God Of football - Chapter 571: Matchday 19

Chapter 571: Matchday 19

The bright studio lighting reflected off the polished black desk as the camera panned across the panel of analysts.

The winter sun filtered in from behind the glass wall overlooking London, tinting the skyline just enough to feel like something was about to begin again.

“Right then,” said the host, leaning slightly forward.

“We’ve had our break. A short one, yes—but enough to reset. Now the holidays are done, and we’re staring down the second half of the Premier League season.”

He tapped the digital screen in front of him, which brought up a fixture list.

“And what a way to close the year,” he continued.

“Arsenal vs. Brentford at the Emirates—New Year’s Eve, under the lights.”

Jamie Redknapp nodded beside him, arms crossed.

“Brentford’s no easy game, especially after the break. But Arsenal’s got momentum. The way they closed out December, unbeaten, dominant—it’s set the tone.”

Michel Saso leaned forward, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“And let’s not forget—it’s January first tomorrow. That means one thing…”

“The window’s open,” the host finished for him.

“Exactly,” Michel said.

“One month. Thirty-one days. Teams who feel like they’re missing that one piece? This is the time. This is where clubs either push for titles or panic to survive.”

Roy Keane, stone-faced as usual, simply added, “You don’t build in January. You fix.”

Laughter circled the panel briefly, but the tone remained professional as the screen behind them shifted to a shot of the Arsenal training ground.

“All eyes on Mikel Arteta’s side and I for one, can’t wait to see more of the boy wonder.”

“Don’t say the name,” Micah said with a grin.

Th𝚒𝐬 𝘤hȺp†ɛr 𝐢𝐬 p𝙤𝐬ƚєɗ bʏ Ҡ𝗶𝗍ℯɳՕ𝙫𝓮𝑙

“We’re saving it for when he breaks something again.”

……

[Canonbury, morning]

The sunlight crept in slowly through the wide glass panels of the house, casting long streaks across the polished floors.

The kitchen smelled like toasted oats and honey, with the faint, comforting aroma of cinnamon from something Olivia had half-burned and rescued.

She stood in a grey hoodie and cycling shorts, hair pulled back, flipping pancakes while checking her tablet propped up by the sink.

“I’ve got class in forty,” she said, glancing at Izan as he stepped into the kitchen barefoot, eyes still half-closed.

“First one of the year,” she added with a yawn, “which means they’ll expect us to pretend we remember how uni works.”

Izan didn’t respond immediately.

He sat down at the kitchen island and reached for the warm glass of lemon water she had already set out for him.

She turned briefly.

“And don’t forget—Komi and Hori are landing today.”

He nodded slowly, taking a long sip.

“Miranda said they’ll probably arrive sometime around kickoff,” she continued, flipping another pancake.

“Might be waiting for you when you get back.”

Still silent, Izan set the glass down, then raised his hand toward the glass wall that looked out into the garden.

“Dim panels.”

The house responded immediately.

The windows shifted from crystal-clear to a soft, frosted opacity, dimming the harsh sunlight that had been cutting across the room and into his eyes.

He leaned back slightly and let the silence hold for a moment before getting up and walking to freshen up.

………

INT. MIRANDA’S OFFICE – 9:12 A.M., JANUARY 1ST

The morning light filtered through the tall glass window behind Miranda’s desk, casting a warm tone across the sleek interior.

A half-drunk oat latte sat next to a glowing tablet, and a few printed briefings lay fanned across her keyboard.

Everything about her space pointed to sharpness and organization.

Her phone buzzed quietly beside her elbow, the screen lighting up with a contact she hadn’t expected this early in the day.

Komi

She answered on the second ring, switching to speaker as she continued sorting through a folder on Izan’s performance tracking.

“Happy New Year,” Miranda said, voice smooth, clipped but warm.

“Mira, hi!” Komi’s voice came through bright, cheerful, slightly hushed, like she was trying not to disturb the cabin.

“We didn’t want to drop this on you without warning, but—surprise—we’re coming in early.”

Miranda looked up from her folder, eyebrows raised.

“Early how?”

“Same airline, same setup, but they had open first-class seats on a flight this morning. We took them. Should be flying around midday, and maybe, we could land before kickoff if everything goes smoothly at customs.”

“That’s ahead of schedule by at least three hours,” Miranda said, now smiling as she leaned back in her chair.

“Well played.”

“We just figured—why not? Better than sitting around waiting, and Hori was already packed since last night.”

As if on cue, a new voice jumped in, clearly not on speaker but close enough to be heard.

“Miranda! Are we watching the match live? Can we go to the stadium if we land early enough?”

Miranda chuckled, shaking her head.

“I’m afraid not, love. This one’s away. Brentford’s home ground. He’s not playing at the Emirates today.”

There was a long, disappointed sigh from Hori.

“That’s so lame. I wanted to wave a flag or something like back at the Liverpool game.”

“You’ll have more chances soon,” Miranda said gently.

“Let today be about settling in. We’ll make sure you’re well-fed and comfortable by the time he’s done wrecking defenders.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for the broadcast then,” Komi added, voice softening.

“Let us know if there’s anything we need to coordinate on your end.”

“Already sorted. Olivia knows you’re arriving early, and your driver will be waiting at Arrivals with your luggage tags. Just head straight to the house once you’re out.”

Just then, the sound of a flight attendant’s voice filtered through the background, asking passengers to switch their devices to airplane mode.

Komi sighed.

“Alright, that’s our cue. We’ll see you on the ground.”

“I’ll alert the staff. Safe flight, and tell Hori not to start any international incidents with airport security.”

“We’ll try,” Komi said with a light laugh, and then the call ended with a soft click.

Miranda set the phone down, her smile lingering for a beat longer than necessary before she reached over to type a quick update to Izan’s private liaison.

Out of Colney, the Arsenal coach glided down the motorway, its deep navy panels reflecting the streaks of low winter sunlight breaking through the overcast sky.

Traffic was light, just enough movement on the road to keep the city from feeling asleep, but the energy on the bus was something else entirely—low voltage, coiled, calm.

Inside, the mood was familiar—businesslike but personal.

No tension, just the shared quiet of a team who knew what was coming and didn’t feel the need to say much about it.

And at the rear, seated by the window, Izan rested his chin lightly on a curled fist, eyes distant but focused.

The match was only hours away, but it was still just another day for him.

The bus soon made a smooth turn as the signs for Brentford Community Stadium came into view, and the city grew sharper with every mile.

………..

[40 Mins to Kickoff]

The broadcast camera panned slowly across the packed stands of Brentford Community Stadium, the air thick with anticipation as the buzz of the crowd rolled like a low tide under the steady hum of stadium speakers.

Down on the pitch, both sets of players were already out in full warm-up flow—passes zipping through tightly spaced drills, strikers testing their range, and keepers diving at reflex shots under the watching eyes of thousands.

Scarves and winter coats lined the terraces, faces flushed pink from the wind, but no one seemed to mind.

The Premier League was back, and it had brought that unshakable urgency with it.

In the gantry above, the broadcast crew settled in.

“Good afternoon and welcome,” came the voice of the lead commentator, smooth and centered.

“Brentford vs. Arsenal, live from West London—and what a way to bring the curtain down on the calendar year.”

His partner chimed in, voice lighter but equally sharp.

“We go again, and you can feel it already. No reset, no restart—just continuation. Two sides, each with clear intent.”

“Brentford, of course, looking to stay clear of the chaos near the bottom,” the lead continued.

“Thomas Frank’s side have shown resilience all season long, and they’ll want to start 2025 by bloodying the nose of one of the league’s title contenders.”

“And Arsenal,” the second voice added, “they’re coming into this match with momentum most sides would kill for. Top of the table heading into the new year, unbeaten in all league matches this season, and playing like a side with more than just form.”

“Plenty of eyes on their attacking trio today,” the lead commentator nodded.

“Martinelli, Saka, and of course… the seventeen-year-old who’s gone promising to one of the best in the space of a few months. Izan Miura Hernandez.”

“Every time he plays, it feels like something new gets added to the legend,” the co-commentator replied.

“But Brentford won’t be rolling out a red carpet.”

Down on the pitch, the final warmup drills wrapped up as the players began peeling off toward the tunnel, exchanging brief handshakes, nods, and the occasional grin.

Coaches offered final words, while staff hurried to collect cones and portable nets, and with it came the final bits of the pre-match commentary from above.

“Whatever happens over the next ninety minutes, this is where the tone for the second half of the season begins,” the lead voice said.

“And nobody wants to be chasing from behind.”

A/N: Back in schedule. First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in the afternoon.

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