God Of football - Chapter 362

Chapter 362: Saved By PR [Pistacho031_3]]
Izan stretched out on his couch, the match still playing on his TV.

Arsenal’s youngsters had pulled off a ridiculous comeback, flipping a disastrous first half into a dominant second.

If this had been a Premier League game, it would be all over Sky Sports with dramatic music and tactical breakdowns.

But right now? The group chat was in flames.

Saka: 3-0 down to Leyton Orient is actually criminal

Martinelli: Nah, that first half should be erased from history

Nelson: We’re never speaking about it again

Timber: Didn’t happen. I refuse to believe it

Izan smirked and typed.

Izan: That long throw from their keeper had us looking like schoolboys

Saka: Kiwior turning around like he was waiting for VAR to save him

Martinelli: Bro looked at the linesman like he was about to cry

Nelson: He was buffering IRL

Izan laughed. It was so bad it was funny. That entire first half had been a disasterclass.

But now? After the comeback? The tone had completely changed.

Saka: What did Mikel even say at halftime?

Nelson: “They can score three? Good. We score five.”

Martinelli: “Suffer now or suffer in the Prem.”

Timber: “You want to play for Arsenal? PROVE IT.”

Izan could actually hear Arteta saying that last one, pacing up and down the dressing room, eyes burning. There was no way he let that first half slide.

Izan: Man is still fuming. Those boys are running laps tomorrow.

Saka: Oh, 100%. Even in preseason, Arteta doesn’t forget.

Martinelli: Preseason or not, we went 3-0 down to LEYTON ORIENT. That’s gotta be punishment training.

…..

The full-time whistle had barely blown before Twitter (or X, whatever) turned into a warzone.

Arsenal fans? Half relieved, half traumatized.

@GoonerMike: I aged 10 years watching that match. We won, but at what cost?

@InvincibleGooner: Leyton Orient had us in a SPLIFF for 45 minutes. Then Arteta turned into Prime Guardiola. I love this club.

@NorthBankBanter: We really said “Spot them 3, let’s make it interesting.”

Meanwhile, rival fans were having the time of their lives.

@ManUnitedMemez: ARSENAL WERE 3-0 DOWN TO LEYTON ORIENT??? TEARS IN MY EYES.

@ChelseaTrolls: And they think they’re winning the league??

@SpursFanTV: Even when Arsenal win, they find ways to embarrass themselves. Beautiful.

Even Leyton Orient’s official account joined in:

@LeytonOrientFC: We had them SHAKING in the first half. GG’s lads

The replies? Pure chaos.

@ArsenalForever: Delete this before Arteta sees it

@PremierLeagueFan: Leyton Orient admin is moving reckless

@GoonerKev: I’m actually sweating. Imagine we lost.

……

Arteta’s face in the post-match interview said it all.

He was not happy.

“We were sloppy,” he said, shaking his head. “We lacked intensity, lacked focus. This is a learning moment, but also a warning.”

Then, when asked about the comeback:

“The response was good, yes. But we shouldn’t need to be 3-0 down to wake up.”

He was still fuming.

Meanwhile, Leyton Orient’s manager was grinning.

“The first half was brilliant, wasn’t it?” he said. “We gave them a real scare. That’s what preseason is about—testing yourselves against the best.”

A few Arsenal youngsters also spoke after the game.

Ethan Nwaneri, who had scored one of the comeback goals, looked relieved more than anything.

“We knew we had to step up,” he admitted. “The gaffer didn’t hold back at halftime. Let’s just say… we got the message loud and clear.”

Someone in the background chuckled.

Even the interviewer laughed. “It was that bad?”

Ethan hesitated, then grinned. “Let’s just say no one wanted to be the reason we ran extra tomorrow.”

…….

The morning after, the Arsenal youngsters walked into training looking like men heading to war.

Arteta stood in the middle of the pitch, arms crossed.

No clipboard. No notes. Just disappointment.

And that’s when they knew—they were in for a long day.

No More. No More. No More.

The training ground was a graveyard of exhausted bodies.

Players were hunched over, hands on their knees, panting like marathon runners who had just finished a race they didn’t sign up for.

Some lay flat on the grass, others crouched with their heads buried in their arms. Every single one of them was drenched in sweat.

Arteta? Perfectly fine.

Standing tall in the center of the pitch, arms crossed, watching them with the calm of a man who had just finished a light yoga session.

“No more!” someone screamed.

Then another.

And another.

“No more, boss!”

“We’re sorry, gaffer!”

“Never again!”

Arteta simply nodded. “Good.”

Izan, bent over, hands on his knees, tried to catch his breath. He had experienced intense training sessions before, but this one was up there.

The preseason game might’ve been a joke in the group chat, but right now? Nobody was laughing.

Arteta’s voice cut through the silence.

“Tell me,” he said, hands behind his back, pacing slowly between them.

“The next time you’re sitting at home, watching us go 3-0 down, will you still be joking in the group chat?”

The response was instant.

A row of shaking heads.

“No, boss.”

Arteta smirked. “Good. Because if it happens again, we do this twice.”

Izan finally straightened up, wiping sweat from his face. The silence was so thick you could hear the heavy breathing of twenty grown men struggling to stay upright. And then—

He laughed.

Not just a chuckle. A proper laugh.

Because in hindsight, it was hilarious. The entire team, begging for mercy because of one bad half against Leyton Orient.

Arteta turned his head sharply.

“You think it’s funny, Izan?”

Izan threw up his hands. “A little, yeah.”

A few teammates chuckled—tired, broken chuckles—but chuckles nonetheless.

Arteta let the moment linger before sighing. “Alright,” he said. “Go wash up. Then head to the cafeteria for brunch.”

A few groans of relief echoed around the pitch.

“You made us come early,” Arteta continued, “so none of you had breakfast. Eat. Recover. But don’t think we’re done. We still have training in the afternoon.”

The collective sigh of pain that followed could probably be heard from Emirates Stadium.

After brunch, the players trudged into the indoor training hall, expecting the usual post-match analysis.

Instead, they walked into a fully set-up media event—bright banners, camera crews, and tables covered in Arsenal merchandise.

For the first time that morning, there was life in their eyes.

“PR day, boys,” one of the staff members announced. “We’ve got some fun activities lined up. Smile for the cameras!”

Arteta, standing off to the side, merely crossed his arms. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

The first event was a Q&A session. Players took turns picking up tablets and answering pre-submitted questions from fans.

Ethan went first. “Alright, let’s see… ‘Which player on the team would survive the longest in a zombie apocalypse?'”

The room immediately turned chaotic.

“Not Jorginho,” Myles said, grinning.

Jorginho gasped. “Excuse me?”

“Bro, you’d try to negotiate with the zombies,” Ramsdale said.

The entire room burst into laughter.

Izan stepped up next. His question was: “Would you rather score a last-minute winner in the Champions League final or assist a teammate for the winner?”

He smirked. “I’ll take the assist… but if no one’s there, I’ll finish it myself.”

Myles let out a whistle. “Nah, that was cold.”

Next, a small goal was set up for the next activity—a trick shot penalty challenge.

Jorginho went first, attempting a Panenka. He barely chipped it, and the ball rolled straight into the keeper’s hands.

Silence.

Then the entire room erupted into laughter.

“Oh my days,” Ethan wheezed. “That was disrespectfully bad.”

Jesus was up next. He went for power but miscalculated completely—his shot slammed into a nearby camera.

One of the PR staff members let out a horrified gasp.

“Yeah… I’m walking away,” Jesus muttered.

Ethan finally stepped up and buried his into the top corner. The ball snapped into the net so cleanly that everyone let out an impressed ‘Ooooh!’

“Man’s got technique,” Rice said, nodding.

Saka and Martinelli, who had been missing from the morning training but had been very present in the group chat, finally showed up.

Seeing them, Izan smirked. “Oh, look who it is. Didn’t hear from you when we were 3-0 down.”

Saka grinned. “I was providing emotional support… from a distance.”

Martinelli sat down, picking up a controller. “Let’s settle things properly. FIFA match. Who’s playing?”

Ethan and Myles took the challenge. Saka picked Arsenal as his team.

Izan, sitting nearby, couldn’t resist. “You better not go 3-0 down.”

The entire room burst into laughter again.

Saka just shook his head. “Y’all got jokes, huh?”

As the PR event wrapped up, players sprawled across the couches, some lying on the floor, completely drained.

Izan leaned back in his seat, scrolling through his phone. Social media was already in chaos over the Leyton Orient game.

Optimistic fan: “It’s preseason, relax. The young guys will learn from it.”

Doomer fan: “WE LOST THREE GOALS TO A LEAGUE TWO SIDE. WAKE UP.”

United fan trolling: “3-0 to Leyton Orient? And you lot think you’re winning the league?”

Arsenal fan clapping back: “Don’t you have a Glazers protest to attend?”

Izan just shook his head, amused. The internet never failed to entertain.

Then, before they could get too comfortable, Arteta re-entered the room.

He clapped his hands once. “Alright, everyone up. Let’s get back to work.”

The mood immediately shifted.

Groans filled the room. Players peeled themselves off the couches like they were carrying a hundred kilos on their backs.

Kiwior let out a long sigh. “Man, I thought we were safe…”

Saka stretched his arms, yawning. “Back to suffering, boys.”

And just like that, they were back in the video room.

A/n: I’m tired. Damn. 4 out of 10 for the day. Have fun reading. And if you have any plans to send a gift, hold onto it for me🥲. I’m dying