God Of football-Chapter 336 : Paris’s Sincerity

Late that night, El Chiringuito was the first to break the story.

Josep Pedrerol leaned in, voice sharp with excitement.

"Exclusive news—Valencia has received two official bids for Izan. PSG and Manchester United have made their moves. €85 million is on the table."

Cristóbal Soria smirked. "So where is Real Madrid?"

Pedrerol grinned. "They're waiting. But they can't wait much longer."

Meanwhile, Fabrizio Romano confirmed the development on Sky Sports.

"Manchester United and PSG have both submitted formal offers.

Valencia will now decide whether to accept or wait for a counter-offer from Real Madrid or Manchester City."

⸻

Pep Guardiola, back in Manchester, had just finished a training session when he was informed.

Txiki Begiristain's voice was urgent.

"PSG and United have submitted bids."

Guardiola sighed. "So, what do we do?"

Txiki was firm. "We need to act now. If we hesitate, he'll be gone."

Pep nodded slowly. "Okay. Get approval from the board. If we move, we do it properly."

That night, City prepared their bid.

The transfer war was reaching its breaking point.

.....

The battle for Izan was in full swing, but the two clubs expected to dominate the race—Real Madrid and Manchester City—had yet to make their final moves.

With PSG and Manchester United already at the table, time was running out.

⸻

At Valdebebas, the mood was tense. Florentino Pérez sat at the head of the table, flanked by Juni Calafat and José Ángel Sánchez.

"PSG and United have bid," Sánchez reported. "€85 million."

Pérez exhaled, eyes sharp. "We knew this would happen."

Calafat leaned forward. "Izan is Madrid material. We can't let City or PSG take him."

Sánchez hesitated. "Mbappé is coming. If we sign Izan, that's two huge investments in one window."

Pérez smirked. "When has that ever stopped us?"

There was silence. Then, with finality, he spoke:

"Make it €90 million plus €10 million in add-ons. Submit it tonight."

Madrid had moved.

⸻

Across England, at Manchester City's offices, Txiki Begiristain and Ferran Soriano received the alert—Madrid had sent a stronger bid.

Guardiola was already watching clips of Izan on his tablet when he heard the news.

"How much?"

"€90 million plus bonuses."

Pep sighed. "Madrid don't play around."

Begiristain leaned in. "We can still win this. We free up space, and we don't have to fork out €150 million-plus for Wirtz.

Atletico have been monitoring Alvarez so we can expect something from them.

Izan gives us everything—vision, movement, flexibility."

Pep nodded. "Then we do it. Tell the sheikh"

[Call the sheikh like he was summoning a final boss from Elden ring ]

And just that evening, Manchester City submitted their offer—€95 million plus €10 million in add-ons.

The message was clear. They weren't backing down.

⸻

Back in Valencia, Miranda sat in her office, watching the new offers roll in. Madrid. City. PSG. United.

Each one edging higher.

She took a deep breath. Izan's future was being decided right now.

Her phone buzzed. Valencia's sporting director.

"These numbers are getting serious," he said.

"Yes," Miranda replied. "But we're still missing something."

"What's that?"

Miranda looked at her messages—one club had yet to make a move. But she knew they were watching.

The silent admirer in the race.

⸻

At London Colney, Edu and Mikel Arteta were in deep discussion.

"Madrid, City, PSG, United. They're all going for him," Edu said.

Arteta, arms folded, nodded. "Then we do it differently."

Edu frowned. "How?"

Arteta's eyes were sharp. "We show our sincerity. We don't lowball. We offer more than anyone."

Edu raised an eyebrow. "More than €100 million?"

"Yes," Arteta said firmly. "We don't compete—we convince."

Edu leaned back, impressed. "And what about Izan himself?"

Arteta smiled. "I'll talk to him personally."

That night, Arsenal officially entered the race, offering €110/ million plus €10 million in add-ons—the highest bid yet.

And Arteta picked up his phone.

"Miranda," he said when she answered, his voice calm yet firm.

"I want to speak with Izan."

......….

[3 weeks Ago

Berlin-Olympiastadion]

The Olympiastadion exploded.

Izan's shot had barely hit the net when the realization dawned—Spain had won the Euros.

Down on the pitch, red shirts swarmed him, an avalanche of bodies colliding in celebration.

A nation roared his name, their newest hero, their golden boy.

Up in the VIP section, the reaction was just as intense.

Komi had tears streaming down her face, hugging Hori so tightly that the girl squealed.

Olivia had her hands over her mouth, stunned, before she let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head in disbelief.

Miranda?

She allowed herself a small smile, exhaling as the noise of 70,000 voices merged into one deafening echo.

But then—a light tap on her shoulder.

Miranda turned, her expression cooling instantly.

A man stood beside her. Tall, well-dressed, composed. Not wearing the usual club lanyards or media badges.

"Miranda Llorente?" he asked in a calm voice.

Miranda's brows arched slightly. "Depends on who's asking."

The man offered a polite smile. "Someone who would prefer a quieter conversation."

Immediately, Komi and Olivia turned toward them.

Miranda had been in football long enough to recognize when someone wasn't just a random figure. This wasn't an ordinary agent or journalist.

She studied him for a moment before speaking. "And if I refuse?"

His expression didn't change. "Then someone else will deliver the same message, just later."

That made her pause.

For a brief second, Miranda glanced back at the field, at Izan being lifted onto his teammates' shoulders, the Spanish flag draped over him.

She exhaled. "Fine. Lead the way."

Komi leaned in. "Are you sure about this?"

"I'll be fine," Miranda murmured, already standing. She was too curious to walk away.

The man led her out of the main VIP section, past the security-controlled entrance, and into a more secluded lounge reserved for high-profile guests.

There, standing near the window, watching the fireworks over Berlin, was Arsène Wenger.

Miranda stopped, momentarily caught off guard. Of all the people she expected to see tonight, he was not one of them.

Wenger turned as she approached, his expression calm but knowing.

"Miranda," he greeted. "I appreciate you taking the time."

She exhaled slowly, regaining her composure. "I wasn't expecting this."

Wenger smiled faintly. "Few do."

The man who had led her here stepped aside, leaving them alone.

Wenger gestured to a nearby seating area. "Sit, if you'd like."

Miranda didn't. She wanted to know exactly why she was here.

Wenger didn't waste time. "Izan is a special talent. He is the kind of footballer who doesn't just play the game—he defines it. Arsenal want him."

Miranda crossed her arms. "I already know. Everyone is interested."

Wenger tilted his head slightly. "You know Arsenal are watching. But do you understand how much we want him?"

Miranda studied him. This wasn't a casual offer.

Wenger stepped forward, his voice steady, deliberate. "This is not just a transfer negotiation. This is about the future.

Mikel Arteta believes Izan can be the cornerstone of Arsenal's next era. The way I once saw Thierry Henry, Fabregas, or even a young Van Persie."

Miranda's expression didn't change, but her grip tightened on her wrist.

"You're telling me," she said carefully, "that Arsenal don't just want to sign Izan. They want to build around him?"

"Yes," Wenger confirmed. "And if you allow it, Arteta would like to speak to him personally when the situation arises. For now, we know Izan's commitment to Valencia."

She inhaled slowly. This changed things.

Wenger must have seen it in her eyes because his smile deepened.

"Then," he said softly, "we will talk again soon."

...…..

[Back To Present]

The afternoon sun lingered over Paterna as Izan finished his final set of shooting drills, the crisp thud of the ball echoing off the goalposts.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, breathing in the scent of freshly cut grass.

Training had been sharp and focused. He had felt good—light on his feet, every touch precise.

As he walked toward the dressing room, his phone vibrated. Miranda.

He picked up, still catching his breath. "Yeah?"

Miranda's voice was calm, professional. "You're done with training?"

"Just finished."

"Good." A brief pause. "Get dressed. Something sharp."

Izan frowned, grabbing a towel. "Why?"

"Dinner meeting." Another pause, deliberate this time. "PSG."

That made him stop. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. He had known this moment was coming—the first serious move in the transfer war.

But hearing it confirmed sent a different kind of rush through his veins.

He glanced at the time. "Where?"

"Marina Beach Club. Private dining room. 9 PM."

Izan nodded. "Alright."

Miranda's voice softened slightly, a rare moment of familiarity breaking through. "Wear something nice. You have a Saint Laurent deal—use it."

Izan smirked. "Got it."

She hung up.

Izan stood there for a second, feeling the weight of it all settle on his shoulders. Then, without another thought, he headed for the showers.

⸻

Dressed in a slim black Saint Laurent suit, Izan stepped out of the car in front of Marina Beach Club.

The scent of the sea mixed with the faint aroma of expensive cologne as he adjusted his cuffs, the city lights reflecting off the sleek entrance.

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Miranda was already waiting near the doors, effortlessly composed in a fitted blazer. She gave him a quick once-over and nodded in approval.

"Ready?"

Izan exhaled, glancing at the glass doors where the PSG entourage was waiting inside.

"Yeah," he murmured, stepping forward.

The first meeting had begun.