God Of football - Chapter 770

Chapter 770: Same Page.

The first thing that met Izan’s sight in Arteta’s office was the pile of papers and the clipboard beside it, and the view behind it.

The window in Arteta’s office stretched wide, giving a clear view of the training pitches outside where a few staff members were already setting up cones for later drills.

“Sit,” Arteta said quietly, still standing with his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the glass.

Izan lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk, staying silent, watching his manager’s reflection in the pane.

There was something in Arteta’s posture that made him vulnerable, like a man carrying both the weight of expectation and the pride of having built something worth protecting.

The silence lingered, but Izan didn’t break it.

He just waited until Arteta finally turned, his expression softening, and crossed the room to his chair.

He sat down slowly, elbows resting on the desk, fingers laced together.

“How are you feeling?” Arteta asked, his tone gentler now. “How has London been for you… And Arsenal, since you signed?”

Izan smiled faintly, tilting his head.

“Honestly? I have everything and everyone I need here. Sometimes things feel… a little weird, a little overwhelming maybe, but I like it. More than I thought I would.”

Arteta’s lips curved into a nodding smile, eyes glinting as if he’d been waiting to hear those words.

“Good. That’s good. Because this—” he gestured vaguely, almost toward the crest embroidered on his own chest, “—is more than football. It’s life. It’s family. Saturday…”

He paused for emphasis, his voice sharpening as he stared at the teenager in front of him.

“Saturday is a chance to be crowned champions. And not just crowned but crowned in style.”

Izan leaned back in his chair, quietly soaking in the weight of those words as Arteta continued, his tone now more prominent and clear.

“Liverpool will throw everything at us. They’ll pull out all the stops to stop us from clinching the title early. It’s what I would do in their place. But I believe…” He pointed, not at the team, not at the badge, but at Izan himself.

“I believe, with you, we can do it.”

Izan’s eyes narrowed just slightly, not in doubt, but in focus.

“With all of us, míster.”

Arteta gave a small nod of approval before leaning back in his chair.

His gaze lingered on Izan, thoughtful, almost like a father measuring a son’s growth.

“When we signed you last year,” he said, voice lowering, “I thought you were for the future. An investment. But what I didn’t realise was that this investment would turn out to be the biggest in Arsenal’s history. If you’d stayed at Valencia just one more season…” He raised his brows, shaking his head with a half-smile.

“We might have had to pay two hundred and fifty million for you. Instead of the one-twenty, plus fifteen in add-ons, we agreed.”

Izan couldn’t help but chuckle softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Guess I’ve been ticking those boxes, huh?”

Arteta’s eyes locked with his again, serious but warm. “Almost every single one. In one season. And there is just one more that I think Valencia would have to wait for, but it won’t be long for that, and I know it.”

There was a long pause as Arteta let his words hang, then spoke again, firmer.

“It’s good you feel good about the club, about the project we are building. Arsenal is a good club, Izan. And I want you to know… the management has already decided. We’ll do everything, everything, to keep you here.”

Izan nodded, his face settling into something calm and assured.

“And I’ll do everything I can for the club. For the team. For you.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other across the desk, a quiet understanding hanging in the space between them.

Arteta was the one to break it as he leaned back in his chair and exhaled, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s good that we are on the same page. Very good. Now go on, join your teammates for breakfast. Don’t let me keep you.”

Izan stood, adjusting the hem of his joggers.

“See you out there, míster.”

Arteta gave a single nod, watching as Izan stepped out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alone again, the manager turned back toward the glass, eyes on the training pitches, lips pressed into a thin line, part determination, part pride.

As Izan made his way over to the cafeteria, it was a bit different that morning.

It wasn’t loud, not in the usual sense of players ribbing one another over FIFA ratings or who came flopped more in their previous game.

Instead, the sound was softer.

Forks lay against plates, backed up by the occasional scrape of chairs, and the low murmur of the television bolted up in the corner.

The screen flickered with scenes from all across North London.

Pubs draped in red and white scarves, fans already singing even though it wasn’t matchday.

Some had painted their faces, others waved banners.

In one clip, a group of kids played five-a-side in the street, chanting Arsenal songs after every makeshift goal.

The anchor’s voice droned on about history, about the two decades since Arsenal had last lifted the Premier League trophy, and the rare chance of doing it unbeaten again.

Around the tables, the players sat in clusters, plates half-finished, eyes tilted toward the screen.

Nobody said much at first.

Then, almost under his breath, one of the defenders muttered, “They make it sound so easy. Like all we have to do is turn up.”

Another player chuckled, though the sound was hollow, edged with nerves.

“Pressure’s building, man. You can feel it. Every pub, every corner of this city… they’re already celebrating.”

That drew a couple of nods, and a few grumbles, too.

Gabriel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “If only it were that simple.”

The tension hung there, not quite heavy but pressing.

The television rolled on with clips of jubilant fans who had convinced themselves history was already theirs.

And then, from across the room, a voice broke the weight.

“Morning, lads.”

All eyes turned towards Izan, who stood at the buffet, balancing a plate in one hand while he piled scrambled eggs with the other.

He was chatting easily with one of the staff members behind the counter, teasing about how much butter they’d put on the toast, as if it were any ordinary Friday in March.

His shoulders were loose, his grin easy, like the cameras and the noise outside the gates belonged to some other world.

The players found themselves staring, almost without realising it.

Of course. Of course, he was like this.

This was Izan.

Calm, unbothered, unfazed by pressure.

Having him on their side made the impossible feel… less impossible.

Izan turned with his plate stacked high and caught the looks.

For a beat, he just blinked at them before his mouth curved into a smirk.

“Listen,” he said, deadpan, “I know I’m handsome, but I don’t swing that way.”

The cafeteria broke out with laughter, spilling out of everyone at once.

Some of them clutched their plates, fearing it might fall from so much movement around the table, while others covered their faces with napkins, grateful for the release.

“Man, shut up!” one of the Saka shot back between laughs.

“Don’t flatter yourself, bro,” Lewis Skelly added, shaking his head.

Izan only shrugged with exaggerated innocence, sliding into a seat like nothing had happened, setting his fork to his eggs.

The mood lightened.

Plates were cleared with more appetite now, as the chatter started to hum again, and the television faded back into background noise.

….

The shrill blast of a whistle cut through the warm hum of conversation, sharp enough to make a few players jolt upright.

Boots scuffed the turf, half-hearted stretches were abandoned, and a collective groan rippled through the group as heads turned toward the man striding across the pitch.

Arteta clapped his hands once, drawing the group closer, their bodies still carrying the weight of the after-brunch session.

Shirts clung with sweat, cheeks were flushed, and breath came heavy, but the players gathered all the same, forming that semi-circle around him.

“I know,” Arteta began, scanning the faces one by one.

“I know you’re tired. I can see it in the way you’re walking. But I also know that the work doesn’t stop here. Football isn’t only the pitch, whether we like it or not. We have obligations, and today, it’s time for publicity.”

Normally, publicity was something the players took too well, but after going through that morning session, and then capping it off with the session just now, it was enough to make a kid hate Christmas, in their sense, publicity.

Arteta’s tone softened, though his stance didn’t.

“You’ll wash up, get yourselves together. Then a short lunch. After that, you’ll meet the PR team at the Sobha Realty complex near here. Be sharp, be professional. You represent more than yourselves when you walk in there.”

He gave a small nod, as if to underline his point, then turned on his heel and walked off toward the touchline, clipboard tucked under his arm.

This is the last of the previous day. Fell asleep since I hadn’t done so for quite some time now. Have fun reading and I will see you in a bit with the first of today.