God Of football

The moment Izan stepped into the hall, the shift was instant.

The velvet-rope polish of the red carpet fell away, replaced by something richer and richer.

Almost, anticipatory.

The kind of hush that wasn't silence—it was reverence.

Deep inside the Théâtre du Châtelet, chandeliers shimmered overhead, their gold fixtures catching light like a constellation frozen mid-breath.

The seating was already filling, tiers of velvet seats wrapping around the stage in a horseshoe of anticipation.

Legends mingled in tailored suits.

Managers stood chatting at the edges.

A row of former Ballon d'Or winners posed for photos off to one side—Cannavaro, Kaká, Shevchenko, Zidane.

Izan strolled down the aisle, Miranda by his side.

His eyes scanned the row numbers as ushers led them forward—but before he could find his place, someone called his name.

"Izan."

The voice was soft, steady, and familiar.

Lamine Yamal stood three rows ahead, arm extended in celebratory welcome.

Izan smiled and stepped forward, taking the offered hand.

The handshake turned into a half-embrace, brief but sincere—two young titans, barely out of boyhood, each carrying their club's and countries' hopes like weightless fire.

"You took your time. Even I thought you weren't coming" Lamine said, grinning.

"I like entrances," Izan replied.

Miranda greeted Lamine's parents politely as they shifted down to make room.

The seats were close, and the lights above dimmed as more players filtered in.

Izan sank into the seat beside Lamine, exhaling, taking it all in.

"You good?" Lamine asked.

"Yeah," Izan said. "It doesn't feel real, though."

"It will when they call your name," Lamine said.

"Whether it's tonight or some other year. You're here now. That's what matters."

Before Izan could reply, a small hand gripped his suit sleeve.

He looked down.

Lamine's younger brother—no more than three—had wandered up from his seat and, without hesitation, climbed into Izan's lap and settled like he'd done it a hundred times.

Izan blinked.

Lamine raised an eyebrow.

"You traitor."

The boy looked up at his brother, unbothered.

"Is it because I didn't give you the toy," Lamine said, as his little brother buried his face in Izan's jacket.

Miranda stifled a laugh behind her hand.

Izan looked over at Lamine.

"He's got good taste."

"Don't come crying for candy after this," Lamine muttered, shaking his head.

The lights dimmed again after a while and then a soft voice echoed over the PA.

The ceremony was about to begin.

But in that moment—amid all the glitter, all the gold, all the glory—they were just two kids again.

Side by side.

The theatre exhaled as the final murmurs died down, the overhead chandeliers fading into a soft, moody glow.

Light tightened to a single spotlight on stage.

Then the curtain lifted.

Out stepped Sandi Herbert, clad in an elegant navy gown that shimmered under the stage lights, her presence immediately commanding the room's attention.

Beside her, towering and poised in a sharp black tuxedo, stood Didier Drogba, all grace and gravity as if the very history of the game moved with him.

A wave of applause rolled through the hall—not explosive, but warm, woven with respect.

Sandi smiled first, her voice clear and composed.

"Good evening, Paris. Good evening, football."

Drogba's grin followed, slow and wide.

"And what a night we've gathered for."

"Tonight," Sandi said, "isn't just about talent. It's not just about numbers or stats. It's about legacy."

"It's about the weight of a name," Drogba added.

"The kind of season that makes people stop and say—yes, I remember that. I remember him."

They began to walk slowly across the stage, the screens behind them now rolling through a decade of highlights—flash cuts of Messi lifting his seventh, Modric breaking the run in the age of the duo's dominance and Cannavaro holding it high in Berlin-white.

"The Ballon d'Or," Sandi continued, "is more than a trophy. It's football's crown jewel. The award that doesn't just recognize excellence… it immortalizes it."

Drogba glanced across the crowd. "It is chosen by journalists from across the globe. Voted on by nations. Carried not just by goals, but by moments. By influence. By magic."

On the screen, a younger Cristiano ran past defenders in 2008.

Then Modric celebrating.

Then Zidane striking from a distance in his prime.

A tapestry of greatness, compressed into seconds.

"Only the best," Sandi said, voice softening.

"Only the unforgettable."

The music swelled faintly beneath them.

Drogba nodded once.

"And tonight, we find out who becomes the next chapter of that story."

The camera swept across the audience, catching faces frozen in anticipation, and then it passed Izan.

Still. Calm.

The light caught the corner of his jaw as he watched Drogba speak like he'd just seen his future narrating his present.

Back on stage, Sandi stepped forward.

"So, without further delay—" she said, her hand poised.

And then the lights shifted.

"The Ballon d'Or 2024, begins "

The music rose gently again as Sandi Heribert took center stage once more, a subtle smile shaping her lips as the screen behind her glowed in gold lettering:

SÓCRATES AWARD.

"Awarded not for goals, not for trophies, but for heart," she said.

"The Sócrates Award honors players who use their voice, their reach, and their time to make the world beyond the pitch a little better."

The screen cut to a montage—community projects, food drives, mental health campaigns, education initiatives.

Images of players kneeling beside kids, rebuilding homes, funding schools.

One after another, clips flickered like quiet flames.

Then came the name.

"This year's Socrates award goes to Jenni Hermoso".

A swell of applause as the recipient took the stage—his work known, her humility steady.

Izan watched from his seat, still quiet, hands together in his lap.

Lamine leaned slightly, whispering, "That's one of the good ones."

Izan nodded. "One of the best."

The speech was short. Honest. Grateful. No rehearsed glory, just thanks.

Then the lights dimmed again.

This time, it was Didier Drogba who stepped forward, his voice carrying with unmistakable presence.

"If the Sócrates Award speaks to the soul of football," he said, "this next one speaks to its hunger."

"The next honor," he continued, "is for those who live in the final third. Those who don't just finish moves—they end them. Ruthlessly."

Behind him, the screen surged to life in rapid-fire flashes.

GERD MÜLLER TROPHY

To the deadliest striker of the season.

Clips thundered across the screen—Harry Kane, clinical and relentless in Bayern colors, sweeping in hat-tricks with elegance.

Then Mbappé—gliding, snapping finishes with a flick, a glance, a blink-and-it's-in sense of inevitability.

The numbers hit next:

Harry Kane – 52 goals.

Kylian Mbappé – 52 goals.

A soft murmur swept the room—respect. Admiration. A shared breath among greatness.

Drogba nodded slowly. "Two men stood at the summit this year. Equal in numbers. Equal in ruthlessness."

"But," he added carefully, "only one is here tonight."

The screen split—Kane on one side. The other held a still image of Mbappé, dressed sharp, arms crossed, eyes cool.

The caption beneath simply read:

"Not in attendance."

A flicker of silence.

Not judgment. Just recognition.

"They may wear different shirts now," Drogba said, "but they both defined the season. And tonight, we honor them both."

Harry Kane rose to applause, nodding once, and strode toward the stage.

He accepted the trophy—sleek, gold, sharp at the edges—then turned to the mic.

"Look," he said, smiling gently. "This is a striker's award. But it's never won alone. I've had service, support, teammates, and a manager who believed I could hit these numbers."

He glanced toward the crowd, then toward Mbappé's image on the screen.

"And to Kylian—congrats, mate. Two of us did this. Respect."

Applause followed him down the steps.

The applause for Kane still echoed faintly when the lights dimmed again.

Didier Drogba stepped forward one more time, his voice now slower, more deliberate.

"Some players are judged by goals," he said.

"Others by trophies. But there's a rarer kind of player—one who's judged by the feeling they leave behind. The electricity. The sense that the game is different now… because they touched it."

The room leaned in.

"And this next award," Drogba continued, "celebrates the youngest of those. The next greats. And maybe, the already greats."

On the stage screen, a name shimmered into view:

KOPA TROPHY

Best U21 Player in the World.

A swell of applause came even before the montage began.

Then the screen erupted with footage:

— Izan in the white of Valencia, twisting away from two markers like he was built of silk and defiance.

— A thunderous strike from distance against Atlético.

— The curled screamer against France in the Euro semifinal—left foot just after crossing the halfway line and net cracking like thunder in the Munich night.

Drogba turned slightly, smiling at the crowd.

"He took the world by storm last season and is still doing so in this one—and the question now isn't if he wins again tonight… but how many more times he might do it in the years to come."

He looked to the wings.

"Presented by a man who knows a thing or two about elegance in football—Ruud Gullit."

Gullit stepped onto the stage, all dreadlocked grace and charisma, nodding to the crowd with a smile before holding the envelope.

A beat.

And then:

"The Kopa Trophy… goes to—Izan Hernández."

The room lit up.

A full standing ovation.

In the audience, Izan turned slightly and locked eyes with Lamine beside him.

They shared a brief nod and a half-hug.

"Go," Lamine whispered with a grin.

"Go take what's yours 'cause I'm taking mine this year."

Izan stood, shoulders back, not stiff but composed.

Miranda touched his arm as he stepped into the aisle and began his walk, calm and focused as his own goals thundered behind him on screen.

"Why do I feel like I should have won this trophy if Izan wasn't real," Yamal said scratching his head sheepishly.

Up on stage, Gullit reached out first.

They shook hands—firm, mutual.

"You've got something special," Gullit said, low enough that only Izan heard.

Izan nodded once, jaw set, eyes clear.

And the trophy—sleek, golden, shaped like a future unfolding—was his.

A/n: Gt chapter, have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit with the first of the day.