God Of football - Chapter 740

Chapter 740: Welcome, To Fight Club.

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,” Nketiah whispered, his voice cracking from laughter.

“Coach is actually here?!” Lewis-Skelly clutched Nwaneri’s arm.

The room broke into chaos—players shouting, cheering, some chanting “MI-KEL! MI-KEL!” as Arteta made his way toward the ring.

Arteta tried to keep his poker face as he entered the ring.

For a second, he managed to look like the picture of calm authority.

And then he lost it after Saka’s accolades.

He broke into laughter, shaking his head as he stepped inside the corner that had been designated for him, while Saka continued.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” he started again, drawing a roar from the rest of the squad, “fighting out of Alboraya, Valencia… weighing in at seventy-one kilos… standing tall at one-eighty-eight give or take—” he paused for effect, grinning wide, “the kid with the world at his feet!”

The lads went nuts, banging the ringside now as Saka’s voice carried on, mock-serious.

“Most recently, the Carabao Cup winner with Arsenal, Spain’s posterboy at the Euros win, Copa del Rey champion with Valencia, last year’s Pichichi winner, and the most expensive signing in English history… give it up for… I-ZAAAAANNNNN MIUUUUURAAAAA HERNÁÁÁÁÁNDEZZZ!”

The whole room echoed with chants as Izan emerged from the room opposite, where Mikel Arteta had walked out of, his shoulders like a robe, shadow-boxing his way through the players before stepping into the ring.

Arteta shook his head but couldn’t resist playing along, bouncing on his toes as Izan bumped gloves with him.

Carlos Cuesta, with the grin of a man who knew this was going to blow up online within minutes, volunteered himself as referee.

He stood in the middle, hands out like it was Madison Square Garden.

“Alright, boys, keep it clean,” Cuesta said, trying not to laugh as he gestured for them to touch gloves again.

And then the bell, which was just Saka smacking two metal rods nearby, sounded.

What followed wasn’t so much a boxing match as a comedy sketch.

Both of them threw soft jabs with the oversized, pillow-padded training gloves the physios had dug out.

The punches landed with a dull thud and more laughter than pain.

Arteta leaned back exaggeratedly, pretending to stagger after a particularly clumsy uppercut from Izan, who in turn laughed so hard he nearly tripped over his own feet.

“Boss is on the ropes!” Saka shouted, sending the players into another frenzy.

Round after round, if you could call them that, went on until Arteta finally dropped his gloves, panting through his grin.

“Alright, alright, I’m done. Too old for this,” he admitted, waving Cuesta off.

Instantly, half the squad invaded the little ring, lifting Izan onto their shoulders like he’d just won a heavyweight title.

Chants of “CHAMPION! CHAMPION!” echoed as Arsenal’s PR staff filmed every second, grinning like kids in a candy store.

They knew this clip was about to flood social media and rack up millions of views by the time they posted this.

Just as the chaos was reaching its peak, Cuesta raised his voice over the noise.

“Okay, fun’s over! Thirty minutes until training starts on the pitch!”

The announcement cut through like a whistle.

Groans filled the room as players slowly scattered, some pretending to limp, others claiming they were “too injured” to train after the bout.

A few still carried Izan halfway toward the showers before dropping him down with a laugh.

….

Naturally, Arsenal’s media team weren’t going to waste any time.

By the next couple of hours, the video of Saka’s mock boxing-announcer routine and the staged spar between Arteta and Izan was everywhere.

The caption was short, almost cheeky:

“Squad spirit. Always fighting for each other.”

X, TikTok, Instagram, YouTube shorts, it didn’t matter the platform, Arsenal had just fed the internet something that nobody wanted to scroll past.

And, naturally, the comments followed.

On Arsenal’s official posts.

@Nameyelus96:

“An FA Cup semi-final in three days and these guys are out here staging a boxing match… only the current Arsenal could pull this off.”

@Tyler_Saylor:

“This club has gone from stress-ball energy to circus energy in one season, and I can’t even hate it.”

@Cole_Mertesacker:

“I was THERE when Arteta was all stiff in pressers, now he’s squaring up with his star player. Man’s fully embraced the entertainment business.”

@Mohammed_Shamsi:

“City fans watching this like: yeah, they’re rattled. Whole squad laughing when they should be prepping for Wembley.”

_TxSadz:

“Never thought I’d live to see Arteta introduced like he’s fighting for a heavyweight belt. Saka needs to host every presser now.”

Itsmeixzi:

“You lot realise Izan walked off the pitch last game without a word, and THIS is how they’re fixing it? Wild but lowkey genius.”

_Silver_Savant:

“Imagine telling someone in 2020 that Arteta’s trophy count would still be 1, but he’d be in a boxing skit with the club’s 17-year-old talisman. Time is fake.”

Coolvamp:

“Say what you want, but the vibes are immaculate. This is how you reset the atmosphere before a big run-in.”

Pistacho031_3:

“People moaning about professionalism clearly missed how tense things got after PSG. Sometimes all you need to cope is a good laugh, man.”

@Krackalorn:

“United players are crying in ice baths, Arsenal players are doing WWE segments. Different sport at this point.”

@Ben_Schwarzwalder:

“Everyone laughing like it’s nothing, but imagine being the opposition and seeing the manager clown around with the squad. That’s man-management levels I’ve never seen.”

The sheer range of it was staggering.

Half the world thought Arsenal were unserious, wasting days before one of their biggest matches in years.

The other half?

They thought it was brilliant, the kind of team-bonding moment you couldn’t manufacture in a meeting room.

….

While the outside world indulged in the behind-the-scenes videos they had gotten, the cafeteria at London Colney was alive with chatter, plates clinking, and the familiar smell of pasta and grilled chicken drifting through the air.

Most of the squad were already seated in little clusters, laughing and exchanging small talk, but as they kept talking, one thing was clear again!

Izan was nowhere to be seen again.

“Okay, where did he go this time?” Ben White asked as he forked through a mountain of scrambled eggs.

Declan Rice leaned back in his chair. “You lot make it sound like he’s plotting another fight with Arteta. Honestly, I am still surprised he bought into the whole thing.”

Bukayo Saka, sitting near the corner with a mischievous grin, decided to poke at the elephant in the room.

“Well, since we’ve boxing, why not a Fight Club, Colney edition?”

The table burst into laughter.

Saka carried on, deadpan but grinning at the edges.

“But you’ve got to buy in. Twenty quid a head if you want front-row seats. That’s the price to watch Arteta vs Izan, round two.”

“Bro, that would sell out faster than Wembley,” Nwaneri said as he nearly spat out his drink.

Even Ødegaard, usually the calmer voice, cracked a smile. “Imagine the

The cafeteria echoed with laughter again, and though they were joking, everyone knew the tension had been real a couple of days ago.

Still, the squad were grateful to see it treated with humour now.

But while the others ate and joked, Izan and Arteta sat face to face.

“Listen, no matter what happens out there on the pitch, I am your coach,” he began, his tone measured but firm.

“And you cannot show your dissatisfaction with my decisions in front of everyone. We are surrounded by cameras almost every day of our lives, and you know that. One bad moment and the whole world twists it into something else, and I do not want that.”

Izan’s gaze stayed on him, quiet but unflinching.

Arteta finally sat down opposite him.

“If this had been another player, I would have benched him. No hesitation. But I won’t starve a player who wants to play, Izan. That would be foolish. It’s like when a kid skips school, sending him home on dismissal till further notice doesn’t make sense. The desire to be out there is a gift. But it must be managed with respect.”

A beat of silence followed as Izan leaned forward slightly, his voice low, steady.

“And respect goes both ways, míster. I don’t mind fighting for minutes, but I won’t pretend to be fine when I’m not.”

Arteta held his eyes.

He wasn’t rattled.

He respected the defiance when it was within his limit.

In fact, he expected it.

He gave a small nod.

“Fair. But then channel it where it matters most. Not in front of cameras, not in front of your teammates. On the pitch. That’s where you answer me.”

Izan didn’t blink, didn’t yield, but his shoulders eased just a fraction.

“Then let me do that and not just be made to quit halfway because I am supposed to rest. I know my body, and I know when I am tired, I will call to be subbed off.”

Izan rose first after that, Arteta following him back into the corridor.

By the time they entered the cafeteria, the laughter had settled into quieter conversations.

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