God Of football-Chapter 448: Shoot And Return [Pistacho031_3]

"I'll have you know," he said, tone dripping with faux-gravity, "that I've been training under harsh London conditions. Rain. Fog. Crazy cab drivers. I'm basically a master now."

Hori leaned back, still looking unimpressed.

"Mm-hmm," she said, raising an eyebrow. "If I die, I'm haunting you forever."

Izan just shook his head, a real smile blooming across his face as he shifted gears.

If I couldn't drive properly even after all the system perks I've loaded into myself, he thought dryly, then I really would be a useless being.

Reflex booster fluids, awareness enhancements he'd unlocked — he had every advantage a human could dream of.

It would honestly be more embarrassing than tragic if he couldn't handle something as basic as driving.

Still, he didn't say any of that aloud. No way he was giving Hori that kind of ammunition.

Instead, he flicked a glance at her, seeing her arms defiantly crossed, her lips pursed like she was bracing for impact — and, with the devil's glint lighting up his eyes, pressed his foot down.

The car shot forward smoothly.

Hori yelped and clutched the dashboard instinctively, wide-eyed.

"IZAN!"

He just chuckled, keeping the steering wheel steady with relaxed ease.

The road ahead unfurled clean and dry, the rain finally giving way to thin streaks of sun between gray clouds.

"Relax, you drama queen," he said. "You're safer with me than anywhere else."

Hori huffed but settled back in her seat, shooting him a side-eye.

"I'm telling Mum if you crash."

"And I'm telling her you tried to sabotage my confidence with your negativity," Izan fired back.

"She won't believe you."

"Trust me, Hori, she will."

They drove on, exchanging playful jabs, the tension from earlier dissipating into something lighter.

Out of the corner of his eye, Izan saw Hori finally relax fully into the seat, one foot tapping lightly to the rhythm of a song playing softly from the speakers.

The road stretched ahead, open and welcoming.

......

The white lights cooled to a soft hum as the final shutter clicked.

"Alright," the photographer said, pulling back from behind the camera with a grin. "That's a wrap!"

A ripple of relieved murmurs traveled through the crew.

Assistants lowered reflectors, makeup artists began packing away brushes, and the stylist gave a small, almost disbelieving laugh.

"I've never seen a shoot finish this fast," one of them whispered.

"And with this many good shots, too," another added.

Izan stood calmly at the center of it all, dressed in a sleek black suit tailored to a blade's edge, the watch glinting on his wrist under the studio lights.

Seiko's Grand Line — a private launch for a special few.

The prototype they had flown in was built with his aesthetics in mind:

Clean, minimalist, sharp without being loud.

It sat weightlessly on his wrist as if it had always belonged there.

Only seventeen units would exist worldwide — a quiet nod to his seventeenth birthday in a couple of months.

Exclusive. Understated. A statement without needing to scream.

The brand rep, a silver-haired man in a dark navy suit, approached with a polite bow.

"You bring a great presence to the piece, Hernández-san," he said in crisp Japanese.

Izan returned the bow slightly, smooth and respectful.

"Thank you. The honor's mine."

The man smiled, and just when Izan reached to unclasp the watch, the representative shook his head.

"Please," he said. "A small gift, from Seiko. A memory to carry with you... and a symbol of our gratitude."

For a moment, Izan just looked at him, not out of hesitation, but because he understood the weight of the gesture.

A prototype, one of one, for now, staying with him.

He closed his hand lightly over the watch's face, then nodded.

"I'll take good care of it."

The photographer clapped his hands together once.

"Seriously," he said, "amazing job today. We thought this would take all afternoon — you nailed it in under two hours."

Izan smiled briefly but said nothing.

After all the things he had faced — roaring stadiums, unforgiving training grounds, pressure that would buckle most shoulders — standing still and giving off composure was almost a relief.

Besides, a small part of him had been built for this, too.

Not just to play, but to stand for something larger than himself.

He slid on a casual jacket handed to him by one of the assistants, feeling the familiar weight of his phone settle in his pocket.

As he turned toward the exit, he spotted Olivia waiting across the room — her arms crossed loosely, a smile tugging at her lips.

He made his way over at a casual pace, weaving between rolling carts and half-packed equipment.

"You made it look easy," she teased lightly as he came near.

Izan slipped his hands into his pockets, flashing her a brief smirk.

"Standing still and looking pretty? Toughest part of my career."

Olivia let out a soft laugh, looping her arm through his as they headed for the doors.

Behind them, the crew continued to buzz around, their energy looser now, excited at how one of their season's most important shoots had gone off smoother than anyone expected.

As they stepped out into the soft midday sunlight, the buzz of the shoot fading behind them, Izan and Olivia naturally fell into an easy rhythm, their hands brushing together as they strolled down the quiet side street.

"We could grab something light," Olivia said, glancing at him. "Maybe find a terrace somewhere?"

Izan opened his mouth to agree when his phone buzzed sharply in his pocket.

He pulled it out, checking the caller ID.

Miranda.

He answered.

"¿Dime?"

Her voice came brisk and clear, even through the faint city noise around them.

"Change of plans, champ. You'll need to catch a flight back to London earlier than we thought. Arteta's been asking after you, and Arsenal's next match is in just a couple of days. You'll need at least a light session before the game if you're going to play."

Izan absorbed the information quickly, his free hand slipping back into his jacket pocket.

"Got it," he said simply.

"I'll move your bookings," Miranda added.

"Make sure you eat before the flight, and text your mom. She'll want to know."

The call ended with a quick exchange of goodbyes, and Izan pocketed the phone again before glancing sideways at Olivia.

"Looks like lunch might have to be on the plane," he said with a faint smile, a hint of apology tucked into his tone.

Olivia only nodded, easy and understanding.

"You owe me a proper meal when we get there, though," she teased, bumping her shoulder lightly against his.

He chuckled under his breath and steered them toward the waiting black car by the curb.

The driver, already familiar with them from earlier, offered a small nod as he opened the back door.

They slid in, the air conditioning humming low against the soft drone of Madrid outside.

As the car eased into the traffic, Izan pulled out his phone again, scrolling to his mother's contact and hitting call.

Komi answered almost immediately.

"Izan?"

"Hey, Mamá," he said, keeping his voice calm but warm.

"Quick update — something came up with the club. Olivia and I have to fly back to London today."

"So soon?" she said, a small hint of disappointment bleeding through, though she kept her tone light.

"I know," Izan said.

"It's tight. But I'll be back soon, I promise."

"Of course," she said.

"Be safe. Tell Olivia to take care of you, too."

"I will," he promised, smiling faintly.

They said their goodbyes, and Izan tucked the phone away, leaning back against the seat.

Beside him, Olivia shifted slightly, resting her head lightly against his shoulder without a word.

No need for anything else.

The car carried them through Madrid's winding streets — toward the airport, toward London, toward whatever waited next.

A/n: Okay. Last of the Gacha chapters. The Golden ticket ones are up next. followed by the last of the day and we are done. Would've released this one earlier but got lazy. Also had a funeral to attend. Have fun reading.