Chapter 479: 30 Man Shortlist.

Sunday evening. 9:32 p.m.

The coach hummed along the motorway, its black-tinted windows reflecting bursts of sodium streetlight as the Arsenal squad journeyed back to London Colney.

Inside, it was dim. Quiet. Not tense—just the good kind of tired. Victory tired.

Music played low from someone’s speaker at the back, bass barely audible.

A few players dozed off, hoodies up, legs stretched out over duffel bags.

Others scrolled through match clips or Instagram stories from friends and family, blowing up their notifications.

Izan sat near the middle, hood up, phone tilted low between his forearms. His earbuds dangled unused around his neck.

A half-empty Gatorade bottle rested by his foot.

Still wearing his tracksuit, the collar tugged up to his chin, he had the air of someone content—but not resting.

His phone buzzed. Then again.

Then once more in quick succession.

Olivia

“I still can’t believe I missed that goal like THAT goal? In person???

Are you kidding???”

“You KNOW I was screaming in the flat like a maniac. I almost kicked over the lamp when you did the scissor.”

“Was tempted to just book a train and go to Manchester last-minute. Should’ve. Should’ve just gone.”

Izan smiled. The corner of his lip twitched as his thumbs tapped out a reply.

“You said you’d wait for me.”

“That goal was for you anyway.”

He hesitated after the text, then shifted to his gallery. A recent folder.

He scrolled past frames of warmups, tunnel shots, fist bumps with Saka, and paused on the one image he’d asked the club photographer to send him immediately after the match.

There he was. Arms wide, body dipped low, bowing toward the Arsenal fans behind the goal.

The stadium lights crowned his silhouette. In the background, a few City fans were frozen mid-exit, blurred like ghosts.

A single moment: triumph, style, statement.

He tapped Share and posted it to Instagram.

No caption.

Just the image.

Within seconds, the likes started flooding in.

He backed out, barely blinking as the numbers spiraled upward.

@IzanHernandez10

42M followers

A glance at his X profile: another 20.3 M.

TikTok, threads, even that account Miranda had convinced him to let someone run on his behalf in Brazil—each number was ticking up like a live stock ticker.

He barely reacted, seeing all those numbers.

This was just gravity now.

The buzz came again.

New message.

Miranda

“Your updated Insta post looks nice. Very… marketable. Clean lines. That bow. Totally cinematic.”

Izan rolled his eyes.

He didn’t reply yet.

Just stared at the message a second longer, then clicked his phone off, letting the screen reflect his own tired face for a beat.

Buzz.

Another message.

Miranda

“And you should get your rest. Because starting tomorrow, you’re going to be very busy.”

“Not even on the pitch.”

“Off it.”

“The 4 brands that wanted you had all shown interest one way or another. But now?”

“Nike struck tonight.”

He sat up straighter, curious despite himself.

“I got a call from one of their senior reps twenty minutes after full-time.”

“They want a meeting. This week. You’re priority status now.”

He stared at the screen.

A target of ambition.

A prize in a game far beyond 90 minutes.

Everyone now wanted a piece of him.

Miranda’s final message blinked into view.

“This month won’t just be about football, Izan. It’ll be about the empire you’re about to start building. Hope you’re ready.”

He let the phone fall into his lap, sighing heavily before putting a sleep mask over his face.

Things were truly getting too serious.

……….

Monday Morning. 9:12 a.m.

London Colney – Izan’s flat

Rain tapped gently against the windows.

The sky outside was the color of wet concrete, late September, behaving as it should.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air—Olivia’s doing—as steam curled from a mug balanced on the kitchen counter.

Izan was horizontal.

Flat on the living room couch, one arm draped over his forehead, blanket pulled to his chest like a burrito of post-match exhaustion.

The television was off.

The room was still.

Peace, for once.

Across the flat, Olivia stood by the mirror, twisting her hair up into a quick bun before slinging her bag over one shoulder.

She was in jeans and a loose university jumper, and she looked like she hadn’t slept either, but not because of fatigue.

Excitement.

Match-day afterglow.

She smiled, watching him fake sleep.

“You know,” she said, zipping her jacket, “the tables have really turned.”

Izan cracked an eye open, grinning under his arm.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Olivia said, grabbing her travel mug and sipping, “I remember staying up watching you sleep while Valencia scraped into sixth. Now I’m the one running late for class while the Ballon d’Or whisperer hogs the couch.”

Izan chuckled, voice thick with sleep.

“Should’ve skipped class. Ride the wave. Become my hype woman full-time.”

Olivia laughed and walked over, pausing by the couch.

“Mute your phone, by the way,” she added, nudging his knee with her boot.

“If you’re not gonna answer every Gooner DM, then don’t let them ping it every ten seconds.”

He groaned in mock protest and reached for his phone anyway.

“You don’t understand. This is research.”

“Oh, sure.”

He swiped down, tapped the mute icon, but then—of course—opened Twitter.

His feed refreshed instantly. Arsenal fans.

Football pages. Journalists. Fan cams.

Reaction videos. Commentary breakdowns.

He scrolled.

And scrolled.

And paused.

One thread in particular had gone viral.

A Gooner had made a clean, bullet-pointed list:

IZAN HERNÁNDEZ – 2024 (So Far)

La Liga Top Scorer (Valencia)

Copa del Rey Winner(Valencia)

UEFA Euro Winner (Spain)

Top Scorer – Euros (9 goals)

Equalled Platini’s record

Player of the Tournament – Euros

Carried Valencia into the UCL.

7 G/A in 4 Arsenal games

2 Goals in UCL(Still counting)

Age: 17(Well, still 16)

Ballon d’Or incoming?

Replies exploded underneath.

@NorthBankElite:

If this kid doesn’t at least podium for the Ballon d’Or, it’s a crime. CRIME.

@LosBlancosInDenial:

One good start to a season in England, and you lot think he’s Pelé. Be serious.

@Madridismo4Life:

He’s not even better than Jude Bellingham. Calm down.

@Vinicius’ Anti-fan: The Previous comment is funny in so many ways. So should we hand the ballon d’or over to Vinicius?

@InvinciblesVHS:

Izan’s done more this year than half of your idols have done in their entire careers. Face it. He’s generational.

@FútbolWitness:

If he wins it at 16,… the youngest ever. Would beat R9’s record by a mile. That’s history.

Izan blinked, eyes scanning as if trying to distance himself from the hype even while drinking it in.

He was about to scroll again when—whump—something soft and warm collapsed on top of him.

“You—!”

Olivia had jumped straight onto the couch, her knees tucked in as she landed square on his chest, laughing.

She twisted herself to see his phone screen.

“Told you you’d still check.”

Izan mock-grimaced, but his arm wrapped around her waist anyway.

“You know, it’s a bit early,” he said, causing Olivia to hit him on the chest with a knowing smile on her face.

Her gaze flicked over the tweet thread.

“Finally, they have started with the Ballon d’Or shouts? I’m even surprised they didn’t do it after you won the Euros.”

Izan shrugged.

“It’s too early.”

“Sure,” Olivia said, poking his side, “but your ego likes it.”

He smirked, but didn’t argue.

Together, they scrolled down further.

A few fans had started photo edits already: Izan holding the Ballon d’Or in a tux, Izan photoshopped into a mural of winners next to Messi and Ronaldo, even a goofy TikTok mashup of his goals with dramatic anime music.

Olivia snorted at one of the memes.

“You see this one? You’re literally in a throne made of golden boots.”

Izan exhaled through his nose.

“You think I peaked too soon?”

She looked down at him.

“You haven’t even started.”

Then she leaned her head on his chest, letting his arm wrap tighter around her, while outside, the rain continued to fall.

The war of brands, the media frenzy, the contracts—those would come soon enough.

But for now, it was just a boy on a couch with the girl who believed in him, more than he himself did.

……

Later that day, in an unprecedented move, France Football set the football world ablaze as it released the official 30-man shortlist for the 2024 Ballon d’Or.

For the first time, the announcement was made in real-time, with a player being revealed every hour, starting at noon.

It was a modern twist to an age-old tradition, and fans couldn’t look away.

The day began with a flurry of excitement as Antonio Rudiger was revealed at 12:00 pm, followed by Kylian Mbappe at 1:00 pm, and Lautaro Martinez at 2:00 pm.

By the time it was late afternoon, the football world was abuzz with discussions of the players on the list—some expected, some surprises.

And then came Izan Hernandez.

A/N; Hello, author here. Sorry guys. Just got out lights back. I will try to release all the chapters I didnt. Have fun reading I’ll see you in a bit with the next chapter.

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