God Of football

Chapter 1046: Two Titans!

The walk through Los Angeles International Airport wasn’t as quiet as the Spanish delegation had hoped.

Even with airport security creating a corridor ahead of them, people still found ways to catch a glimpse.

Phones rose above shoulders almost instinctively as travellers abandoned queues, some calling out players’ names while others simply stood there recording as Spain filed past.

"Lamine!"

"Pedri!"

"Vamos, España!" an almost southern American accent roared.

A young boy squeezed between his parents just enough to wave a small Spanish flag before security gently ushered him back.

One of the officers apologised with a smile, but not before Nico Williams looked over and returned the wave, earning an excited scream that echoed through the terminal.

Cameras continued flashing as the squad stepped through the secured gate leading toward the private charter waiting on the apron.

The noise of the terminal slowly gave way to the distant whine of jet engines, conversations becoming quieter as players adjusted backpacks onto their shoulders and made their way across the tarmac.

Some walked in pairs, locked in conversations about various interests while others had already disappeared behind headphones, content to let the evening drift by in silence after another professional performance.

A few steps behind them, Izan followed with his phone against his ear, smiling faintly as his mother’s voice carried through the speaker.

"No, Mama," he said, smiling to himself.

"The next game won’t be played here. You can always ask Miranda."

He listened for a few moments before answering.

"It’s in Dallas, at the AT&T Stadium."

He paused once more before switching the hand that was clutching the phone.

"No, you won’t have to worry about travelling too much."

He adjusted the strap of his backpack before stepping onto the boarding stairs.

"You’ll be using my jet anyway. It won’t even take long from here."

He thought about whatever question his mother had asked for a moment before speaking again.

"Just under two hours."

A moment later, a soft laugh escaped him.

"No... I’m serious."

"...Yes."

"I’ll stay safe, Mama."

"I promise."

Only after hearing her satisfied hum did he finally end the call.

The screen went dark, but just as it did, a voice sounded beside him.

"You own a private jet?"

Nico Williams had somehow appeared beside him.

Izan looked sideways.

"...That’s the part you took from that conversation?"

"I heard ’my jet and I assumed I misheard."

"You didn’t."

Nico stopped walking.

"...Since when?"

"I got it a few months ago."

"You bought one?"

At that, Izan shook his head.

"No. It was a gift."

Nico blinked before speeding up to match Izan’s stride.

"...A gift? I also want a gift like that. But wait, though, who gives private jets as gifts!"

"Well, if you are one of the Saudi princes."

Now Pedri, who had been walking ahead, slowed enough to overhear.

"So we’re just saying sentences like that now?"

Izan laughed.

"It happened after one of those partnership meetings with the Emirates people."

"The prince said I’d brought enough exposure to Saudi Arabia just by visiting."

"So..."

He shrugged.

"...he gave me a plane."

A short silence prevailed as Nico stared at him for another few seconds before letting out a slow breath.

"I want to be like you when I grow up."

That got ribs cracking as Olmo joined Pedri, who had clutched his midsection, unable to stop laughing.

"You don’t even know how ridiculous that sounded," Pedri managed between laughs.

Before Nico could defend himself, Lamine wandered over from further ahead.

"Will you stop glazing him?"

"The fans do it enough already. The media treat him like an egg, and the commentators definitely wish they had him in their beds."

Lamine pointed at him.

"We don’t need you joining the queue."

"I wasn’t glazing. You absolutely were."

"I was appreciating."

"You were glazing."

Izan simply shook his head as Nico and Lamine continued their back and forth.

"I haven’t eaten enough for this," Izan muttered before finding his way past the duo.

...

The aircraft had levelled out by the time the cabin settled into a comfortable silence.

Outside, the last traces of California disappeared beneath a blanket of cloud.

Inside, conversations faded one by one.

A few players had already fallen asleep with their seats reclined, while others buried themselves behind films, music or tablets, happy to let the journey back to Tennessee pass unnoticed.

Izan rested his head against the window for a moment before Nico’s words drifted back into his mind.

"Exposure."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slipped his phone from his pocket and opened Instagram.

His profile appeared almost immediately.

121 posts, and right beside it was his follower count, which was just over 230 million followers.

The number beneath his name refused to stay still.

Every time his eyes returned to it, another few thousand people had appeared.

Notifications continued stacking on top of one another faster than he could read them, and the blue verification badge was almost hidden beneath the constant stream of mentions and tags from around the world.

He scrolled for barely half a minute before giving up.

There was no keeping up with it anymore.

With a quiet sigh, he locked the screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"...I should really be doing something useful with this," he muttered and then turned back toward the window, watching the wing slice cleanly through the clouds as the aircraft carried Spain home.

Outside the window, California slowly disappeared beneath the clouds.

Thousands of miles away, Cristiano Ronaldo stepped out of an ice bath and reached immediately for the towel waiting nearby.

He draped it over his shoulders before rubbing the water from his hair with slow, practised movements.

Forty-one years old and yet, another World Cup.

Perhaps his last, at least, as a player.

He let out a long breath before settling onto the recovery table where a tablet rested beside him.

He picked it up, and as he did, almost every headline carried the same story.

THE MATCH THE WORLD HAS BEEN WAITING FOR.

RONALDO VS IZAN.

THE OLD KING. THE NEW KING?

Another article appeared.

"A changing of the guard?"

One television panel argued exactly that while another dismissed it outright.

"This Portugal side has far more than Cristiano Ronaldo," one pundit insisted.

"Bruno Fernandes. Vitinha. João Neves. Rafael Leão. Bernardo Silva. Pedro Neto. Nuno Mendes."

"They’re more than capable of ending Spain’s thirty-three-match unbeaten run."

Another analyst shook his head.

"You don’t end runs like Spain’s unless you solve Izan Hernandez first."

Ronaldo snorted quietly.

"...Always talking unnecessarily!"

His thumb carried him lower, and there, another graphic appeared.

It was his own face and then Izan’s face, placed side by side.

He looked at it for a long moment before setting the tablet down on his lap.

"I hope you’re ready, kid."

The words barely rose above a whisper, but he meant every bit of it.