God Of football

Chapter 961: The International Break!

Two and a half hours later, the training complex in North London had settled into its quieter rhythm.

The noise from earlier had thinned out, replaced by the low hum of engines and the echo of footsteps across concrete.

The players filtered out in small groups, boots and jerseys swapped for their pre-game attire.

Arteta, after the game, had kept it short inside with a few words about the players doing well, as well as the schedule for the following day’s recovery session.

In the car park, laughter broke through the tiredness in patches.

Nwaneri, back to his car and talking with the other boys, saw Izan finally step into the parking lot.

"Where are the supercars today?" he asked, scanning the rows with a grin.

"I thought you’d be rolling up in something ridiculous again, you know, to celebrate the mood."

Izan shook his head as he walked past him.

"It’s only you rich people that don’t see the BMW as a sports car," Izan said, causing Nwaneri to wrinkle his nose at the word rich.

He reached Miranda’s BMW, which he had brought and unlocked it, the lights flashing once in response while Nwaneri laughed behind him.

"Boring," he called.

Izan glanced back, one hand already on the door, before he slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door, shutting out the chatter from the rest of the squad.

The car felt instantly warmer, quieter.

He turned the heater up slightly, letting the air hit his hands as he sat there for a moment, shoulders finally dropping.

Outside, a few of the boys were still hanging around.

Izan rolled the window down as he pulled the car to their side.

"See you tomorrow," he said.

A couple of voices answered back, with someone tapping the roof of the car as he pulled away, tyres crunching softly against the gravel, and soon, North London gave way to the calmer stretches leading up to Hampstead.

At a red light, his eyes drifted to the passenger seat.

The match ball sat there, clean and untouched now, resting where he had dropped it without thinking.

When he turned into his driveway, the house lights were already on.

"Those girls must have flown in," he said with a little chuckle as he cut the engine.

He then reached across, picked up the ball, and turned it once in his hands before stepping out of the car.

The front door opened before he could knock.

Olivia stood there in a loose white tee and a pleated skirt, hair pulled back, one hip leaning against the frame.

Her eyes went straight to the ball in his hands before she raised an eyebrow.

"You’re late for dinner."

Izan exhaled, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped inside.

..

The next day, morning light sat gently over Hampstead, waking the area in its goodness.

In the Hernandez home, the television murmured to itself in the background, filling the living room with the soft authority of studio voices and rolling highlights.

"...three games played, three wins," the presenter said. "Arsenal the only side with a perfect record after Matchday Three."

Clips of the various matches that the Gunners had played in, followed with red shirts swarming in between scenes, goals replayed from different angles and the table sliding into view with Arsenal alone at the top.

The conversation drifted naturally, as these shows always did, toward momentum and what came next.

"And of course," another voice added, "the international break is up next. A pause for some, an opportunity for others."

Izan sat on the edge of the sofa with a bowl of cereal resting on his knee, spoon idle in his hand.

He was watching without really watching, eyes moving but mind somewhere else.

Footsteps sounded behind him as Miranda appeared in the doorway, already dressed, blouse neat, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest she was halfway into her day.

She leaned against the frame, arms folded lightly.

"You know," she said, tone casual, "you could avoid the international break if you wanted. I am sure De La Fuente wouldn’t mind letting you off on this break, or the next, for that matter."

Izan glanced back at her, then returned his eyes to the screen.

"I know."

She walked a little closer. "You look tired."

He finally turned, considering that for a second, then nodded once.

"I am. A bit."

Miranda waited.

"But that doesn’t mean I’d turn down a call-up," he added.

"If it comes."

She smiled, the kind that already knew the answer.

"You already know it’s coming."

"Exactly," Izan said as he stood, carried the bowl with him, and dropped back onto the couch more comfortably this time, stretching his legs out.

The presenter was talking again, listing names, speculating squads.

Miranda sighed softly.

"Then you’d better start packing."

Izan waved a hand without looking at her.

"Later."

She shook her head, amused but resigned as she picked up her bag from the chair, paused for a moment as if to say something else, then thought better of it.

The door closed quietly behind her, and the house returned to its wide, empty silence.

The television kept talking, and for a while at that before Izan muted it.

He sat there for a moment longer, then spoke, not aloud but inward, the way he always did.

"Why do I feel this drained lately?"

The familiar ring in his head came forward, knowing who the question had been posed to.

[You have been relying heavily on recovery fluids and enhanced conditioning protocols,] the system said.

[They assist performance and repair, but cannot replace natural rest cycles. Your body still requires sufficient sleep and mental downtime. My influence can only adjust physiological limits to a degree.]

Izan nodded slowly, staring at the blank screen.

"So this is on me."

"Yes," the system replied. [Sustained output without proper rest increases fatigue accumulation.]

"But I do sleep enough, too, though," Izan retorted as the system came through again.

[You, the host, sleep the normal amount most humans should, but you forget to account for the fact that none of what your body is doing is normal, and so further rest is suggested. A few more hours to the daily usual should do the trick.]

He let out a breath and leaned back into the couch, eyes closing briefly.

"Guess I know what I’m doing today, then," Izan said before sweeping his glass bowl from the table.

He then made his way into the kitchen, washing the bowl and the few that had been left in the sink before getting back into the living space.

"Come on, Miko," he said while snapping his thumb against his middle finger, with the white Samoyed raising its head once before following Izan upstairs.

...

[Cuidad De Futbol, Spain.]

Luis de la Fuente stood by the window, hands resting behind his back, eyes fixed on the training pitches outside.

The grass looked perfect, untouched.

He did not turn when Juanjo González Argüelles stepped into the room.

Without ceremony, De la Fuente handed him the paper.

Juanjo took it with both hands, eyes dropping immediately to the names.

He read once.

Then again.

His brow tightened slightly as he adjusted his grip and read it a third time, slower now, careful not to miss anything.

After a third read, Juanjo lifted his head and looked at De la Fuente, who had still not moved.

"This is what you want to release?" Juanjo asked.

De la Fuente nodded once and slowly.

"Yes."

Juanjo glanced back down at the list, then up again.

He searched De la Fuente’s face, looking for hesitation, for second thoughts, but there were none.

"We’re a bit behind," De la Fuente added, finally turning."Let them put it out quickly."

Juanjo gave a small nod. "Alright."

He folded the paper neatly, a habit more than a necessity, and slipped it into his folder.

As he turned toward the door, he paused for half a second.

Then he opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

The click of it closing behind him echoed briefly while back in the room, De la Fuente remained where he was, eyes returning to the pitch outside.