God Of football Chapter 728: Trace Of Smoke.

The black SUV purred softly as it rolled up to the front of the school, its tinted windows catching the pale morning light.

It was the sort of car that blended into city streets without calling attention, very unlike the sleek, alien-looking Gemera that usually turned heads wherever Izan drove it.

Today, though, the Gemera was resting in the garage, and the reason sat right there in the passenger seat, arms crossed, lips curved into a smirk that was too proud, even for her usual personality.

"You know," Hori said, breaking the quiet as Izan slowed toward the drop-off lane, "this is actually your fault."

Izan turned his head just slightly, one hand draped lazily on the wheel.

"My fault?" He arched an eyebrow, already amused at the direction this was taking.

"Yes," she declared confidently while staring at Izan like he had done something he shouldn’t have done.

"You the mistake. You spotted the stain. And you didn’t tell Mama. Or even better, you could’ve taken it out of the machine yourself. But no, you just let it spin around in there, dyeing everything red. Which means, " she gave a triumphant tilt of her chin "—you’re guilty too."

The corner of Izan’s mouth tugged upward.

He didn’t rush to defend himself.

He just let her words hang there, her little courtroom performance reaching its peak.

"Mm," he hummed finally, eyes forward as he eased the SUV into a slow stop at the curb.

"So what you’re saying is, because snuck your dress into the wrong load, and because didn’t notice it, somehow the criminal here?"

"Exactly," Hori shot back, not missing a beat. "Accessories to crime are still guilty, you know."

Izan smirked fully now, glancing her way.

"You’ve been watching too many Law and Order and detective dramas."

"Maybe." She shrugged, her ponytail bouncing slightly with the motion, but the gleam in her eyes said she wasn’t backing down.

For a moment, they just sat there, a playful silence filling the SUV.

Kids bustled on the pavement outside, the usual morning chaos of chatter and hurried footsteps.

Hori’s hand hovered at the door handle, but instead of opening it, she narrowed her eyes at him like she was waiting for him to crack first.

Izan leaned back in his seat, smirk still firmly in place.

"If it makes you feel better," he said slowly, deliberately, "I’ll accept partial responsibility."

"Partial?" she scoffed, shaking her head. "That’s not enough."

"It’s all you’re getting."

That earned him a dramatic roll of her eyes.

She shoved open the car door, only to push it harder than necessary, the metal thumping against the side with a dull

Izan’s brows shot up.

"Seriously?" he muttered under his breath, watching her climb out with a touch too much satisfaction in her step.

But she didn’t look back at him.

Instead, one of her friends spotted her near the entrance and called her name, waving.

Hori’s whole demeanour shifted in an instant, the courtroom lawyer gone, replaced by the carefree student.

She fell into stride beside her friend, chattering as if the SUV, Izan, and their little sparring match didn’t even exist anymore.

Izan stayed behind the wheel, lips twitching as he watched her disappear into the sea of uniforms.

He shook his head, muttering to himself with a soft chuckle.

"Accessories to crime, huh? She’d make a very good lawyer."

And with that, he tapped the wheel as the engine hummed louder, and the black SUV pulled away from the curb, slipping back into the flow of morning.

......

Traffic was light this morning, the city just starting to warm up with its usual rhythm, and Colney was a good thirty-minute drive out.

Usually, Izan would let silence be his companion on mornings like this, or let his thoughts drift to training patterns, finishing drills, or even Miranda’s talks about visibility, with Izan being deemed a bit quiet recently by the Media.

But today, maybe because of the tension clawing at the edges of the city, he reached for the dial and flicked the radio on.

Static gave way to voices sharp, animated with a touch of the unmistakable cadence of football punditry.

one voice cut in, calm but firm.

Another pundit jumped in with more bite.

Izan kept his eyes on the road, grinning slightly as he navigated a roundabout.

The first pundit spoke again, leaning into the drama.

the other cut in, almost gleeful. He paused, the dramatic edge unmistakable.

The silence that followed seemed longer than it was, even though the host quickly filled it.

A faint, dry laugh left Izan’s throat, a bit amused and resigned.

He let them talk for another minute, but the words started to grate.

His name was repeated too often, always tied to doubt, to absence, to the weight of an entire club balanced precariously on his presence.

He reached forward and lowered the volume, muting them to a distant murmur as the hum of the engine re-filled the space instead, steady and neutral.

He rolled his shoulders once, exhaled, and tightened his grip on the wheel.

"I still don’t know how they just keep doubting," Izan muttered as he pulled into another lane.

Better to let the talking heads do what they did best.

His answers would have to come somewhere else, and what better place than the pitch?

.....

[Colney]

Arteta leaned against the edge of the desk in the physio’s office, arms folded, his eyes flicking between the scan results on the monitor and the expression on the head physio’s face.

"So... tell me where we stand," Mikel said, his voice low, measured.

The physio exhaled, as if weighing his words carefully.

"It’s good news, mostly. Izan’s ankle has responded brilliantly to treatment. The swelling has gone down, stability is back, and he’s cleared all the range-of-motion drills."

Arteta’s eyes softened for a second. "That sounds better than I expected."

"It is," the physio admitted.

"He can play. If you asked him to, he could put on his boots tomorrow night and he’d get through ninety minutes."

Mikel tilted his head. "But?"

The physio hesitated, then tapped on the scan.

"There’s still a trace of irritation in the joint. It’s minor, really barely there, really, but irritation is like smoke. If we ignore it, if it catches fire, you’re looking at something far worse. A sprain. A tear. Months instead of weeks. Plus, we have to look at fitness and sharpness because he hasn’t played in a minute."

Arteta sighed through his nose, thinking. "So we’re not talking about weakness. We’re talking about risk."

"Exactly. Physically, he’s a monster. He heals much faster than any player I have ever seen that it is sort of ridiculous. His muscles are compensating perfectly, and honestly, it’s impressive. He looks like he has evolved further every time we check him."

The physio allowed himself a small smile.

"But this is the margin we live in. Push him too soon, and luck decides the rest. Hold him back, and he’s protected."

A/N: This is the last of the previous day. I am so sorry for the late release but I was grinding and cramming for my communication skills exam and it starts in like 5 hours but I haven’t slept. Have fun reading and I’ll see you with the remaining two of the day.