God Of football - Chapter 371

Chapter 371: The NBA [Golden Gacha chapter]
The moment they landed at LAX, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Los Angeles wasn’t just a city. The bright California sun bore down on them, a stark contrast to the overcast skies they had left behind.

Even through the jet’s tinted windows, Izan could tell they were back in a place where football—or soccer, as most Americans called it—was still fighting for its place in the mainstream.

Yet, after the spectacle of Arsenal vs. Manchester United, there was no doubt in his mind that the sport was making waves here.

As the players disembarked, a small group of fans had gathered near the private terminal.

Some wore Arsenal shirts, others Manchester United, all holding out phones and jerseys, eager to catch a glimpse of the players.

A few called out for Saka, Ødegaard, and Gabriel Jesus. Then, Izan heard his own name.

“Izan! Over here!”

“Bro, we need you in MLS one day!”

“Best young player in the world, man!”

He gave them a nod and a small wave before following the rest of the team toward the awaiting SUVs.

The staff had already taken care of their luggage. All they had to do was get in and let the drivers handle the rest.

Izan slid into one of the cars alongside Rice, Saliba, and Tomiyasu.

The leather seats were cool against his skin as he leaned back, taking in the scenery as they pulled away from the airport.

“Feels good to be back,” Rice said, stretching his arms. “Man, I might actually do something touristy this time.”

Saliba smirked. “Thought you were a beach guy now?”

“I am, but LA’s got more to offer than just that. Maybe I’ll hit one of those big food spots or something.”

Tomiyasu, who had been quiet most of the ride, finally spoke up. “I might just rest. These matches have been intense.”

Izan nodded. His body wasn’t sore, but fatigue had settled in from the constant travel and high-intensity games.

Even if it was preseason, the expectations at a club like Arsenal were different.

The drive to Beverly Hills was smooth—palm trees lining the roads, streets buzzing with life.

Izan watched through the window, his mind half-listening to the conversation.

The contrast with Valencia was striking. The beaches, the culture, the way football dominated daily life in Spain—LA felt different.

Football was growing here, but it still wasn’t everything.

By the time they arrived at their hotel, the players were already moving sluggishly.

The luxury was unmistakable—towering glass doors, a grand marble lobby, the scent of expensive cologne in the air.

A few guests turned their heads as the Arsenal squad walked in, some pulling out phones, whispering excitedly.

A hotel worker guided them to the elevators, swiping a keycard for their floor.

The moment the doors closed, Martinelli let out a long sigh. “I’m going straight to bed,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “Not even gonna think twice about it.”

“You? Sleeping?” Rice laughed. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Martinelli shot him a tired glare. “It’s a long season ahead, man.”

Saka leaned against the wall. “I need food first. Can’t sleep without eating.”

“Aren’t you always hungry?” Saliba teased.

Saka grinned. “That’s why I’m built different.”

The elevator doors opened, and the players shuffled toward their rooms. Izan walked a bit slower, letting the others move ahead.

He tapped his keycard against his door and stepped inside.

The room was immaculate—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a king-sized bed draped in crisp white sheets, sleek modern design that looked straight out of a magazine.

He tossed his bag onto a chair and walked to the window, staring out at the Los Angeles skyline.

The city stretched endlessly, the Hollywood Hills in the distance, the streets below alive with movement.

It felt different from Europe, from Spain, from Japan. Not home, but fascinating in its own way.

Letting out a breath, he sat on the edge of the bed. A full day off. No training, no meetings.

Now he just had to figure out what to do with it.

—

The next day, the hotel had a muted energy. No training, no meetings, no media obligations—just a rare moment to breathe.

Most of the players stayed in their rooms, scrolling their phones, catching up on shows, or sleeping in.

Izan had barely moved from his bed. His body wasn’t sore, but the travel and matches had left him sluggish.

Dressed in a simple black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, he sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand.

Miranda had already messaged him twice that morning.

Miranda: Post something today.

Miranda: Use the pictures the team took in New York. Maybe the one with the skyline in the background.

Izan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. She never let up.

He scrolled through his gallery, picking a set of promotional pictures from their first day in the U.S.

One of him leaning against a railing with the New York skyline behind him, another near the jet in his Arsenal travel gear, and a candid shot laughing with Rice and Saka at training.

He uploaded them with a simple caption:

One win down. Next, Leverkusen. #preseason

Within minutes, the likes and comments flooded in.

A knock on his door snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Yo, you awake?” Saka’s voice.

Izan stood up and opened the door. Saka, in a loose hoodie and basketball shorts, leaned against the frame with a casual smirk.

“Some of the guys are heading to the Lakers game tonight. You in?”

Izan blinked. Basketball? He wasn’t really into the sport. Nothing against it, but he’d never followed it closely. His first instinct was to say no.

“I don’t know,” Izan started, rubbing his neck. “Might just chill.”

Saka rolled his eyes. “Come on, man. It’s the Lakers. We’re in L.A. It’s a different experience.”

Izan hesitated, but then Miranda’s voice echoed in his mind.

Stay marketable.

She had drilled it into him—his career wasn’t just about football anymore. Every public appearance, every image, every interaction had weight.

It wasn’t just about playing well. It was about being seen.

He sighed. “Alright. I’ll go.”

Saka grinned. “Knew you’d come around. Game starts in the evening. Better be ready.”

Izan nodded as Saka left, closing the door.

Immediately, he grabbed his phone and dialed Miranda. It rang once before she picked up.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to a Lakers game,” Izan said flatly.

A pause. Then, a satisfied hum. “Good. People will love that. Get some pictures, maybe interact with some NBA players. Make sure to—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Izan cut her off. “But what do I wear?”

Miranda laughed lightly. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

Before he could ask what that meant, she had already hung up.

Izan sat back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. A full day off. No training, no media duties—just time to unwind.

His phone buzzed again. This time, it was Martinelli.

Martinelli: Bro, come to my room. We’re playing FIFA.

Izan smirked. He knew what that meant. A room full of guys talking trash, laughing, and pretending the game wasn’t serious—until someone lost.

He grabbed his phone and headed down the hall. The door was already slightly open, and inside, the atmosphere was electric.

Martinelli, Saka, Rice, and Zinchenko were gathered around the TV, controllers in hand.

The air smelled like snacks and energy drinks, the universal scent of gaming marathons.

Zinchenko looked up. “Izan! You playing?”

Izan leaned against the wall. “Who’s losing?”

Saka groaned. “Bro, these two have been running the table.” He pointed at Rice and Martinelli, who were grinning like kings.

Martinelli wiggled his controller. “We’re different, man. Best duo on FIFA.”

Izan raised an eyebrow. “That so?” He grabbed a controller and dropped onto the couch. “Who’s my partner?”

Zinchenko immediately raised his hand. “Me. I need revenge.”

“Say less,” Izan muttered, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for a real match.

They picked their teams. Martinelli and Rice went with Brazil. Zinchenko and Izan picked France. The game kicked off, and instantly, the room was filled with shouts.

“WHAT WAS THAT PASS?”

“NO WAY, THAT’S A FOUL!”

“Izan, hit me on the counter—yes, YES!”

Then, the inevitable happened. The moment Zinchenko messed up a clearance and Rice capitalized with a sweaty goal, Martinelli was off the couch, arms spread.

“TOO EASY!” he shouted, running around the room. “You can’t stop us!”

Izan shook his head, laughing. “Nah, run it back.”

And that’s how the day went. Hours passed, the sun moved across the sky, and they didn’t even realize it.

They switched from FIFA to Call of Duty, then to NBA 2K when someone (probably Saka) claimed he was unbeatable.

Food was ordered—burgers, wings, and fries stacked on the table as they kept playing, barely pausing to eat.

At one point, Ramsdale and Tomiyasu joined in, adding to the chaos.

The gaming session turned into debates about basketball, anime, and which players in the squad would survive without food.

By the time evening rolled around, they had played at least ten different games, yelled at each other over bad plays, and laughed until their stomachs hurt.

Izan checked his phone. It was nearly time for the Lakers game. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Alright, boys,” he said, standing up. “I gotta get ready.”

Martinelli smirked. “You finally embracing American sports?”

Izan rolled his eyes. “Something like that.”

Izan entered his room the next moment and shut his door, trying to get a few minutes of sleep in before they went for the game.

Less than an hour later, there was another knock at his door.

Izan opened it to find two men in sleek black suits standing outside. They weren’t hotel staff. They were stylists.

“Izan Hernandez ?” one of them asked like he didn’t know who he was.

Izan simply nodded.

“Henry Duvant sent us. We have a selection of outfits for you.”

Saint Laurent. Of course. Miranda must have called Henry directly.