God Of football - Chapter 750

Chapter 750: Arrival.

[Charles De Gaulle]

2:45 PM

The plane touched down with a low thrum, tyres skimming the runway before settling into a steady roll.

A murmur passed through the cabin as seatbelts clicked open and jackets were tugged on.

Izan stayed still for a moment, gazing through the small oval window at the Paris skyline in the distance, the city shimmering faintly in the late afternoon haze.

“We are here now, and we know why we’re here. Focus and keep your heads up,” Mikel Arteta’s voice carried down the aisle as he adjusted his jacket.

The words were calm, but the undertone was clear: no distractions.

They moved as a unit through the terminal, caps pulled low and hoods half-raised, but the airport walls couldn’t mute what waited outside.

The sliding glass doors opened to a surge of sound and chants as well as applause and voices pitched high with excitement.

Scarves and flags splashed red and white across the barriers, hands reaching forward with shirts, boots, programmes.

A chorus rose above the noise: “Arsenal! Arsenal!”

Izan slowed instinctively, catching the small figure of a boy pressed against the railing, no older than ten.

The scarf around his neck nearly swallowed his chin, and in his trembling hands was a match programme from the first leg.

“Izan! Please!” the boy called out, voice breaking.

He stepped aside from the flow of teammates, ignoring the half-step hesitation of a security guard.

Taking the programme, he crouched slightly so the boy could meet his eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Marquis,” the boy whispered, almost as if afraid to waste the chance.

“Marquis, huh. That’s a cool name,” Izan echoed with a smile, scrawling his name across the glossy page before passing it back.

“Keep it close. And don’t lose your voice tomorrow, okay. We’ll need it.”

The boy’s grin lit up his whole face.

He clutched the programme as though it were a trophy, shouting something back, but the roar of the crowd swallowed it.

Around him, teammates were caught in similar moments.

Bukayo and Ødegaard bent to scribble names on shirts and snap quick selfies.

Declan Rice crouched to fist-bump a tearful kid, coaxing laughter out of him before moving on with others like Gabriel Jesus signing a flag with a rare grin, while Myles Lewis-Skelly leaned over the barrier for a selfie, both sides laughing before staff nudged him forward.

It wasn’t long before the squad was guided through the walkway toward the team bus.

The crowd’s roar followed, muffled but unrelenting, until the doors shut behind them.

Inside, the players sank into their seats.

The adrenaline of fanfare lingered in the air, but beneath it ran a quiet current, anticipation, sharpened by the reality of the scoreline.

Down 2–1. Paris at home.

Everything still to fight for.

Izan pressed his forehead against the window as the coach pulled away, watching Paris unfurl outside in shades of gold and grey.

Cafés spilt light onto the pavements, traffic rolled slowly through wide boulevards, and somewhere beyond the rooftops, the Eiffel Tower loomed against the dimming sky.

….

[Auberge du Jeu de Paume (Chantilly)]

The hotel was quiet in that particular way exclusive places always were, polished wood floors and tall windows, the faint perfume of fresh lilies drifting through the lobby, and staff who moved as if they belonged to the walls themselves.

Arsenal had taken over the property completely; no cameras here, no strangers with prying eyes, only a temporary fortress tucked away in Chantilly’s soft countryside.

Izan sat on the edge of the bed, jacket half-zipped, hair still a little damp from the shower he’d taken as soon as they’d checked in.

Paris hummed faintly outside the tall windows, but for now, the glow of his phone screen held his focus.

The video call connected after a couple of rings, and Komi’s face filled the screen first.

Her sharp, dark eyes softened the moment she saw him.

“Good, you’ve arrived,” Komi said, seated neatly at the kitchen island back home.

Her hair was pulled into a low bun, the steady elegance she carried making it feel like she’d been waiting for his call all day.

“Yeah,” Izan said, leaning back against the headboard. “All good. Just checked in.”

Before he could add more, the camera tilted as Olivia leaned into view from Komi’s side, hair pinned back in a way that showed she hadn’t fully finished getting ready.

She gave him a small wave, her smile widening at the sight of him.

“See? He’s fine,” Olivia said, as if declaring victory in some silent debate.

“Señora, move,” Hori’s voice cut in from somewhere just off-camera.

A second later, she muscled into the frame, palm on Olivia’s shoulder.

“You’ll talk to him later; you don’t need to hog the screen.”

Olivia’s head whipped back toward her with a glare. “You don’t even like calls like this, moody girl.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” Hori shot back, narrowing her eyes. “I said you’ll talk to him later anyway, so quit trying to hog my mother’s phone.”

“I know you just want to tell him to get one of those Saint Laurent bags you’ve been looking at,” Olivia shot back, the camera jostling as the two began their shoving match.

Komi sighed quietly but didn’t intervene, her patience visibly thinning.

Izan chuckled, shaking his head. “You two, honestly—”

Before he could finish, another hand appeared from behind Komi, swift and certain.

Miranda plucked the phone out of her grasp like a teacher confiscating contraband.

“Enough,” Miranda said sharply, adjusting the camera until only her face filled the frame. “Izan, listen.”

He straightened a little; Miranda had that effect on everyone.

“Henry called me this afternoon,” she continued. “They’ve arranged something right after the Paris game. A paid session. Selene will be the photographer.”

Izan blinked. “Selene?”

Miranda nodded, lips pursed as though she was already thinking three steps ahead.

“Yes. They wanted another photographer to do it since she cost them the previous time, but after hearing it was you, her ‘Muse,’ she decided to do it for half the price.”

“Of course she did,” Izan muttered.

Selene had done well to hide her tendencies during the first shoots and then the ones that followed the previous year.

But then afterwards, Selene, eccentric to the point of madness, had made him stand barefoot on a rooftop in January, insisting the cold gave “truth” to the shot.

She’d treated him less like a model and more like clay she could mould, and somehow the pictures had come out iconic.

“Miranda,” Izan said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “didn’t the contract say three shoots per twelve months? I’ve already done four in eight months. Haven’t we ticked all the boxes for the year?”

“That’s exactly why this is different,” Miranda replied briskly.

“It’s not part of the contract. They’re paying separately. And well. Extremely well.”

Her tone was clipped, but there was a glint of satisfaction in her eyes, the kind that came when negotiations swung her way.

Izan let out a long sigh, leaning his head back against the wall.

“So basically, they’re buying me an extra shift.”

“Basically,” she said with a smirk. “But you won’t complain when you see the number on the cheque.”

He chuckled, conceding with a small nod.

“Fine. After Paris, we’ll talk about it.”

“Good,” Miranda replied.

Without another word, she ended the call, the screen fading to black.

Izan set the phone down on the nightstand, exhaling slowly as a beat of silence filled the room before he turned to the bed beside him.

Bukayo Saka was sprawled diagonally across the sheets, hoodie half-covering his face, one shoe still on, the other kicked to the floor.

He was awake but barely, eyes half-closed as though even the overhead light was too much.

Izan leaned over and gave his shin a quick kick.

“Up. Wash your face. It’s six-thirty. Team meal.”

Saka groaned like someone being dragged back from another world.

“Bro, jetlag. It’s real. I swear the plane took half my soul.”

“Your soul’s fine,” Izan said dryly, pulling off his own jacket.

He crossed to the sink, splashing water over his face before towelling it briskly, the cool shock dragging him sharper into focus.

Behind him, Saka stumbled upright with the grace of a reluctant zombie, muttering complaints under his breath as he shuffled toward the bathroom.

A knock at the door interrupted, followed by a voice muffled but firm through the wood: “Don’t be late, boys. You know the gaffer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Izan called back, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

Saka reappeared moments later, hair damp where he’d half-heartedly splashed water across his head.

“Still jetlagged,” he muttered again, tugging at his hoodie.

Izan smirked, opening the door and gesturing toward the hallway.

“Come on then. Dinner. No excuses.”

The two stepped out into the corridor, their footsteps falling into sync with the other players who had also just gotten out of their rooms.

A/N: First of the day. See you in a bit with the last of the day and the first of the day we are about to enter.

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