Chapter 590: North London Derby 2.0

The studio lights were still bright, the analysts still gathered, yet the fire of the match had cooled.

In their hands, they held tablets ablaze with stats and telemetry, but their voices leaned into the spectacle.

“Seventeen, and he’s already remastering what a hat trick means,” one pundit—formerly a midfielder—said, voice low and clear.

“Izan is truly a different specimen in football. The way he moves, the way he responds. I think people don’t understand what he’s doing. Imagine being 17 and being the go-to guy who’s expected to deliver in matches where older guys can’t perform. That’s a little something of what Izan is doing.”

“The only young player I can pin against Izan is fellow countryman, Lamine Yamal but to be honest, that would be a disservice to Izan. 44 goals and 21 assists at club level all in 28 games. Add his international tally and he already has 50 goals in half the season.” the pundit rattled, pausing to catch his breath before continuing.

“Do you know the players that were doing these numbers? Messi and Ronaldo but Messi didn’t have his first 40+ goal season till he was 22 and Ronaldo, till he was at Madrid. Let that sink IN!”

Across the desk, the in‑studio host—lean frame, calm voice—steered the conversation.

“Roy,” he said, turning to Roy Keane, “you’ve seen untested teenagers. You were coached to stop them. This kid’s not just untested. He’s… uncontainable. What do you make of that?”

Roy shifted, brow furrowing.

“He’s raw in places. His celebration—deliberate. He knows what he’s doing. My concern is, when will we see consequences? Now? In a few years? My job is protection—not praise.”

The host inclined an ear toward the other two pundits.

One purposefully leaned forward.

“Protection,” he echoed, “or perfection? He gets booked acknowledging the crowd. He provokes and that makes him alive. Football wants that. We haven’t seen that in a while.”

A ripple of agreement from the back room.

Roy’s face tightened—half disapproval, half reluctant awe.

“Maybe,” he shrugged.

“But brilliance should come with restraint.”

“Roy Keane, in the flesh telling us about restraint” another pundit joked referencing Roy Keane’s famous Kung Fu kick to a fan.

The other pundits broke into laughter while Roy Keane laughed wryly.

Outside the studio, the city stirred.

But at Izan’s home, the moment was quieter—colour softer, tone calmer, and intimacy overpowering.

He sat at the kitchen island, the early sun unravelling across the breakfast bar.

A bowl of cereal—half‑milk, half‑granola—rested before him.

The other half of the table was alive with newness: toast steaming on a plate, carefully buttered with edges curling.

Olivia leaned in from his right, alert and ready.

On his left, Hori hovered with the family touchscreen, its glow reflecting her eyes.

Izan looked at Hori sideways.

“Why do you have it on story mode?” he asked quietly.

On the screen were shots of yesterday’s goal, of the away crowd, of him raising a finger in the face of Manchester United fans.

Hori scrolled slowly, thumb hovering.

“Too much hero worship,” she said, “too early. I’m making sure we aren’t feeding your floating head.” Her tone was teasing, but not mean—protective.

“You’re bullying me, sibling logic,” he replied, chewing on marshmallows from his cereal.

Komi stepped in, golden toast dripping in butter in one hand, her soft voice free from judgment.

“It’s just breakfast, sweetheart. Don’t let her cut cheese out of your harvest. You earned all of the applause—but don’t inhale it. Food first before you get full from the praise.”

Olivia slid in beside him.

She placed a hand over his when she kissed his cheek.

Hori frowned dramatically, then stuck her upper lip out, like she was about to hurl.

“Gross,” she said with sibling flair.

Laughter spiralled around the kitchen—light, real, easy until the doorbell interrupted.

Olivia rose, steadying herself.

“I got it,” she said, half-walk, half-run to the front door but Hori, still grinning from earlier, lifted a finger.

“Sit. I got this.”

She tapped the side panel of the home screen mounted near the dining space—sleek, glassy, and synced with everything.

With a quick flick, she navigated to the security feed, squinted slightly, and then pressed “Unlock” on the top corner.

The front door slid open with a quiet hiss.

And Hori raised her hand dramatically, tapping two fingers to her temple.

“Technología,” she announced in a low voice, dragging the syllables like a James Bond villain pressing a self-destruct button.

Izan half-choked on his cereal while Olivia snorted, covering her mouth.

Even Komi cracked up, setting her teacup down before it spilt.

“Lord,” Komi muttered through a laugh.

“It’s too early for this.”

“You’re just mad I opened the door with my mind,” Hori said, smugly dragging the tablet under her arm like a trophy.

But then, calm footsteps.

Into the kitchen stepped Miranda—hair pinned back, coat folded over her arm, folder clasped tightly in the other.

Her gaze passed over them quickly, noting the mood, the laughter and the layered plates before landing on Izan with a soft smile.

“Looks like breakfast hasn’t changed you,” she said.

“I’m still growing,” he replied, crunching through another bite.

“You’re still draining my ink from all the papers I keep signing,” Miranda quipped, sliding the folder onto the table before taking a seat.

The room hushed again with curiosity this time.

Miranda unfastened the folder with practised ease and slipped a few papers onto the counter, face down for now.

Then she leaned back into the chair, relaxed, like someone who finally had a day to breathe.

“Alright,” she said, shifting the tone.

“You’ve got the day off, the weather’s not awful, and I promised Hori I’d ask…”

All eyes turned to Hori, who perked up like she’d just won a prize.

“Where do we want to go?” Miranda asked, smiling now.

“Mall? Arcade? Maybe get lunch somewhere less formal than this palace of toast and granola?”

Komi raised an eyebrow.

“I could use some air.”

“I could use new shoes,” Olivia chimed, already checking something on her phone.

“I could use a nap,” Izan muttered.

“No,” Hori cut in, already marching toward the tablet again.

“You’ve been in beast mode all week. You’re taking us out. If you’re not training, then you’re playing the role of chauffeur, bodyguard, and emotional support pet.”

Izan arched an eyebrow. “Pet?”

Komi covered her mouth to hide a grin.

Olivia leaned over and whispered, “She’s not wrong.”

Miranda chuckled, glancing at Izan.

“I don’t need to remind you your face is everywhere right now, right? You’re going to get clocked the moment we hit the pavement.”

“I’ll wear a hat,” he shrugged.

“Or a mask.”

“Wear both,” Hori said, deadpan.

“And change your walk. You move like someone who’s used to hearing his name chanted in 90-minute increments.”

He smiled, tilting his head. “And what about you?”

“I move like I own the place,” she replied, pointing toward the ceiling.

“Which I basically do. I figured out how to shut the blinds from the app yesterday.”

“That’s not impressive,” Miranda said, standing now and closing her folder again.

“That’s… expected.”

“It’s still cool,” Hori grinned.

“And if I can do that, I can pick the lunch spot.”

Komi folded her napkin neatly and stood.

“Then we’d better get ready. You three go do whatever this generation calls dressing. I’ll pick something reasonable.”

Miranda reached for her coat.

“Meet in the garage in twenty?”

Olivia was already scrolling again.

“Done.”

Hori swiped the last piece of toast from Izan’s plate.

“Also done.”

Izan exhaled slowly, pushing back from the stool.

“Alright,” he said, standing and ruffling Hori’s hair on his way out.

“Let’s go be normal for once.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hori muttered.

“I’ve never been normal in my life,” she said with a sway before moving upstairs as Komi chuckled from behind.

……….

[3 days later]

The Emirates pulsated with energy under the floodlights, packed to the rafters—far beyond any typical Premier League midweek fixture.

The atmosphere crackled as Arsenal emerged from the tunnel.

A hush settled, dozens of thousands of voices held breath—and then burst in celebration as the red-and-white banner waved above.

The commentators cut in:

“This is more than a local derby—it’s the north London derby between these two sides again,” one voice began, measured yet charged.

“Arsenal, 2‑1 winners back in September with that impossible angled strike from Izan—the memory still fresh. Tottenham will remember it, too and will hope to do something about that kid.”

“Izan’s angle was marked in every highlight package since,” his co-commentator added, “Tonight? He’s the difference again—the headline before a single whistle.”

As the players took their positions, the roar built—fans chanting H-I-M!” in unison.

The camera panned across the stands; Totenham’s away section replied with its cadence, though noticeably smaller.

Hori was perched between her mum Komi and Olivia in the family box, eyes wide and fingers twitching in anticipation.

Komi leaned over, gently tugging at Hori’s sleeve.

“Behave like you’re 15, please,” she murmured.

“Not seven.”

Hori rolled her eyes but sat straighter, glancing up as the players took their places.

“Can’t help it,” she whispered back, voice a mix of excitement and annoyance over how long it was taking to kick off.

“It’s electric. Two sides, one city, rivalries renewed—and Izan right in the centre. Every eye here believes he could decide this but we are here to see how he does it…This is the Premier League folks and we’re off!”

A/N: First of the day. I’m tired so I’ll see you with the Golden ticket chapter when I wake up. Stay safe and bye.

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