God Of football - Chapter 604: Call to Mestalla

Chapter 604: Call to Mestalla

The kettle had long since stopped whistling, but the steam still curled above it in lazy spirals.

“ÁLvaro!” the voice came again from down the hallway, half urgent, half amused.

“We’re going to be late! Just because you are brushing now doesn’t mean you won’t do it again when we get back. I’m sure you’ll drink a beer for every goal we score.”

From the kitchen doorway, Álvaro poked his head out, toothbrush still in his mouth, foam clinging to his stubble.

“We?” he said around it.

“Since when did you care more about football than I do?”

His wife, Lucía, laughed as she pulled her scarf from the hanger, looping it twice around her neck.

“What do you mean when did I care more about football? I’m a Latina for Christ’s sake!”

She turned and reached down for the little hand beside her.

Their daughter, Alba, barely six, clutched a toy fox in one hand and her mother’s fingers in the other.

From the bedroom, a smaller giggle rang out—Alejandro, the younger one, squealing as his father finally charged down the hall.

“I got you now, pequeñita!” Álvaro swept Alba up in one motion, spinning her once before settling her on his hip.

She shrieked, delighted, as her mother rolled her eyes and gave him a mock scolding.

“Careful, or she’ll kick you in the ribs again.”

ÁLvaro winked.

“She’s got my left foot. Deadly weapon. Who knows, she might be the next Aitana?”

By the time they reached the car, the street was already humming.

Flags fluttered from balconies.

Café radios played commentary pre-shows.

On the corner, a teenage vendor was hawking match scarves faster than he could unroll them.

They slid into the seats of their weathered but proud blue Citroën.

ÁLvaro reached into the glovebox and pulled out three plastic-wrapped jerseys.

“Okay,” he said, holding them up like treasures.

“Classic,” he said, tossing the black-trimmed Valencia jersey to himself.

“Updated third,” he added, handing Lucía her orange-and-gold one.

She raised an eyebrow.

“This looks like a sunset and a traffic cone had a baby.”

He grinned.

“That’s what makes it powerful.”

Then he turned to the last one.

It wasn’t Valencia.

It was Arsenal.

And it wasn’t just any kit—it was that kit.

The champagne gold away jersey from the 2015-16 season with the minimalist cannon.

But most importantly, it had a name on the back.

IZAN. 10.

He passed it to her, and she didn’t hesitate.

Alba pulled it over her head in one go, the hem nearly swallowing her knees.

She stood up in the seat proudly, puffing out her chest.

Lucía laughed.

Th𝚒ʂ ƈh𝙖pτ𝑒r 𝚤ѕ pο𝕤𝕥є𝙙 b𝐲 𝘒𝘪𝕥ɛ𝓃ⲟ𝐯ℯ𝑙

“Look at her. You’d think she was the one playing.”

Alba crossed her arms with practised sass, flipping her hair with a flick that looked rehearsed.

“I am playing,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“But only for the better team.”

ÁLvaro clutched his chest.

“My own blood… betrayal!”

Lucía leaned back, smirking. “She has taste.”

The engine hummed to life as Álvaro looked at them both.

“One day, she’ll break hearts. Like that boy she idolises.”

As they pulled into the avenue that led toward Mestalla, horns and chants rolled through the air like a growing storm.

A few blocks away, the voices grew sharper.

“Amunt València! Amunt València!”

Crowds surged forward on the pavement, wrapped in scarves, waving flags, their voices building to a chorus.

But it wasn’t just generic matchday noise.

This was sharper.

This had verses.

A song had broken out in unison, not about the club.

It was about a player.

About Piatelli.

His name rang out like thunder:

“Un nostro fill, tornat fort, Piatelli, la sang i l’esforç! [“Our son, returned strong, Piatelli, blood and effort!”]”

He had become something more than a player. A cult hero, one would say, or a symbol, as others liked to call me, but all in all, it was a returned prince.

Drums joined.

Smoke flares hissed white and orange into the early dusk air.

Someone unfurled a banner:

“His City. His Stage.”

And then came the bus.

Matte black, Arsenal’s crest emblazoned on the side.

Its windows were tinted too dark to see through—but it didn’t matter.

The crowd surged toward the barricades, chants mixing, some voices jeering, others just wanting a glimpse.

Inside, the players were mostly quiet as the bus came to a stop near one of the tunnels leading to the stadium.

Arteta stood first as the door hissed open.

He stepped down.

Black trousers.

Black topcoat with the look of a general, not a manager.

Behind him, the squad began to descend. Declan. Ødegaard. Raya. Nwaneri.

A few more stepped down, and after Partey stepped down, Izan followed.

He stepped down without fanfare.

No headphones and definitely none of those dramatic hand gestures Saka had done earlier.

But something about him changed the air.

His hair pulled back but still cascading around the sides, settled into a clean, tapered mullet fade, sharp at the edges, soft at the crown.

It looked like he’d been carved, not styled, nothing wasted.

Even at seventeen, he looked like something created for this moment.

Like if you painted “Greek god of sex” and “Ballon d’Or finalist” into the same portrait and pressed it into human form.

Someone whistled.

Someone else just whispered, “Madre de Dios…”

A few fans—local, but not ultras—raised their hands and waved, respectful but uncertain in the face of the player they once used to sing songs about in the Mestalla.

Izan raised his hand gently in return as Saka, just behind, leaned in with a grin.

“They Arsenal fans in disguise?” but Izan chuckled, before shoving him gently without turning his head.

“You wish.”

They walked on together, trainers tapping against the concrete as they entered the tunnel.

No words were needed now because out there, the field lay waiting ahead.

….

“This is not just another night in Spain,” Peter Drury began as the cameras glided over the gleaming mosaic of the Mestalla, alive with flags, flares, and firelight.

Chants ripple across its old bones while the Spanish dusk folded around it like velvet.

“This is not just another fixture in the final throes of the group stage,” he continued, “This is Valencia. A city of memory. A club of romance, resistance, and raw emotion. And tonight, it remembers. For the boy who once called it home… returns still a boy but one of greater stature and calling in the football world than he left”

Down the gantry, the pitch had a soft shine to it under the floodlights.

Clean grass, fresh paint, white lines holding their breath.

Arsenal were first out for warmups, a few tugging on their training kits as they stepped onto the pitch.

Jog, stretch, pass as the rhythm of routine and the hum of closing preparations settled.

Izan followed in the middle of the pack, the ends of his hair brushing his neck slightly each time he turned.

The noise from the stands wasn’t deafening—yet—but it was building.

A low rumble.

As they moved toward the sideline, voices buzzed through the overhead tannoys.

First, the stadium playlist… then the pre-match commentary feed, piped in for fans already tuned to the pulse of the broadcast.

“Seventeen years of age. Already a phenomenon. Not just of Arsenal… but of football itself.” Peter Drury’s voice came again.

“He left this city young. Left with promise on his boots, and silence trailing behind. Left behind questions… and €140 million worth of what-ifs.”

And while the players felt the weight of the moment in their bodies, Peter Drury’s voice carried it for the rest of the world,

“He left young. He returns changed. Not for forgiveness… but to show what he has become. And across from him, Lorenzo Piatelli—the one who came. And now…Mestalla brings them back together.”

Izan, finishing with the warmups, met the sight of Piatelli on the other half.

The latter smiled slightly and then waved towards Izan, who also returned the gesture, not thinking much of it before walking towards the tunnel.

Izan, finishing with the warmups, met the sight of Piatelli on the other half.

The Argentine caught his gaze as he slowed into a jog.

He didn’t hold it long—just enough for a slight smile and a small wave, palm low.

Nothing boastful. Just… acknowledgement.

Izan returned the gesture without thinking too much of it, then turned and began walking back toward the tunnel with the rest of his squad.

The noise of the crowd faded the moment he stepped beneath the overhang.

That in-between space—neither pitch nor dressing room—felt oddly still.

Just the hum of stadium lights and the thud of boots on concrete.

He was halfway down when he heard footsteps behind him, quicker than the usual stroll.

Then came a voice.

“Izan!”

He turned.

Three figures were approaching in their warmup jackets.

Valencia players—one he hadn’t seen in a while, and two he’d played alongside more times than he could count.

A/N: Last of the day. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit with the first of the day. I know it might be draggy or the suspense is killing you, but I just wanted to get things out of the way and write without remorse, so don’t worry, I’ll be cooking things up for you.