God Of football

"Look at this," the commentator said, softer now.

"Every player's off the pitch… but the fans are still standing."

"You don't sit down when the conductor's still holding the baton," the other replied. "Because you never know if one more note is coming."

As Izan disappeared into the tunnel, the camera caught the scoreboard again—its glow almost gentle in the winter dusk.

ARSENAL 3 – ASTON VILLA 0

...

The door to the main hall hissed slowly and silently but still noticeable through the silence in the room.

Izan exhaled as the door whirred to a close behind him.

The Emirates had been a roar, the tunnel a blur, the ride back a string of conversations he half-listened to.

Now?

Now it was just him.

He stepped out of his sneakers with lazy feet and pulled off his hoodie, the post-match chill still caught in the fabric.

His duffel dropped by the stairs.

The match ball—scuffed, signature-wrapped, still faintly smelling of damp turf—he set it on the glass counter beside the kitchen island like a centrepiece.

"Might need a new casing?" he said as he glanced at the framed casing in the room where he kept all his awards and match balls.

The screen on the wall was already alive, synced to his digital feed.

News outlets cycled through match highlights and social reactions like a carousel on fire.

"Izan Miura hat-trick hero at the Emirates once again…"

"Golden Boot all but confirmed?"

"30 goals in 21 games. He's on pace to eclipse the record books…"

"Can Arsenal finally do it after 20 years?"

He watched it flicker for a moment.

His face was in motion—celebrating, dribbling, raising a hand to the fans. Paused it.

Then turned away.

His phone buzzed gently.

Miranda.

He took the call and leaned against the kitchen sink, a glass of juice now in hand.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

"Hey yourself," Miranda replied on the other end, that usual calmness in her voice.

"We're still out—me, Komi, Olivia, and Hori. Grabbing a few things on the way back. You want anything?"

"Nah," he murmured. "I'm good."

"Sure? They've already filled two carts."

"Let them have their fun. They probably won't use or eat half the things they'll buy."

She chuckled.

"Well get some rest then. We'll be back in a bit."

"Alright."

They hung up and the silence came back in full.

Izan stood there for a second longer, then pushed off the counter and walked upstairs.

The water in the shower steamed fast and heavy as he washed the muscle stress off his bones.

He just stood under it for a while, palms on the tiles, the sound hitting skin like applause from a different world.

When he came out, he barely bothered with a towel.

Just dropped into bed, damp hair brushing the pillow, phone tossed face down on the nightstand.

The room was dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the curtains.

And as his breathing slowed and his body settled—

—the world outside kept talking.

But Izan?

He was asleep before it could finish a sentence.

....

[Paterna]

Under the bright lights of Mestalla, with the final minutes ticking off a one-sided scoreboard, the noise didn't drop—it grew.

"Lorenzo! Lorenzo! Lorenzo!Lorenzo"

They didn't just chant his name—they sang it.

Not with the desperate hunger of a crowd begging for a miracle, but with the pride of a people watching one of their own become something.

A new crown prince.

A reclaimed promise that had refused to be broken.

On the scoreboard, was something the remaining Villareal fans in the stadium refused to watch.

It was something you didn't see every day but it was happening right in front of their eyes.

Valencia 4 — Villarreal 0.

"Man of the match, and Hat-trick hero, number 10, Lorenzo Piatelli."

The fans roared in approval after the voice of the announcer rang.

The fans were still on their feet.

Scarves swaying like crimson waves.

Young fans pressed against the railings, arms raised.

Elder ones with otherworldy vigour that preceded their ages.

Some clapping, others shouting, all carrying one name.

He was near the edge of the pitch now, hands on his hips, breathing steady but heavy, his eyes scanning the sky like he was trying to slow time.

The name rang again.

"Lorenzo!"

He finally turned to the fans, nodding once, and raised both arms—just briefly.

That was all they needed.

The roar that followed wasn't about the fourth goal.

It wasn't even about the hat trick.

It was about the return of something they hadn't expected and experienced since their previous talisman, Izan Hernandez left.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Not like this.

Not after Trabzonspor.

Not after the knee cap injury.

Because three years ago, the conversation wasn't the same.

Valencia wasn't waiting for Lorenzo anymore.

They had a new name.

Younger.

Brighter.

Quicker.

One that had stormed onto the scene and left no air for anyone else.

Izan Miura Hernández.

Fifteen years old and already a starter and the heartbeat of the team.

Sixteen and already gone.

And while Izan turned red and white in London, Lorenzo nursed his setbacks under the cold lights of a Turkish league that couldn't pronounce his name.

He watched from a continent away as headlines crowned a boy king of Paterna who wasn't him.

But the thing about football?

Timing.

Lorenzo was back.

And Hugo Duro's injury opened the door.

Eighteen matches, thirteen goals, six assists—and tonight, a hat-trick against their yellow-shirted rivals.

The commentators barely caught their breath.

"Valencia have struck gold again," the lead said, voice thick with awe.

"A new prince has usurped the throne after their old one left. Izan might have lit the fire," the other followed, "but Piatelli's stoking it into something fierce."

On the pitch, Lorenzo walked toward the ball at the halfway line.

Not for a restart—just because it was there.

He bent, picked it up, and tucked it under his arm.

The ball from his first Mestalla hat-trick.

Not Izan's.

Not Duro's.

His.

The camera caught his face as he turned—a glint of sweat trailing his temple, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.

Arrogant and defiant but that feeling was what most players lacked to make it to the top.

Their egos were just not enough.

This wasn't the start.

This was the continuation.

The chant followed him into the tunnel.

"Lorenzo! Lorenzo!"

And in the quiet of his Hampstead home, far from the thunder of the Mestalla, Izan stood by the tall glass panes overlooking the city, the evening sky painting the skyline in streaks of steel blue and amber.

He hadn't followed much of Valencia this season.

Not out of malice or distance—just motion.

Life moved fast now. Training. Press. Goals. Weight. Noise.

It had been something negligible since the past couple of weeks but tonight, the clip had found him anyway.

On his phone.

Viral. Tagged a dozen times.

He tapped it once and watched the final minutes of that 4–0 win.

Watched the chant.

"Lorenzo! Lorenzo!"

He didn't know who the person was.

Not really.

The name barely flickered in his memory—maybe from the walls at Paterna, old team photos, and words his mates used to say whenever any teenager broke into the first team.

Even he had heard a few but after he showed no signs of slowing down after hitting the ground running, the whispers slowly but surely began to fade.

"Pray he doesn't end up like Piatelli," was what they would say.

Still, the sound of Mestalla in full cry was unmistakable.

That rhythm.

That fire.

It hit the chest before it hit the ears.

He let the clip play again.

And again.

Not with jealousy.

Not with doubt.

But with something quieter.

Recognition.

Valencia was moving again.

New rhythm.

New darling.

A different shape to a familiar hunger.

He remembered the air there.

The weight of it when they sang your name.

The speed of change.

How quickly the dream becomes the standard—and then a memory.

He tapped the screen once, setting it dark.

Then smiled faintly to himself.

The club never wanted to linger in the glory of their past.

Maybe Manchester United but never any club.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

And that was okay.

Izan turned from the glass, left the room silent behind him, and let the weight settle where it belonged.

Valencia was telling a new story now.

He was no longer the rising voice.

He was the standard to chase and no one was catching up.

"Max," Izan uttered as his system whirred to life.

"Let's go for a little run. I have a feeling, that things are about to rumble" he said before pulling his hood over his head and then going out of the house.

A/N: Okay, this will be the end of the volume. I wasn't really planning this but I though things were moving a bit too slow and repetitve so i wanted to switch things up. Tell me your thoughts after reading so I can decided if to continue with this or just end it early. First of the day by the way. Last of yesterday so we still have 4 more chapters to finish today. 2 Gt chapters and the first of today as well as the last of today. Bye.