Chapter 486: Clash Of Plans

The Emirates was quiet now, emptied of the roar it had held just an hour ago.

But the echoes of the win still seemed to hum through the walls.

Outside, under the amber glow of the car park lights, the black SUV waited.

The driver spotted Izan and stepped out to open the door.

“Good game, sir.”

“Thanks, Jones. Let’s go home,” Izan said simply, sliding in.

The door shut with a soft thud, and the city waited ahead.

……

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint tapping of Olivia’s fingers on her tablet.

She was sprawled on the couch, a fuzzy blanket tossed around her legs, still dressed in her business suit from earlier, though the blazer now hung off the side of the chair.

A Google Maps tab was open in front of her, dotted with little heart icons—cafés, exhibitions, maybe a sunset cruise on the Thames.

She’d even found a new rooftop spot that had opened last month in Soho.

Tomorrow had to be perfect.

She was halfway through checking the weather when she heard the familiar ding of the lift downstairs and the soft shuffle of footsteps in the hallway.

A smile spread across her face before she even moved.

She stood, tossed the tablet aside, and padded barefoot to the door.

When she opened it, there he was—hood up, bag slung over his shoulder, face flushed slightly from the match.

“You’re late,” she teased, stepping aside as he entered.

“I got you Icecream” Izan said, holding up the cup holder like a peace offering.

She shut the door behind him and took it with an approving nod.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

—

Across the city, Miranda reclined in her office chair, balancing her phone between her cheek and shoulder as she scribbled notes on her legal pad.

The voice on the other end was low, sharp, and professional.

“So we’d prefer to meet before the weekend,” the man said.

“Tomorrow evening, if possible. This isn’t the sort of thing we can delay.

Bring the person in question, too. He’s the important reason why we’re meeting.”

Miranda’s brow lifted.

“You don’t get to decide who’s more important and who’s not. But fine. I’ll check his schedule. Where?”

“Private lounge at the Langham. Seven.”

Miranda leaned back in her chair.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked out the window, London’s skyline fading into deep navy.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “With Izan.”

The call ended with a beep.

—

Back at the apartment, Olivia had barely let Izan sit down before she was tugging on his hoodie sleeve.

“Alright, up,” she said.

“What? I just got here—”

“You’re not sitting on the clean couch with your locker room smell.”

“I showered at the stadium,” he grumbled, even as she pulled him toward the bathroom.

“Stadium showers don’t count,” Olivia said with a grin.

“Now get in there. This is my version of post-match recovery.”

Izan laughed under his breath, hands raised in mock surrender as she pushed him gently through the door.

“Fine, fine—just let me breathe.”

“You can breathe after you’ve rinsed off the Emirates.”

He turned on the handheld shower, the water hissing as it came alive, and just as he began to adjust the heat, Olivia, without hesitation, reached past him and flicked it full blast.

“Hey!”

“Revenge for the morning,” she said, pecking his cheek before skipping out, giggling.

……..

The morning sun draped Colney in a soft amber glow as Izan tied the laces of his trainers, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

His breath fogged slightly in the crisp autumn air as he stepped toward the waiting car, phone pressed to his ear.

Olivia’s voice came through, warm and teasing.

“Already leaving? You know you’re technically not required to go in the morning after a four-nil win.”

Izan grinned as he opened the door.

“Recovery session, Liv. Nothing heavy. I’ll be back before you finish your third cup of coffee, I promise.”

“Third? Bold of you to assume I haven’t already finished two,” she said with a smirk he could practically hear.

“So, what time do I start getting ready for our big night?”

“I’d say… four?” he replied, settling into the backseat.

“We’ll have time to chill a bit before we head out.”

“Four it is. I’ve got a list narrowed down to three places, and one of them has candles and lights. Just saying, but any place with that much light has to be good.”

He chuckled.

“Then I guess I’d better show up in a suit.”

“And I guess I’d better make sure my heels don’t kill me.”

“See you soon,” he said softly.

“Try not to break anyone’s ankles in recovery, superstar.”

He laughed again and ended the call, gazing out the window as the trees blurred past.

……….

The recovery session at Colney had been smooth—light stretches, pool work, and a few physio checks.

Izan felt the lightness in his legs, the satisfying ache of exertion being soothed back into readiness.

But just as he was towel-drying his hair in the dressing room, halfway into changing out of his club tracksuit, Arsenal’s media liaison, Marcus, popped his head through the door.

“Gents,” Marcus said with that half-apologetic, half-authoritative tone that meant only one thing—more obligations.

“We need you for just an hour. Quick shoots and some light interview clips. International promo slots, so let’s look alive.”

Izan groaned inwardly, but he knew the drill.

Branding was part of the game.

He shot a look at Martin Ødegaard, even though he was injured, not escaping the duties.

The latter turned to face Izan and merely shrugged as he pulled on a fresh shirt.

“You thought you were escaping early?” the captain said, smirking.

“Rookie mistake.”

The next hour blurred with camera flashes and a parade of questions—some about the Leicester match, others focused on the upcoming PSG clash.

Izan kept his answers brief but polite, always aware of the clock ticking toward his promise to Olivia.

When they finally released him, he didn’t wait a second.

The ride back felt like a slow crawl despite the driver’s best efforts.

The sun was lower now, casting golden rays across the glass windows of their apartment building as Izan stepped out and took the elevator up.

The key turned silently in the lock.

Inside, it was peaceful. The television was muted, the scent of vanilla lingering from a candle long since burned out.

And there she was—Olivia, curled on the couch and as always, in one of his oversized training hoodies, her hair falling across her cheek, lost in a quiet nap.

Izan didn’t say anything.

He placed his bag down gently and moved over to the couch, easing himself beside her.

Her body naturally curled into his as he wrapped an arm around her, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

He smiled, resting his chin on her head as her breathing continued in its steady rhythm.

The golden hue of late afternoon light spilled into the living room, casting soft, dappled shadows across the floor.

The television was still on but muted, displaying some looping highlights from Arsenal’s win against Leicester.

Olivia stirred first, blinking slowly as her cheek rose from Izan’s chest.

She shifted, stretched gently, and glanced at the wall clock.

4:03 PM.

Her eyes widened. “Izan,” she said, nudging him, her voice low but urgent.

“It’s already four.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

Just a soft exhale, a deeper breath.

Olivia leaned over and tapped his cheek lightly.

“Izan,” she repeated, firmer this time.

“We napped instead of hanging out, and we still need to get ready.”

His eyes finally fluttered open, adjusting to the light.

He blinked, groggy, then grinned sleepily at her.

“Guess we really needed it,” he murmured before letting out a slow yawn and swinging his legs off the couch.

“Go. Shower. I’ll start on my hair,” she said, standing up and pulling her hair into a pony.

“Yes, boss,” Izan replied playfully, grabbing his towel and disappearing into the bathroom.

After a while, Izan emerged, steam drifting behind from the bathroom towel slung around his neck, hair still damp and messy.

In the bedroom, Olivia stood near the mirror, curling her hair with practiced ease, glancing toward the clock every other minute.

“I’ll be quick with my makeup,” she said, not looking up.

“We’ll still make the reservation if we leave by six-thirty.”

Izan nodded absently, standing shirtless by the open wardrobe, considering his outfit.

A navy shirt in hand, he reached for his phone on the dresser just as it buzzed with a call.

Miranda.

He answered it, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder while buttoning the shirt.

“Hey,” he said.

Miranda’s voice was sharp, measured.

“Just a heads-up. Adidas set a meeting for the evening.”

He paused, a shirt button half-done. “Tonight?”

“Yes. They want you there. It’s important. Hans Webber flew in for it personally.”

Izan’s lips parted slightly as the words registered, and across the room, Olivia caught the shift in his expression.

She turned toward him slowly, curling iron paused mid-air.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you after I wake up or someone does. Byeee

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