Chapter 543: + 1

The whistle was barely out of the referee’s mouth before the Emirates-like ovation rolled through the away end.

A 5–1 demolition on foreign soil.

A performance that looked like a Champions League, league phase match had accidentally wandered into history.

Izan didn’t celebrate.

He stood near midfield, hand on his hip, ball under his arm, head bowed just slightly—as if even he needed a second to process it.

When the stadium announcer confirmed it, the fans howled again.

“Man of the Match… with three goals tonight… Arsenal’s number 10… Izan Hernández!”

The fourth in five Champions League games.

A UEFA official stepped onto the pitch and handed him the sleek, black box.

He opened it slowly, took one look at the trophy inside, and grinned.

Another one for the shelf.

Another reminder that he was making this tournament look like it belonged to him.

As he walked toward the interview zone, the lights tracked him like a spotlight.

He stepped into the broadcast area like an actor on a stage—cool, calm, and wearing a look that wasn’t arrogance, but certainty.

The interviewer smiled, half in disbelief, half in reverence.

“Alright,” she said, tilting her mic.

“Izan Hernández. Youngest UCL scorer in history, back in September. And tonight—youngest to ever score a Champions League hat trick. You’ve also just gone top of the competition’s scoring charts. And you’re sixteen. Six. Teen.”

Izan adjusted the ball under his arm.

“Feels like a normal day, honestly.”

The reporter laughed, stunned. “Come on—seriously?”

He shrugged.

“I play football. That’s what I do. Doesn’t matter if it’s Lisbon or London. Doesn’t matter if it’s sixteen or when I’m thirty-six.”

He turned slightly toward the camera now, expression firm, but voice light.

“What’s going through my head? Nothing’s stopping me. Not the crowd. Not the moment. Not the guy pulling my shirt. Not the ones calling me too young or too early.”

He smiled wide now. It wasn’t a media smile—it was his.

“And not even me. Even if I wanted to stop, I don’t think I could. I’ve worked too hard. I’ve bled for this.”

The interviewer nodded, slowly. “You’re saying there’s no ceiling?”

Izan chuckled. “Ceiling?”

He turned directly to the camera now, pointing into the lens.

“There’s no roof. The sky’s too low.”

He let that hang for a second.

Then leaned in just a little more.

“And no offense to whoever’s writing this story… but even the author can’t nerf me right now.”

The camera crew laughed behind the monitor.

The reporter just shook her head, grinning.

“You’re not supposed to say that out loud.”

“Too late,” Izan replied.

“I’m already in your save file.”

Then he winked, gave a two-finger salute to the lens, and walked off with the ball under his arm—history on his shoulders, and momentum in his stride.

This wasn’t just a win.

Another step forward towards his Ultimate.

Becoming the God Of Football.

….

[CBS Sports Post-Match Coverage – Studio Panel]

The screen cut from the floodlit pitch in Lisbon back to the studio, where the four familiar faces sat under their lights, eyes wide, jaws somewhere near the floor.

Kate Abdo turned slightly toward the camera, lips parted like she still wasn’t sure what she’d just witnessed.

“Well… that was,” she glanced at her paper, then tossed it aside, “insane.”

Micah Richards let out the breath he’d been holding for about fifteen minutes.

“Bruv,” he exhaled, shaking his head like it was the only motion he could manage.

“We’ve seen special nights from him but that? That was up there with the best. That was—” he threw his hands up—”possession.”

Thierry Henry was smiling, but there was a quiet shake of his head like something inside him had been shifted.

“Henry, why are you shaking your head?” Kate Abdo asked with a little smile displayed on her face.

“I’m just shaking my head at how things go with this boy. I don’t want to make any bold statements but if this Kid isn’t the one, then I don’t know who is”

Carragher tilted back in his chair, brow raised. ”

The scariest part?” he said. “He’s not even that sharp. You could see it in moments—he’s not at his peak yet. He’s still figuring himself out. And he’s doing that.”

Kate glanced toward the camera, then back to the table.

“Top scorer in the Champions League. Youngest ever to score a hat trick in the competition. Second youngest to debut. And he’s still sixteen. Are we”

She laughed lightly, “Are we actually watching the birth of something we’ve never seen before?”

Micah leaned forward again, hand on the desk.

“I said it after the Euros and I’ll say it again now. He’s the best player in the world. I just hope he can keep it up for a few seasons and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say he’s the best to ever do it.”

Carragher chuckled. “Say to who?”

“To everyone,” Henry said, firm now.

“To the system. The legends. The ones clinging to the old order. Izan is not just coming. He’s already here.”

Kate nodded slowly. “And if you didn’t believe it before tonight…”

Micah finished it for her: “You don’t have a choice anymore.”

The screen cut to black as the Champions League anthem echoed softly in the background, Izan’s silhouette frozen mid-celebration.

…

The hum of the jet engines had long faded into silence by the time Izan stepped through his apartment door.

The flight home had been quiet.

The only thing louder than his teammates snoring was the pounding in his own head.

A match like that doesn’t leave your blood quickly.

His soul wanted to sleep.

So he did.

He dropped his boots near the entrance, peeled off his hoodie, and collapsed into bed like he’d been training for it.

He didn’t check his phone and just let sleep take him like a tide.

He woke up to darkness.

Complete.

No hallway light under the door.

No quiet hum of the fridge.

Even the soft whirr of the heating system was gone.

He rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly.

“Olivia?” he called out, voice half-stuck in dreams.

Nothing.

No reply.

He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, and wandered out into the hall.

His voice was clearer this time. “Liv?”

No answer.

He frowned.

The place felt… too quiet.

Until he turned the corner into the living room—

And the world exploded.

POP!

FLASH!

BOOM!

The lights slammed on.

Confetti rained from the ceiling.

A chorus of voices shouted, “¡FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS!”

Hori came sprinting at him first, holding a balloon.

Komi stood near the couch, grinning like she was ten years younger while Miranda was beside her, cool as always, but smiling wide with her arms crossed.

And then there was Olivia—standing in front of them all with her hands behind her back.

“Happy birthday,” she said softly, walking up to him.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him on the mouth.

He blinked.

Still halfway between sleep and reality.

Then he laughed.

A real, head-thrown-back, tired-but-grateful laugh.

“You guys planned this?”

Olivia grinned.

“We’ve been planning it for a while now. I had to unplug the fridge and everything.”

“That explains the blackout.”

“And the cold breakfast,” Komi added, eyeing the kitchen.

Hori tugged at his sleeve.

“Seventeen!” she declared, pointing at him. “You’re old now!”

Izan grinned, ruffling her hair.

“You’ll soon get here,” he said like a kid, not 17 but an old man.

They all burst into laughter.

The cake was wheeled out.

Not too big.

Just enough for the family.

Seventeen candles.

He closed his eyes, made no wish—just breathed.

Then blew them out.

……

That morning, the internet was already awake for him.

Arsenal’s official page dropped the tribute:

𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗬 𝟭𝟳𝗧𝗛, 𝗜𝗭𝗔𝗡

Top of the EPL and UCL scoring chart.

Top of our hearts.

#IzanDay

The fans did the rest.

“Can’t drink. Can’t rent a car but can absolutely ruin your favorite team. HBD little king”

Little tributes kept rolling in from Spain, with former club, Valencia even joining in to wish Izan.

Pedri: “Keep shining, crack. The game needs you.”

Lamine: “Happy birthday! Now stop trying to outdo me. You’re almost becoming that one cousin I get compared to.”

And then the group chat buzzed.

A video from the Arsenal squad.

Saka was first. “Happy birthday to the guy who makes my job harder and easier at the same time.”

Even Arteta made a brief appearance at the end of the video, hands behind his back, trying not to smile.

“You’ve done a lot for someone with just seventeen candles on the cake. But don’t forget—you’re still just getting started.”

Izan turned his phone over and set it down.

The laughter still echoed from the living room.

And Izan stood there in the middle of it all, seventeen years old, holding a paper plate with half a cake slice on it, and smiling like it was enough.

At least for now.

A/n: last of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

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