Chapter 583: Swirling Talks And Pending Glory

The sound of distant pots and low kitchen music filtered up the stairs, but neither of them had moved since the earlier talk.

Izan, still lay stretched on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily wrapped around Olivia’s waist.

She was trying—not very hard—to wiggle out of it.

“You promised,” she said, voice muffled against the pillow.

“We said we’d go down five minutes ago.”

“I did say that.”

“Liar.”

“I meant it at the time.”

She turned her face toward him, cheeks still warm from earlier.

“Izan.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just leaned in and kissed the curve of her cheek.

Soft.

Then her jaw.

Then the corner of her mouth.

She tried not to smile—failed.

“Izan…”

Then her lips, this time longer.

Slower.

When he pulled back, she blinked at him once before he dropped a final kiss to her forehead, then dipped to the base of her neck.

“Okay—enough,” she said through a half-laugh, shoving at his chest.

“You’re trying to get me trapped again. Not this time.”

She rolled out from under him and stood up, tugging the hem of his hoodie lower down her thighs.

“I’m going before you trap me in here until lunchtime.”

He stayed there a second longer, watching her leave with a satisfied exhale.

Then her footsteps faded down the stairs and he finally sat up.

Down in the living room, Miranda had just entered, a leather folio tucked under her arm.

She set it gently on the counter, lifting a brow at the blur of Olivia jogging down barefoot.

“What’s the rush?” Miranda asked, pulling her coat off slowly.

Olivia didn’t stop walking.

“Saving myself from my serial cuddler,” she muttered, brushing past her toward the kitchen.

“Good luck?” Miranda said a bit confused but just then, Izan came down the stairs, hair still a little tousled, socks half-on, hoodie swapped for a clean tee.

“Olivia—come here.”

“Nope,” she replied without even turning.

“Olivia?” he called.

“Help,” she corrected, pointing a wooden spoon at him from the kitchen.

“I’m helping Komi. Which you should be doing.”

Miranda smirked slightly, then turned toward him with the kind of expression he didn’t miss—half-sincere, half-business.

“Come here. This’s for you.”

She tapped the folio, then slid it across the marble surface toward him as he reached the counter.

“What’s this?” he asked, pulling the zip halfway open.

“From Josh Kroenke,” she said lightly.

“Just came in. Some fresh ink if you’re interested.”

Izan paused, one brow raised.

“I’ve played… half a season. Of a four-year deal. They even put that extra-year option on top, remember?”

“I remember,” Miranda said.

“So why—”

She didn’t answer.

Just opened the folder, turned it around, and tapped the final page with the tip of her finger.

“Start here.”

He scanned it—then stopped.

His eyes flicked up.

“What is this? This is-.”

Miranda’s smile curved a little more as she sipped from the mug Komi had handed her.

“Yep.”

“Jesus—” Izan suddenly shouted.

“Language,” Komi called from the stove, not even turning.

Before he could say another word, footsteps pattered across the hardwood and a voice groaned behind him.

“I smell egg,” Hori mumbled, her hair a nest, sleep mask still over one eye like a pirate who hadn’t decided if she was awake or not.

She stumbled past them, straight into the kitchen, dragging her oversized slippers.

Izan still hadn’t looked away from the contract.

And across him, Miranda just crossed her arms, watching him.

……

[Colney]

Ben White winced at his compression sock.

“Honestly, it’s like trying to jam a sausage into a glove,” he said as Rice glanced up, a bit amused.

“Give it a bit — I swear they help my recovery. Or at least keep my shin guards in place.”

Ben rolled his eyes.

“Maybe that’s what they’re designing them for.”

Gabriel ambled over, towel over his shoulder.

“You two sound like you’re 70 years old. I swear, next week you’ll be complaining about aching knees.”

Ødegaard laughed, standing over by Izan.

Saka slipped in, clutching a banana in one gloved hand.

“Reminder: we got gluten‑free muffins in the café today. Apparently ‘it makes the stomach easier on pressurized tactics’ or something.”

They all chuckled at that, but when the door swung open to the training pitch, the energy shifted.

Masks came on.

Bottles were slotted in belt holders.

The chatter eased, instinctive focus returning.

Outside, the world had not paused.

Rumours still swirled overnight.

The £290 million + 30 million add-ons offer from Madrid was supposedly still unanswered.

Fans wondered: Are Arsenal negotiating? Did they fold? Can Real even fund that?

Then Vinícius Jr.’s rumored £450 million move to Saudi began circulating, more prominently this time as if someone had wished it into being..

The Spanish Press began asking the Brazilian if Madrid were freeing space for big deals.

His camp only offered:

“Vinícius remains committed to Real Madrid. These transfer rumors are speculative. He’s focused on playing and renewing.”

No drama—but a clear hint of something big shaking the football cosmos.

And back at Colney, drills carried on.

…

[Carabao- Semi-final matchday]

1st leg]

Arteta stepped onto the bus last.

He paused at the top step, one hand gripping the rail, eyes scanning the interior.

Every player was seated.

Tracksuits zipped.

Earpieces in.

Bottles already half-drunk.

Bags tucked at their feet like luggage before a long haul.

He gave one last glance down at his tablet — notes organized, lineups finalized — then nodded to the driver.

“We’re good.”

The door hissed shut and the engine growled low and steady.

The ride from Colney to the Emirates wasn’t long, but no one treated it like a throwaway journey.

Not tonight.

Not for a semi-final, even if it wore the disguise of a less prestigious trophy.

It was the Carabao Cup.

But you’d never know it from the mood.

As the roads of north London curved into the team’s familiar route, the silence aboard wasn’t heavy.

It was intentional.

Players weren’t just saving their legs — they were sharpening their edge.

The bus turned off the main road and rolled up to the Emirates with the slow confidence of a team that knew exactly where they were — and why they were there.

And that was when the noise hit.

Not a roar.

Not the thunder of a derby.

But a packed hum.

Voices clashing in corners stomping feet on concrete.

Chants already starting before kickoff.

A crowd that was not typical for a Carabao Cup night.

As the players stepped off the bus — one by one, into the tunnel glow — it became clear: this wasn’t just another fixture on the calendar.

This was a chance to go on for silverware, early on in the season.

The first leg of a semi-final, yes.

But also, the match after the week where the club’s name had been dragged through every headline and pinned to every rumour.

The week of record-breaking bids, uncertain futures, and storylines no club could control.

…

“Welcome to the Emirates Stadium,” one of the match commentators began, his voice calm but buzzing with anticipation.

“It’s the first leg of the Carabao Cup semi-final, and if you tuned in expecting a quiet crowd for a midweek domestic cup match… think again.”

“I can’t remember the last time this competition saw a turnout like this. The Emirates is packed. Wall to wall. And I don’t think that’s just about the fixture.” his partner added.

“No, it’s not. It’s the weight of it. The week Arsenal have had. The noise around one man — Izan Miura Hernandez since the start of the year.

The stories swirling. The record bids. The interest..”

The broadcast camera panned across the home stands — flags waving, scarves twirling, banners painted hastily with Sharpies and love.

Then the camera cut back toward the tunnel.

And out they came — first Newcastle, then the roar climbed as Arsenal stepped into the light.

…..

FWEEEE

The match had barely settled when Rice picked his head up and clipped the ball forward with intent—not lofted, not floated, but driven through the air like a strike on its own.

It cut the pitch in two.

Straight from the halfway line, skipping past Newcastle’s midfield, angling toward the left centre channel.

And there—just there—was Izan.

He was already moving before Rice struck it.

Ghosting in off the blind side of Schär, timing his run to perfection, shoulders squared, chest ready.

The ball dropped from the night sky with venom.

But Izan met it like it owed him something.

He let it bounce once—deliberate, measured—and then stepped toward it, the ball hanging in that half-space between chaos and control.

His chest caught it firm, then rolled it into his path, off his thigh in one beautiful rhythmic motion.

“Oh my word—he’s brought that down like silk!” the commentators roared but before the defenders could close the gap—he spun.

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t glance up.

Just knew where the goal was.

The entire stadium rose.

And then—

He loaded his left foot.

“IZAN’S SHAPED FOR THE STRIKE!”

His body leaned, coiled, picture-perfect and then boom.

“HE’S GONE FOR IT—ON THE HALF VOLLEY!” the commentator roared just as the ball left Izan’s foot.

A/n: First of the day. Will see you soon with the Golden ticket chapters and the second of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.