God Of football - Chapter 614: Back Home

Chapter 614: Back Home

The camera panned out as Izan and Piatelli stood on opposite halves of the field, each holding the other’s jersey, each soaked in a different kind of legacy.

“To those here. And to those watching around the world. Thank you for being part of it. Good night from us at Mestalla,”

“And may the next one try to live up to this,” Tyldesley added, one final beat.

“Good night.”

……

The locker room smelled of sweat, eucalyptus gel, wet socks, and relief.

Boots clunked into plastic bins.

Tape was peeled off the shins.

Some players sat slouched on benches, shirts half-off, towels wrapped at the waist.

Others still had adrenaline in their systems, pacing short laps from locker to shower and back again.

Laughter floated up here and there—Rice and Saliba bickering over who lost their man on the second Valencia goal while Saka held out his phone, playing back a grainy clip of Izan’s third from a fan’s perspective, howling with laughter at the crowd reaction.

In the corner, Arteta stood near the tactics board, arms folded, voice even.

“Well done, all of you,” he said.

“It’s easy to say that after a win, but tonight, it’s deserved.”

They quieted.

Not because he shouted—Arteta never needed to—but because he had that tone.

The one he used when he was already thinking four matches ahead.

“You’ve finished the league phase top of the table, on equal points with Liverpool. That puts you in the top eight. That means no playoff. It means rest.”

A few nods. Some sighs of relief.

“But it also means we wait. The other sixteen—positions nine through twenty-four—will fight it out. Two legs. No margin for error. Only eight go through to join us in the round of sixteen.”

He stepped closer, pointing toward the matchboard at the side.

“Some of those games will be routine. Others…” He paused.

Then tapped the board will be much more than that, referencing the playoff match between Real Madrid and Manchester City that had just been confirmed after the game.

A ripple went through the room.

Even Martinelli, still rubbing ice on his thigh, lifted his head.

“Playoff?” Nwaneri muttered. “For real?”

“Madrid dropped points/late in the phase,” Arteta replied.

“City fell to twelfth. No one’s safe now so we have to do our thing and pray we get a favourable draw but that isn’t going to be easy..”

He let it sink in.

“You’ve done the job. Now we prepare. Quietly. Efficiently. We rest. We recover. And we keep our edge.”

As if on cue, a staff member appeared at the door.

“Gaffer,” he said. “Press room’s ready for you.”

Arteta nodded once, but his eyes were already on someone else.

Izan.

The forward had just stepped out of the shower, towel around his waist, hair damp and loose around his neck.

He was reaching for his shirt when he caught the manager’s look.

And he didn’t even flinch.

“Yeah,” Izan said, sighing.

“I figured.”

A few of the boys chuckled.

“Try not to scare the reporters this time,” Odegaard said without looking up from his phone.

“When did I ever do that,” Izan muttered, pulling on his trousers.

“They always ask unnecessary questions and when they mean to ask questions, it doesn’t have much understanding”

Rice smirked. “That’s exactly what someone terrifying would say.”

Arteta cracked a faint smile, then turned toward the door.

“Two minutes,” he said.

Izan grabbed his hoodie, zipped it halfway, and followed.

……..

While the match between Arsenal and Valencia had ended, the football world was still reeling.

Clips of Izan’s rabona assist flooded social feeds, and the knuckleball free kick was reposted in every language imaginable.

Headlines varied—from “VALENCIA WRECKED BY RETURNING PRODIGY” to, “IZAN—THE BEST TEENAGER/ PLAYER ON EARTH?” a bit bold but true to some extent.

UEFA’s official channel posted the full highlights twice—once clean, once overlaid with reactions from legends watching in stunned silence.

And above it all, flying thirty-three thousand feet above France, were Arsenal drifting home.

The cabin lights were dim.

Half the team had headphones on.

The other half shared a Spotify speaker wedged between two armrests near the back.

Saka was showing Nwaneri an edit someone had made of Izan’s goal with Dragon Ball Z lightning effects and near them, Trossard had dozed off.

Gabriel was still trying to upload the dressing room picture without getting flagged for “excessive sweat.”

Not far ahead, Arteta sat reviewing footage again, one AirPod in, fast-forwarding through every second Valencia had managed to break the lines.

Even now, he couldn’t rest.

But he did look back once, just to scan the cabin.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t say anything.

—

The wheels hit the runway with a dull thud.

The team barely moved.

Some blinked awake.

Others, already awake, stayed slouched in their chairs, chins to chests.

London’s grey skies hung overhead as they stepped down onto the tarmac at Heathrow, wind biting through tracksuits and hoodies.

No camera crews. No fanfare.

Just fatigue, satisfaction, and silence.

The bus ride to Colney was uneventful.

By the time they arrived, the sun was poking weakly over the trees, streaking the training ground with pale gold.

Inside the briefing room, they gathered again.

Arteta stood in front of them. Just him, his coat still zipped and gloves in his hand.

“You’ve earned the next forty-eight hours,” he said simply.

“Use them wisely. Rest. Sleep. Hydrate. Switch off the noise.”

His eyes moved across the room—one by one.

“We’re not champions of anything yet. And we haven’t beaten anyone who’s still waiting in the round of sixteen. But we’ve done the first part. With character. With courage. And together.”

Th𝐢𝕤 𝐜hɒp𝘵℮r 𝙞𝐬 p𝘰𝑠†𝑒𝘥 b𝙮 𝘬𝗂ţ𝘦𝓃Օ𝐯𝕖ḷ

A beat.

“That’s all for now.”

There was no clapping.

Just a small huddle of half grins and sighs while other players shuffled around trying to get ready to leave.

Some players left through the back.

Izan walked out with his hoodie over his head, phone in hand, taking in a huge breath before releasing it and then walking away towards the black SUV he had been waiting for since they touched Colney.

“Do you have a place in mind sir,” the driver inquired but Izan just sloched once more into the back seat of the car before whispering for them to go home.

……

[Hampstead]

The hallway lights flicked on as Izan stepped in—warm, low, just bright enough to show the faint glint of reflection off the marble floor.

The kind of glow that greeted you like an old dog, tail thumping, no bark left in it.

He didn’t get two steps in before it hit him.

“IZAAAAN!”

A blur of movement.

Socked feet. Hoodie sleeves. Elbows everywhere.

Thump.

He staggered as Olivia launched into his chest, locking her arms around him like she was trying to crack his spine in a bear trap.

“You know,” he said, not quite breathless but close, “it’s physically impossible to miss someone this much in three days.”

She didn’t let go.

“Maybe for normal people. But you’re you.”

“Oh, I see. So I’m the problem?”

“You disappear, melt half of Spain, and walk back in like you forgot your charger.”

She finally let go and stepped back, grinning up at him, his hoodie drowning her like it was meant to.

“Where’s everyone?” he asked, tugging his shoes off lazily with his feet.

“Komi took Miranda and Hori out. Shopping run. School stuff.”

“So it’s done, then?”

Olivia nodded, now slouching against the counter like a teenager who’d won an argument.

“Enrolled. Uniforms sorted. Timetable printed. Miranda made a receptionist cry. Komi got emotional in the car. Hori acted like she didn’t care, then asked if the canteen had mochi ice cream.”

Izan huffed, “She’s halfway through the pilot season,” Olivia replied.

“It’s one of those schools with Latin slogans and blazers so stiff they can stand on their own.”

“She’s gonna run that place.”

“She’s gonna be head girl by December.”

He sank into the couch with a grunt, limbs folding like scaffolding while Olivia followed, climbing onto the armrest beside him with her legs tucked under her.

She glanced down at his phone—not subtle.

“You’re generous when you’re dramatic,” she added, chewing.

“I’m showering in ten.”

“You should. You smell like a highlight reel left in the sun.”

He smirked, and leaned back, eyes briefly closing.

Just as the moment started to settle—

A soft chime sounded from the front door.

A smooth slide of pressure-sealed glass followed, the familiar hiss of the smart locks disengaging.

“—I told her, no extra piercings. One is enough for school.”

“I didn’t ask for more. I just said if they allow them—”

“Oh, please. Like you’d stop at one.”

Komi’s voice. Then Hori’s.

Then Miranda’s boots clicking against the entryway tile.

Izan didn’t move.

He just smiled, eyes still closed, as Olivia muttered, “Brace yourself.”

“Why?” he asked but Olivia just smiled at him, refusing to answer as the house began to fill with voices once more the first time.

A/N: Last of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the first of today. Sorry if it felt a bit lacklustre, I typed this one on my phone so sorry for any mistakes.

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