God Of football - Chapter 739
Chapter 739: Way To Settle.
The next morning, the sky over London hung in that usual pale gray, making the players even question if the sun ever existed in their part of the world.
At Sobha Realty Training Centre, the annexe of Colney that had just been completed a while ago, a quiet buzz rolled through the corridors as players shuffled toward the indoor complex.
They had their bags slung over their shoulders, the sound of boots and trainers slapping against the polished floor echoing in uneven rhythm.
[MidA/n: Okay, so in real Life, Colney is no longer called Colney but the Sobha Realty Training Centre, but I still kept Colney because it is short and I like that one better.
I decided to mention this because I wanted a different location for what I am about to do in this chapter. Okay, goodbye.]
It wasn’t often they got told no outdoor drills today, so the collective mood felt lighter, almost conspiratorial, like kids being let off an afternoon class.
“Nice for once, eh?” one of the lads muttered as they pushed through the glass doors that led toward the dome.
“Yeah,” came another, followed by Odegaard’s dry laugh.
“Don’t get too comfortable. Rest now, pay later. Mikel’s probably cooking something that’ll have us gasping in an hour. Double-time, you’ll see.”
A ripple of groans answered him, but nobody disagreed.
Odegaard was captain for a reason.
He’d learned Arteta’s patterns better than most.
Ismael Kabier, an academy player who had been promoted and earned a few minutes after Saka got injured, stretched his arms out behind his head with a grin.
“Man, I’ll take whatever this is over another rondo session where Zinchenko starts screaming at you for missing one pass.”
Ethan Nwaneri chuckled as he adjusted the collar of his training kit.
Lewis-Skelly, beside him, looked less relaxed, scanning the group as though something didn’t quite add up.
“Yo, hold on,” he said suddenly, narrowing his eyes.
“Where’s Bukayo?”
Nwaneri blinked. “Dunno. Usually late, but he isn’t mad to be this late. You’ve seen him, innit?”
“And Izan too,” Lewis added. “Haven’t seen him since the parking lot.”
That alone was strange.
Those two players were magnets for attention, and yet neither had appeared in the walkover.
The thought passed around the group like a whispered rumour, everyone starting to glance about in case they’d missed something obvious.
By the time they entered the cavernous indoor pitch, curiosity had morphed into confusion.
The massive space, normally reserved for tactical drills or light scrimmages, had been cleared of cones, mannequins, and passing nets.
Instead, right in the middle, standing absurdly beneath the floodlights like a misplaced piece of furniture, was a fully erected boxing ring.
The players froze at the entrance.
“What the…” Gabriel’s voice carried first, his Brazilian accent stretching the word into disbelief.
“Is that—nah, nah. What the hell’s going on?”
Ben White walked a few steps forward, squinting like the scene would somehow make sense from another angle.
“I know I’ve been losing sleep lately, but that doesn’t justify what I am seeing. Did we walk into the wrong building?”
“Nope, that’s a boxing ring, mate,” Declan Rice said, hands on his hips. “A whole boxing ring. Proper ropes, corner pads, everything.”
The lads slowly drifted in, drawn toward it as if checking for hidden cameras.
Some laughed, others just muttered under their breath, unwilling to step too close, like the floorboards might suddenly spring a trapdoor.
Ethan Nwaneri shook his head with a grin.
“Nah, nah, this has got Arteta written all over it. He’s lost it, finally. Tactical chaos wasn’t enough; now he’s trying to get us throwing hands.”
“Bruv, are we sparring with each other or what?” Ismael whispered, half-excited, half-terrified.
“Don’t say that,” Lewis-Skelly laughed nervously. “Knowing our luck, he’ll have us do three rounds to ‘build resilience under pressure.'”
Rice crouched slightly, peering beneath the ropes.
“Could be some promo thing? Like, charity collab? Please tell me we’re not about to fight UFC guys, man. My contract didn’t say anything about that.”
Gabriel Jesus, ever the joker, threw a shadow jab in the air and bounced on his toes.
“Maybe he finally realised we need to toughen up. Street mentality! You get punched, you get up, you press harder!”
Groans and chuckles circled.
Havertz rubbed his forehead like he was already exhausted.
“This team, man. Only Arsenal would start training with boxing gloves.”
Odegaard sighed dramatically. “Wait. Where are Izan and Bukayo again? Think about it. Ring appears, they disappear…”
A chorus of “oh no” and “you’re kidding” broke out.
“Don’t even joke,” Nwaneri muttered, though his grin betrayed him. “Imagine if they’re in there waiting, gloves on.”
“That would actually be wild,” Ismael said, his eyes wide with almost childlike anticipation. “Like some big announcement, you know, Bash Brothers style.”
Lewis-Skelly slapped a hand against his forehead. “Man, if they’re about to make us watch a sparring exhibition or something…”
The group crowded around the ring, craning their necks, muttering theories and half-serious conspiracies.
The ropes creaked slightly as Raya leaned a forearm on them, staring into the empty canvas like it might reveal answers.
Then, out of nowhere, a soft crackle cut through the space.
A microphone.
The faint hiss of feedback carried over the speakers, followed by a cough into the mic, just loud enough to hush the crowd in an instant.
Every head turned.
The players froze, suspended between disbelief and anticipation, waiting for the voice that was about to explain, or completely confuse, them further.
Lewis-Skelly was the first to move after the halt. He tilted his head, squinting toward the room planted right behind the boxing ring where the voice seemed to come from.
“Wait… isn’t that—?” he started, but before he could finish, the voice boomed louder.
“Laaaaadies and gentlemen, boys and girls, but mostly just us Arsenal football players and some staff, Arsenal football club and beyond—welcome to the showdown you’ve all been waiting for!”
Everyone turned toward the far corner.
Out came Bukayo Saka, still in his grey training gear, but with a red tie looped haphazardly around his neck like he’d just borrowed it from someone’s kit bag.
The sight alone broke the squad.
Laughter ricocheted across the hall, players clutching their stomachs, some even stamping their boots against the ground.
Saka leaned into the role, holding the mic two-handed like he’d seen at a Vegas fight night before, but it might not be far off from the truth as he was a player known to like enjoting himself.
He strutted down the centre like a ring announcer, his face deadly serious, only making the act funnier.
“Woooow, look at this guy,” Gabriel Jesus wheezed, half-bent over with laughter.
“Man’s got the tie and everything,” Nwaneri said, pointing, grinning ear to ear.
“Oi, this guy’s mad,” Zinchenko chimed in, clapping like it was a stand-up routine.
Saka raised one hand, and the noise somehow grew louder before he suddenly shushed them, finger to lips.
The room simmered down, though chuckles still leaked out.
“Now listen,” he began, tone lowering, dramatic as if the whole world was watching. “In our last match, we… lost.”
That drew a chorus of groans and murmured “yeah, true” from the boys.
“And after the game… tensions were high. Our talisman…” he paused for effect, eyes darting around. “…Izannn Miura Hernández… stormed off the pitch, not talking to anybody.”
Heads turned, a few nods shared.
“Yeah, saw that clip on Twitter,” Calafiori muttered.
“Same, fans went mad with it,” Nwaneri added, raising his eyebrows.
Saka nodded solemnly, playing it perfectly.
“So… what better way to settle things than this?”
He pointed grandly toward the boxing ring, making it sound like the grandest idea ever conceived.
The squad roared again, a mixture of disbelief and anticipation.
“What is going on, bro?” Kiwior said, shaking his head but grinning.
“Who’s fighting who?” Trossard added, half-laughing, half-curious.
Saka paced back toward the ring, voice rising again.
“Introducing first… fighting out of San Sebastián, Spain!” He rolled the words like a proper announcer, his face screwed in concentration.
“Standing at one-seventy-five centimetres… weighing seventy-one kilos and powered by Google so you can check!”
The boys erupted again, some hollering, others whistling at the sheer effort Saka was putting in.
“He’s got stats ready and everything!” Raya shouted, clapping his gloves.
“Bro did research last night,” Havertz teased, shaking his head.
Saka held the mic higher, voice straining like he was announcing the main event at Wembley.
“He is the mastermind… the tactician… the man with one trophy to his name—” Saka paused just long enough for the squad to lose it again.
“The 2020 FA Cup champion… the pride of Arsenal… MIKEL! ARTETA!!”
Every player’s head swung left in unison.
Sure enough, from the corner of the hall, Mikel Arteta himself was walking in, sharp as ever in his usual all-black, expression unreadable.
“Ehhh no wayyy,” Odegaard whispered, his voice cracking from laughter.
“Coach is actually here?!” Lewis-Skelly clutched Nwaneri’s arm as the room broke into chaos with players shouting, cheering, and some chanting “MI-KEL! MI-KEL!” as Arteta made his way toward the ring.
A/N: Okya, this is the first of the day. Have fun reading and I will see you in a bit with the last.
Thanks For All the Golden Tickets Guys and thanks for all the support. Check out my book below and love y’all.