as Izan trekked slowly, but eventually into the bathroom

A/n: Last of the day. I hope you guys like the new side of the system. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit. I’ve been getting comments lately about Izan’s stats like goals and assists as well as his systems stats and attributes. It will be up in a few chapters so bear with me.