God Of football - Chapter 555: A Promise

Chapter 555: A Promise

Two days after the Monaco match, the training ground at Colney was slow to stir.

Not quiet — not entirely — but slow, the way athletes moved when their legs remembered a recent win and their bodies still buzzed with fatigue.

The usual banter was quieter, the warmups a little more sluggish.

Izan stepped out of his car into the grey morning, hood up, his breath fogging in the cold.

He wasn’t always the first but was close enough.

Inside, Arteta stood in the center of the training room, arms crossed, waiting.

“Morning, everyone,” he called once the squad had filtered in.

A few players groaned in response.

Saka dropped onto a bench. “Feels like we played yesterday.”

“You didn’t,” Arteta said, expression unreadable.

“Felt like it.”

Arteta let them settle before continuing.

“No pitch today.”

That perked them up.

“Tell us more Gaffer” Nwaneri said, half-smiling.

“Sure,” Arteta replied.

“Today’s different. PR day. Club community service. You’re getting split into groups. Some of you are doing content. Some are going to hospitals, schools, and shelters.”

Murmurs turned into chuckles.

Martinelli punched the air.

“Let’s go!”

“Don’t cheer too much,” Arteta warned.

“You’ll be in front of cameras all day.”

Saka grinned at Izan.

“That means you have to talk to people.”

Izan rolled his eyes. “I talk.”

“Barely outside of press conferences and the likes,” Saka said as they walked off.

….

A studio crew had taken over one of the lounges at Colney.

Lights, mics, and soft chairs sat in a circle as Izan, Saka, Nwaneri, and Calafiori sat down around a table with four cards placed face-down, each with a thin strip of tape hiding the rating.

The host — bright smile, mic clipped to his collar — leaned forward.

“Alright, gentlemen. Today we reveal your FC25 ratings. We’ll start by letting you guess each other’s. Then we’ll take off the tape.”

Saka leaned toward Izan.

“You’re sweating already.”

“I’m not,” Izan replied, deadpan.

“You are.”

Thɪ𝘴 𝓬hаpτℯr ı𝘴 p𝗼𝖘ţ℮𝑑 b𝑦 𝖪ı†℮𝗇𝑜ⱴ𝙚𝖑

The host chuckled.

“Alright. Who wants to go first?”

Nwaneri pointed. “Izan.”

Saka nodded.

“Has to be.”

“Okay, Izan,” the host said. “What do you think your rating is?”

Izan shrugged.

“Low 80s. Maybe 84? Last year’s was 83 so maybe a little over that.”

Saka and Calafiori both snorted.

“Low 80s? You’re lying,” Saka said

“You scored 16 goals in the league already, bro,” Nwaneri added.

“Reveal it!” Calafiori called.

The host peeled the tape.

89.

The room reacted like someone had been slapped.

“No way!” Saka shouted, springing to his feet.

“Eighty-nine?! Nah, nah—reset the whole thing!”

Izan blinked, then let a small smile slip.

“I thought they’d keep me humble after Haaland told us to stay humble.”

“You’re the highest-rated teenager ever,” the host said.

“Only a handful of players in the game are above you.”

Saka laughed.

“Then, I must be 92 rated cause I’m at least on top you, Izan” the latter said but all he got were weird looking stares from Calafiori, Nwaneri and even the crew before they all broke out into laughter.

Then the host turned to the others.

“Now, let’s guess what your ratings were when you were 17.”

Saka rubbed his face. “Oh no…”

Calafiori raised a hand. “I don’t think I had one. I wasn’t even in the game at 17.”

The host nodded. “Correct.”

“Good.”

“Nwaneri?” the host continued.

“Well still 17 so, last year’s was… 69?”

“Right again.”

Then he turned to Saka.

“You?”

Saka squirmed. “I’m not answering that.”

“C’mon,” Nwaneri grinned.

“I’d rather not—”

“Reveal it!”

The tape came off.

65.

Saka groaned.

“Back when I looked like I’d barely made it out of academy football,” he muttered.

The host smiled. “Look at you now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Saka waved it off. “Let’s move on.”

“Well, Ricardo is now 78 rated, Nwaneri is 74, and Bukayo, you are 87. Just two ratings below Izan but if you don’t keep up, I think it might be more next year” the interviewer said jokingly.

“Keep up. Bruv, have you seen this guy” Saka deadpanned causing the set to ring with laughter again.

A few minutes later they were on their way to, the hospital near them.

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and old flowers.

The squad entered in waves, signing shirts, chatting with nurses, and posing for selfies.

Izan stuck close to Saka.

Crowds didn’t bother him, but these rooms held something different.

Something quieter.

A child with a nasal cannula sat up straighter when Izan entered.

His mother blinked in shock.

“Izan?” she asked, as if checking reality.

He nodded. “Hi. Can we come in?”

The boy’s eyes lit up.

He pushed himself up a little straighter in bed.

“You’re my favorite,” he said.

Izan stepped closer.

“What’s your name?”

“Leo.”

“Nice name. Like Messi.”

Leo nodded, his little fingers trembling as he held out a notepad.

“Can you sign this?”

Izan took the pen gently, crouched, and scribbled something more than a name.

Keep shining. You’re stronger than I’ll ever be.

— Izan

“Want me to show you a celebration?” Leo asked.

Izan tilted his head.

“Sure” he affirmed.

“I’ve always wanted to do this after I saw Son from Tottenham do it for a kid.”

“It’s one where I lie down and point to the sky like I’m watching the stars.”

“You want me to do that after I score?”

The boy nodded.

“I’ve never done that in a game.”

“But will you?”

Izan paused.

“Yeah. I will.”

He held out a pinky.

The boy grinned and linked his.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

—

On the ride back, Izan sat near the back of the van.

The others were still chatting, laughing about the EA reveal, the candy Calafiori stole from the nurse’s counter, and how one kid tried to arm wrestle Martinelli.

Izan stared out the window for a long time.

The glass blurred with the faint start of drizzle.

And then he pulled out his phone.

Called Miranda.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Izan?”

“Yeah. Quick one. Can you… start looking into some foundations? Orphanages. Hospitals. Youth homes. No shady stuff. I want clean books. I want the money to go where it’s supposed to.”

There was a pause.

“You want to start donating?”

“I want to start doing,” Izan said.

“I don’t want to just play and leave it at that.”

Another pause.

Then: “Okay. I’ll compile a shortlist. We’ll start small. Local.”

“Thanks,” Izan murmured.

“Something happen?”

He looked out the window again.

A boy with a tube in his nose.

A pinky promise.

“I just don’t want to wait to be good enough to make a difference.”

“You already are.”

The call ended.

But Izan just sat there for a second, letting the city pass by his window, knowing full well that next time he scored, he wouldn’t be standing.

He’d lie back, eyes to the stars, pointing.

Just like Leo asked.

……..

Emirates Stadium — North London

[Saturday]

“Welcome, wherever you’re joining us from,” said Steve Bower, his voice steady and assured, already echoing above the noise.

“Another packed house at the Emirates, and why wouldn’t it be? Arsenal return to Premier League action after a midweek performance that quite frankly—bordered on exhibition football.”

“They were rampant, Steve,” chimed in Alan Smith beside him, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Five goals against Monaco, one of the most organized sides in the Champions League so far—if anyone had doubts about Arsenal’s European ambitions, I think they got a very loud answer on Tuesday night.”

Down below, the players emerged into the light as the roar of the home crowd rose to meet them like a wave breaking on a beach.

“All eyes on the number ten again,” Steve continued, as the camera panned to Izan’s calm face, his tied-back hair flicking with each step.

“Two more goals to his name against Monaco. That brings his tally up to—what is it now, Alan?”

“Sixteen in the league, ten in the Champions League, if you’re counting,” Alan replied, already flipping his notepad.

“That’s not just world-class, Steve. That’s generational. Bordering on Insanity”

“And the question today is: can he do it again? Can Arsenal, so fluid midweek, bring that same level of sharpness and energy against a gritty, aggressive Everton side?”

The camera panned to Arteta on the touchline, hands in pockets, jaw tight, watching every movement with that same taut intensity.

“They’ll have to be at it again today,” Alan said.

“Everton may not be Monaco, but they’re on a run of form themselves. They’ll look to frustrate, sit deep, and nick something on the break. The early minutes will be vital.”

The referee checked his watch.

The players stood in formation and the noise swelled again.

“It’s Arsenal. It’s Everton. And it’s about to get underway.”

The whistle blew.

And the ball rolled.

A/n: First of the day. Gosh, was having a hard time getting this one out because of my Grammarly not saving the file so I had to redo it and edit it again. Sorry if anything seems rushed or not up to par. My soggy eyes too aren’t really helping. Anyway, first of the day, have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

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