Chapter 490: Brewing Controversy.

It was the morning before the PSG match — one of those brisk London days with a sky too grey to guess the hour, and a tension in the air that could only mean Champions League football was near.

Inside the apartment, however, it was much warmer, with the scent of toasted sourdough and spiced tea still lingering faintly in the air.

Olivia stood at the window, arms crossed over a fleece cardigan, peering down at the slow stream of traffic below.

Izan was at the kitchen counter, pouring oats into a bowl, hair still damp from the shower, his hoodie creased at the elbows.

She turned toward him, a little restless.

“I’m going to be bored out of my mind tomorrow night if I stay home.”

Izan looked up mid-stir, a sly smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

“You could always watch the match.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You know I hate watching on TV when I know you’re out there. It makes me nervous.”

He smirked, reaching for a banana.

“And being in the stadium somehow doesn’t?”

“It’s different,” she said, walking over to lean against the island.

“When I’m there, I can see you. Like, really see you. Doesn’t feel so… distant.”

Izan wiped his hands on a towel, then disappeared briefly into the bedroom.

A moment later, he returned holding a sleek black envelope with the red embossed seal of the club.

He flicked it lightly toward her, prompting her to stick her arms out, catching it mid-air.

“What’s this?”

“VIP pass,” he said.

“Club tier. Emirates box seats. You’ll be next to the players’ families, a few directors. Good food, good view.”

She opened it slowly, the silver lettering catching in the light.

“You sure I won’t be in the way? You might focus too much on me and cause your team to lose.”

Izan walked around the counter and kissed her cheek.

“You’ll be where I want you to be.”

Olivia smiled, holding the pass like it was made of gold.

“Does this mean I can scream at Luis Enrique or the PSG players if any of them give you attitude?”

“Only if you want to get banned from the stadium,” he chuckled.

“But I appreciate the loyalty.”

They both laughed, a rare slice of peace before the coming storm.

They moved into the living room, breakfast plates set down on the low table.

The TV was on, low volume — replays from the Leicester game flashing on the screen.

“Look at that goal,” Olivia said, nudging him with her foot.

“That hit off the post—boom—yours was cleaner than Saka’s.”

“Well, that’s because mine scored, but I’ll let him know you said that,” Izan grinned, flipping through his phone.

Just then, his phone buzzed — Miranda.

He tapped to answer on speaker. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she said.

“I just got off with Webber. They’re drawing up the final paperwork. I’ll be sending it over to you and to the legal team in Spain to review this afternoon. Once that’s done, it’s signature time.”

“Got it,” Izan replied, scratching at his temple.

“One more thing,” Miranda added.

“I reminded them about the 70-30 image rights split with Arsenal. Any branding-related bonuses or image payments go directly to the club first. Webber’s team agreed — it’s in motion.”

“Perfect,” Izan nodded.

“Enjoy your day. I’ll be in touch.”

The call ended.

Olivia leaned forward, placing her chin on her knees.

“You handled it well,” she said, rubbing Izan’s knee.

The latter smiled at Olivia before looking over at the television.

Finally, he could fully focus on what mattered.

The Pitch.

………

The lights in the video room at Colney dimmed as the final clip of PSG’s last Champions League outing faded to black.

Mikel Arteta stepped forward, the clicker still in hand, and glanced at the rows of players seated before him—eyes sharp, bodies leaned forward just slightly after an intense hour of tactical dissection.

“Right,” he said, tone clipped but calm.

“If nothing goes wrong between now and tomorrow—no knocks, no flu, no mystery injuries—this will be the starting eleven.”

He tapped the screen.

Starting XI – Arsenal vs PSG: 4 -2 -3- 1

GK: Raya

DEF: Timber – Saliba – Gabriel – Calafiori

MID: Rice – Partey

ATT-MID: Izan

FW: Saka – Havertz- Martinelli

“You all know what to expect from them,” Arteta continued, gesturing at the still image of Mbappé, now wearing the white of Madrid and not PSG.

“This is not the same side that had Kylian to bail them out. They’re structured, they’re young in areas, but they’ll still punish you if you lose your head. Midfield—we dictate the tempo. Izan, you carry that weight.”

“I want you to keep connecting and combining with Rice and Partey.”

Izan nodded silently from the front row, pen still in hand.

Arteta took a long look around.

“I want discipline. Focus. But also…” his expression shifted slightly, lips tugging into a dry smirk, “…I want to see all of you at the club or the pub tonight, preferably downing shots before a Champions League knockout.”

The room burst into laughter.

Saka raised a hand with mock innocence.

“Boss, I swear we won’t go,” he said with a wink, so exaggerated that half the room broke into fresh laughter again.

“Yeah, yeah, and I’m retiring tomorrow,” Arteta fired back, stepping down from the front.

“Go rest. Hydrate. Switch on.”

The players nodded and stood up with a few like Izan and injured but not out of service, Odegaard, staying behind to discuss a few things with Arteta.

………

In a dim, cluttered office on the top floor of a nondescript Soho building, a wall of monitors glowed pale blue in the shadows, headlines scrolling across the screens, most of them sensational and gaudy.

Empty coffee cups were stacked like an unstable tower on the corner of a desk buried beneath printed proofs.

Graham Levis, editor-in-chief of The Angle, leaned back in his chair.

He looked tired but alert, the way only a man wired by scandal could.

The office, quiet, late at night, the buzz of central London muffled by double-paned windows.

Well, it was until a ping broke the silence.

Graham leaned forward.

A WhatsApp message from a number saved only as “Anon-Lens” lit up the corner of his desktop monitor.

Got something you might like.

Not the biggest story… but it’ll stir some talk. Possible controversy. If handled right.

Graham squinted, clicking the message open.

A single image followed.

Attachment: IMG_6969.jpg

He clicked.

The screen loaded the photo slowly, grainy, long lens, clearly taken without consent.

The image was angled from across the street, likely through tinted glass or from a car parked in stealth.

But the subjects were clear.

Izan Hernandez, unmistakable, stepping out of a sleek black car in front of a high-end establishment.

His arm was around a woman—Olivia—dressed sharply, but the intimacy between them was the focus.

Izan’s head leaned slightly toward hers, protective, close.

Her posture suggested shyness or privacy.

The context wasn’t obvious… but to the right tabloid framing, the ambiguity would be enough.

Graham leaned closer.

No scandal.

No crime.

But it had shape. And it had timing.

A match against PSG in the Champions League is upcoming, with a lot to fight for on the table.

Izan’s image was spotless so far—disciplined, mature, almost too perfectly managed.

A whisper of romantic distraction.

A night out before a UCL clash.

A photo angled just right.

With the right caption, the wrong suggestion… that could do numbers.

Anonymous: “No one else has it. Yours if you want it.”

Graham tapped his fingers against his chin, then typed slowly:

Is this all you got?

Anon: “For now. There may be more. This one’s clean, but it plants a seed. You know the game.”

Graham smirked.

He knew it very well.

He stared at the image again.

Then clicked and dragged it into a private folder titled:

“Golden Egg: PR Watch”

Then he typed a final message.

Wire transfer same account. £5K. You’ll get it tonight.

Send anything else as it comes in.

The reply came with a thumbs-up emoji.

Graham leaned back, swiveling slightly in his chair.

His eyes never left the photo on the screen.

“Let’s see how golden the boy really is,” he muttered to himself before looking out into the night.

Meanwhile, the scent of fresh popcorn wafted through the air back in Izan’s apartment.

The TV was on but muted, displaying a paused episode of Peaky Blinders—somewhere mid-season—while music played softly from the speaker on the counter.

Izan, barefoot in grey sweatpants and a black T-shirt, leaned against the kitchen island with a half-empty glass of Coke in hand.

On the couch, Olivia, hair damp from a quick shower, curled up with a bowl of popcorn on her lap and her legs stretched over the cushions.

“You coming or just vibing in the kitchen?” she called without looking.

“I’m observing,” Izan said, taking a sip.

“You eat popcorn like it wronged your family.”

Olivia looked up, squinting and pouting as Izan finally pushed off the counter and walked over.

He flopped onto the couch beside her, stealing a few kernels.

“Oi,” she protested, slapping his hand lightly. “Get your own bowl.”

“A couple months in London can really change a person. Look at you saying ‘Oi’s’ now.” Izan said, prompting Olivia to burst into laughter.

A chuckle left him as he sat up and draped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in until her head rested against his chest.

A/N: Last of the day. Well it crossed into today but no worries. Byeee.

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