God Of football - Chapter 601: Last Of The 8

Chapter 601: Last Of The 8

The match soon restarted after Gabriel’s goal, but there wasn’t much to watch as Arteta took off all his players, bringing on the substitutes for the remainder of the time and when the clock hit 90, the referee brought his whistle to his mouth and ended the game.

“4-0 For the Gunners as they continue with their unbeaten streak. We’ve said it before, but this could be a repeat of their 2003-04 success, and we are here for it. My name is Alan Smith with Jim Beglin beside me, and Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen”

…….

[London]

The Gemera purred into the Hampstead driveway, headlights dimming against the sheen of freshly waxed stone.

Snow hadn’t fallen, but the cold bit through the dark like a whisper.

Inside, cradled in a custom case on the passenger seat, lay yet another match ball — the fifth this season, the fifth in eight Premier League games.

Online, fans were already building myths out of it.

“At this point, the match ball should just come pre-packaged in his locker,” fans online said.

Izan didn’t check any of it.

The engine stilled as he pulled into the garage, his interior lights blinking on as his car came to a stop.

Another night, another performance folded neatly into routine.

But this one, like all the others, left its weight somewhere in the bones.

He slid out of the car, blazer still crisp, hair set from post-match media.

The match ball, this time, stayed in the passenger seat.

He’d collect it later.

The front door unlocked with a chime and hissed open.

Warm air, soft lighting — home.

He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and exhaled.

And then—

A tug at his wrist.

“Shower,” came the voice.

Sharp. Immediate.

Hori.

She’d barely let him get his shoes off.

Izan blinked, still standing, wearing the blazer.

“I just showered at the stadium.”

“Yeah,” she said, unfazed.

“That doesn’t count. Stadium showers are for rinsing. You’ve got a full ninety of other people’s sweat and grime on you.”

He sighed, tugging at the lapels of his jacket.

“You and Olivia are gonna make me shower off all my good bacteria. My immune system is weeping.”

Hori didn’t even dignify it with a response.

Just flicked to another screen on her tablet.

“Where’s the ball?”

“In the car.”

“Hmm,” she sounded before turning towards the couch.

He stepped further into the living room, blazer slung over one shoulder, shirt half untucked when the front door whirred open again.

A cold draft followed in — and so did Olivia.

She looked like Izan felt.

Hair wind-scattered.

Shoulders dropped with her bag dangling from one hand.

She stepped in and, before even acknowledging anyone, flopped face-first onto the opposite end of the couch with a sound that was equal parts groan and sigh.

Izan grinned.

Hori didn’t as she swivelled toward Olivia, eyebrow arched like a principal catching students loitering.

“You too.”

“Mmm?” Olivia didn’t even look up.

“Shower.”

Olivia lifted her head slowly, face pressed against a pillow.

“I just walked in.”

“Exactly,” Hori replied as if it were law.

“You’re in your outside clothes.”

“You’re a dictator,” Olivia mumbled, but peeled herself up regardless.

“Thank you,” Hori chirped, victorious.

Izan watched the whole exchange, arms crossed now, a smirk on his lips.

“Remind me why we let you live here?” Olivia asked, half-laughing as she trudged toward the stairs.

“Because you can’t live without me”, Hori shot back, already buried in her screen again.

Izan just shook his head, heading toward the staircase himself with a blazer slung over one shoulder.

“Can’t wait for you to start school,” he said, reaching the stairs.

“No promises,” Hori called out.

They disappeared up the stairs, one after the other, leaving the soft hum of heating vents and the faint buzz of a sports recap playing on mute.

…..

The sun broke through Colney’s morning frost like a surprise visitor — golden and too warm for January, but no one was complaining.

Not out loud.

Not even Arteta and especially not Arteta.

His voice sliced across the training pitches with its usual sting.

“Drop, Øde! Drop! Saka, inside! Inside!”

The ball zipped across the grass — sharp, fast, surgical.

It wasn’t the weather that had the tempo up.

It was the mood.

The tone.

The fact that, despite everything — the unbeaten run, the form, the aura — Arsenal still trained like they were chasing something.

Because they were.

Izan was, as always, training with the reserves.

Part of the coaching staff’s habit now — to keep him sharp against systems that mirrored their upcoming opponents.

Today, it meant facing the starters with the reserves.

The irony never got old.

But even on the “other” team, Izan glowed like floodlights.

His touches created space and gave purpose to his teammates with his passes.

His movements were quieter than the ball.

Then the ball went wide.

Martinelli picked it up on the left and burst forward.

Full sprint and then his trademark shoulder shake to juke Kiwior.

Then came the stumble.

Not a tackle, just — a catch, a slip, the kind of misstep that looks harmless until the landing twists the wrong way.

He went down hard, and everyone slowed.

Martinelli didn’t roll around.

He just clutched the outside of his ankle and stayed down, teeth clenched slightly as he breathed sharply.

Arteta turned immediately, mouth tight as Carlos Cuesta stepped up beside him, already whispering something — maybe about swapping drills or winding it down.

Arteta didn’t even respond.

He just moved past him, a sharp wave of his hand parting the touchline crowd.

The medics were already kneeling beside Martinelli, who was now upright, but limping, half-balancing on one foot as they examined the other.

Arteta got close — not frantic, not panicked.

He murmured something to Martinelli that no one else heard, and the Brazilian nodded faintly.

After a long second, Arteta turned back, eyes sweeping across the group.

“That’s it,” he said, calm but final.

Session’s over.”

The players hesitated — they never ended this early.

“Stretch,” Arteta continued.

“Slowly. Then go. Lunch. Tactical work in forty.”

Izan jogged over to the sidelines after, pulling his training bib off with the steam rising off his back in the odd January heat.

Th𝕀𝓈 ςhȺp𝑡єr ɩʂ p◎ṡ𝗍𝕖ɗ bʏ 𝕂ɪƚє𝙣ℴ𝙫ꬲ|

Across from him, the players were scattered in groups, stretching and chatting in hushed tones. Not worried — just aware.

Martinelli was walking now, gingerly, with support from the physio team while Cuesta approached Arteta again, probably to ask for updates.

This time, the manager nodded, his eyes still locked on the pitch, on the space where the run had ended, and Colney quieted just for a bit.

…..

[An hour later]

In the technical room, the lights were dimmed just enough to cast a glow over the giant screen at the front — tactical layouts pulsing in digital blue, match statistics scrolling along the side.

The players were already seated.

Most still had lunch trays or water bottles in front of them, the energy subdued but attentive.

Gabriel Martinelli sat off to the side, his ankle now tightly wrapped in fresh tape and propped up on a padded stool.

He gave the occasional wince but hadn’t said much since sitting down.

Arteta stood by the screen, remote in hand, as he glanced once at his notes, then up at the room.

“Alright,” he began. “We’re back in Europe.”

The screen changed — the Champions League logo dissolving into a fixture graphic: Matchday 8 – Arsenal vs Valencia CF.

A small rustle passed through the room as chairs shifted and players glanced back at the back where Izan sat near the middle, arms loosely folded.

He didn’t say anything, but he felt it.

Saka didn’t bother with subtlety.

“Raw,” he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

“Oi, Izan — gonna leak us a few secrets or what?”

A few snickers rolled out from the sides while Ødegaard turned, half-smiling.

Izan grinned and shrugged.

“You already have m, but you still want secret plays. Won’t that make it too easy for you guys?”

Laughter rolled now, light, not mocking, just the kind that said everyone needed a little levity.

“Wow, I don’t even know if it’s confidence, arrogance or just the truth”, Saka said as the players began chuckling again.

Arteta raised a hand to settle the room, though his mouth was tilted at the edge.

“I like this energy,” he said, eyes sweeping the group. “Bring it with you to the pitch.”

The screen changed again — now a freeze frame of one of Valencia’s recent games against Sevilla, which had ended 2-0 for Valencia, but if the shots on target on the screen were anything to go by, then the match should have ended with more goals for Valencia.

“14,” Raya muttered as he stared at it.

Arteta clicked to pause.

A still of Lorenzo Piatelli stood in the centre, arms stretched out, the number 10 crisp on his back.

“Let’s begin,” Arteta said as he glanced at the screen.

A/N: First of the day. Will see you in a bit with the last of the day, so have fun reading. Had a lot on my plate today, and that’s the reason for the late release. Sorry about that

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