God Of football
Chapter 648: Two Sides Of London.

Chapter 648: Two Sides Of London.

"Oni-Chan is on the way.."

Hori sighed, lips twitching downward.

That didn’t sound promising.

And almost as if the universe had perfectly timed the entrance for maximum drama, the distant snarl of an engine cut through the faint chatter of school staff and idle conversations.

Heads began to turn as the growl deepened and got closer now, less like a car, more like something untamed being coaxed into town.

Then it appeared.

The Koenigsegg Gemera rolled around the turn with a sleek, commanding grace, silver and blue paint glinting beneath the afternoon sun.

It slid to a stop right in front of the academy’s polished steps—low, long, and unapologetically loud.

Hori didn’t even look up at first.

She just tilted her head forward and pressed her fingers to her temple.

"Oh God," she muttered as the passenger-side window hissed down.

"Hori!" Olivia leaned out from the passenger seat with a sunny grin, her hair tossed casually over one shoulder.

"What are you doing? Hold that head up high! That’s your brother you’re embarrassed of, and he’s—well—kind of a big deal."

"That’s not the problem," Hori grumbled, finally lifting her head but still frowning.

"The problem is... he knows he’s a big deal."

Several students had stopped mid-step to watch.

A few parents—still holding hands with their children—were now subtly turning to get a better look while a few took out their phones.

"Ugh. Open the door, already!" she barked, glaring at the tinted rear of the four-seater beast.

From the front, Izan said nothing—just kept his hands on the wheel, lips curled slightly like he was enjoying every second of her embarrassment.

"Izan!" she repeated, louder this time, drawing a few glances from the people who were already watching the commotion.

Finally, with the faintest of beeps, the passenger door lifted upward, butterfly-style, as if in slow motion.

"Drama king," Hori muttered under her breath.

She tossed her bag inside with a thud, then climbed in, slipping into the cushy seat with practised grace.

The door began to fold shut. Hori didn’t wait.

"Go," she said, snapping her fingers.

"Go!" she repeated, sinking further into the seat.

That finally earned a full laugh from Izan—low and genuine.

"Yes, ma’am," he chuckled, easing the hypercar forward.

The Gemera rolled away, its engine rumbling like a purring beast too refined to snarl in public.

.....

Saturday’s light stretched long over Colney, bleeding orange and gold across the perfectly mowed pitches like nature itself was paying tribute.

But serenity ended at the touchline.

Arsenal’s final session before their away clash with Chelsea was anything but tranquil.

Boots thudded against turf.

The ball snapped between players with speed that left vapour trails of tension in the air.

Coaches watched like hawks, clipboards forgotten in their hands.

Every pass had weight.

Every run has a purpose.

Each man moved like the game was tomorrow — because it was, and it wasn’t just any game.

It was Chelsea away.

No jokes. No shouts. Just eyes sharpened by ambition.

Izan darted through midfield, chesting down a laser pass from Zinchenko before slicing a reverse ball toward Saka on the wing.

The usual applause didn’t follow.

Only a breath of approval from Rice as he jogged past.

That was the standard now—magic wasn’t celebrated, it was expected.

Arteta stood on the edge, arms crossed, watching the players carve open shadows of Chelsea.

He didn’t speak much, but his keen eyes corrected any mishaps that occurred.

Mini-matches followed.

Simulated high-pressure counters.

Crossing patterns.

Set-piece rehearsals.

Izan drilled balls into the box with pinpoint pace and accuracy while Timber, Gabriel and Calafiori took turns timing their arrivals.

And still, Izan kept pushing.

Running late into drills.

Repeating penalty kicks even after everyone else had stepped aside.

Arteta finally blew the whistle.

"Enough."

They gathered around as sweat dripped, and breath fogged.

"I see the energy, but don’t leave it here in training", Arteta said, eyes sweeping from veteran to academy boy.

"Bring it tomorrow because we will need it."

The player nodded slightly before dispersing into the complex.

....

By evening, the storm had moved online.

Arsenal’s 1–1 draw with Chelsea earlier in the season had been dug up like buried ammunition by the blue half of London.

Old clips were flooding social feeds: Neto’s equaliser, their celebration and Arteta’s frustrated face.

"Back then, they were hot. Now they’re overcooked. The Bridge will humble them."

"Nine goals against PSV? PSV ain’t Chelsea."

Arsenal fans responded with heat of their own:

"You’re comparing a Cole Palmer pen to a team that just broke the UCL goal record."

"Izan’s coming. And Stamford Bridge is small."

But beyond the jabs and memes, there was something different in the air. Something even the neutrals felt.

Arsenal weren’t just winning anymore.

They were dominating and devouring.

And Chelsea? Chelsea were unpredictable—brilliant in patches, unhinged in others.

Dangerous, yes. But favourites?

Few outside their walls believed that.

On talk shows, the narrative spun in circles.

Gary Neville leaned back in his chair, sceptical.

"Arsenal look terrifying, but Stamford Bridge... it has a habit of swallowing the overconfident."

Micah Richards, arms folded, grinned.

"Nah. If Arsenal turn up like they did midweek, Chelsea might need helmets."

Other radio hosts laughed at the matchup.

"If both Manchesters and Liverpool can’t handle Arsenal, do we expect Chelsea to?"

Online, hashtags exploded into trending charts.

Fans debated, argued, and baited each other.

But deep beneath the chaos, in comment threads and whispers, a reality was settling in.

If Arsenal won tomorrow, Stamford Bridge might be the last place capable of slowing them.

.....

The call with Lamine ended with a faint digital chirp, with the screen of Izan’s phone fading to black as he tucked it into his pocket with a sigh.

"Scheduling conflicts," Lamine had said.

Adidas had moved their shoot, but Izan wasn’t surprised.

Miranda had already given him the heads-up.

"Guess we’ll have to wait to hang out," Lamine had added with a grin.

Izan replied.

"It’s fine. We’ll link up soon."

Now, with the conversation behind him, he stepped off the stairs and followed the aroma of grilled tilapia and roasted garlic into the dining room, where laughter was already echoing.

Olivia’s parents had arrived earlier in the day, and with them came a subtle shift in the house’s rhythm — livelier, warmer, a bit louder in the best way.

The long table was already half full.

Miranda was swirling her wine glass while talking with Olivia’s father, occasionally teasing Komi about the "small portions" of food that had somehow filled half the table.

"I swear," Miranda said, placing her hand on her stomach, "I might need to hire a personal trainer at this point. Komi, your meals are delicious, but they’re starting to shape me into a doughnut."

Everyone laughed — even Komi, who simply gave her trademark shrug.

"Good food, good life," she said softly.

"Tell that to my waistline," Miranda chuckled.

Izan slid into his seat beside Olivia just as Komi placed down another bowl of stew, like it weighed nothing.

Olivia’s father gave him a respectful nod, still adjusting to this version of Izan — not just the football prodigy, but the young man now sharing a table with his daughter and helping with the dishes the night before.

Meanwhile, Hori, seated across from them, poked at her mashed potatoes with unnecessary drama.

Her bottom lip was ever so slightly jutted.

Miranda caught it first. "Still sulking?"

Hori didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she stabbed a cherry tomato as if it had offended her.

"You let him pick me up. From school. In that car."

There were stifled chuckles around the table.

"You mean the Gemera? I thought you loved it?" Olivia asked, biting back a smile.

"It roared like a dragon in front of everyone, Liv!" Hori groaned, dramatically covering her face.

"Parents, teachers, my friends... even the people I didn’t know were looking!"

"Well," Izan said between bites, "they probably thought a racecar driver came to collect the princess."

Hori rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin.

"Tch. Whatever. Since you embarrassed me anyway... can you come to one of our school events sometime?"

Miranda blinked at the sudden switch-up, eyebrow raised.

"Wait, now you want him to show up?"

Hori nodded.

"Might as well commit to the chaos. If I’m gonna be embarrassed, let’s make it legendary."

Izan leaned back in his chair, smirking. "I don’t mind showing up."

"Good," Hori said, tossing her braids behind her ear smugly.

But before the conversation could drift elsewhere, Miranda folded her arms and looked directly at Izan.

"You know what you should show up to first? Your ad commitments."

There was a pause as Olivia’s mother raised her brow slightly, amused.

Miranda ticked them off with her fingers.

"Adidas rescheduled. Saint Laurent’s been emailing. Seiko called me. They’re waiting on you."

Izan scratched the back of his neck, suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes.

"I’ve been busy."

"Busy collecting goals like trophies, sure," Miranda said.

"But the camera misses you."

"He’ll get to it," Komi said, giving Izan a gentle pat on the arm as she passed by.

"Let him eat in peace first."

The tension melted back into laughter again as Hori scoffed dramatically.

"He gets away with everything."

"He just scored four goals on Wednesday," Olivia said with a smile.

"Let him enjoy the night."

And so the evening drifted on, the dining room alive with clinking cutlery, warm dishes, and teasing voices.

A/N: Okay, so this might be the last of the day that just passed. See you in a bit with the Chapter of the day.