When the table in the living room buzzed, Izan didn't even look at his phone at first.
He had just come back from training, and there was a lot that went through mind after sessions like that.
The Hampstead house was quiet with the late afternoon light pouring through the glass wall, stretching across the wooden floor.
The phone buzzed again, and on the third time, he finally reached for it lazily, thumb brushing the screen open after the face ID got the lock out of the way.
Scrolling through the stack of notifications, Izan came across a tagged notification from an account he recognised.
"Not doing too bad for yourself," he muttered as he stared at the massive football edit account with millions of followers.
And this was the same account of the guy who had taped him first when he was playing in that scrimmage back on one of the pitches in Alboraya, a couple of years ago.
Tuning his thoughts out, he turned towards the bottom of the post where the caption read:
