God Of football - Chapter 373

Chapter 373: Night In LA [Normal Release]
The ride to the party was smooth, the conversation flowing easily between them.

The Arsenal boys had all switched into casual wear, blending in a bit more now that they weren’t courtside in their game-day outfits.

Even still, it was clear they weren’t just regular guests.

The venue was a high-end rooftop lounge, overlooking the glowing cityscape.

Soft music played, a mix of hip-hop and Afrobeats, as guests mingled with drinks in hand.

NBA players, celebrities, and a few familiar faces from the sports world were scattered throughout the space.

“Feels different from a football afterparty,” Rice noted as they stepped in, taking in the laid-back but undeniably expensive atmosphere.

Zinchenko clapped him on the back. “That’s ’cause we celebrate with beer showers and off-key chanting.”

They made their way further inside, greeted with nods and handshakes. Reaves was already there, motioning them over.

“Drinks are sorted,” he said, pointing to the bar. “And don’t worry, no one’s dragging you into another shooting contest.”

Izan smirked. “Probably for the best.”

The night unfolded smoothly. Conversations bounced between football and basketball, with different groups crossing over.

Saka found himself deep in a discussion about tactics with a few NBA guys who actually followed the Premier League, while Rice was laughing with a group that included some hip-hop artists.

Izan, meanwhile, leaned against the bar, watching it all unfold.

“You enjoying LA so far?” a voice asked beside him.

He turned to see none other than LeBron himself.

“It’s been good,” Izan replied, setting his drink down. “Way different from London-Valencia too.”

LeBron nodded. “It’s got a different energy. But you get used to it.”

There was a brief pause before LeBron gave him a look. “You ever think about playing here one day?”

Izan chuckled. “In the NBA?”

LeBron smirked. “Nah. But LA’s got room for football stars too.”

Izan knew exactly what he meant, but before he could reply, a new song kicked in, and the energy in the room shifted.

The night was far from over.

…..

Izan moved through the party, weaving between conversations and groups of people, scanning for his teammates.

The atmosphere had loosened even more, the music louder, the drinks flowing freely.

He spotted Saka and Zinchenko laughing with Reaves, while Rice was still deep in conversation with a group of artists.

He approached them, waiting for a pause in the conversation before casually saying, “Boys, hate to break it to you, but it’s way past my bedtime.”

Zinchenko turned to him with an amused look. “You’re joking, right?”

Izan shook his head. “Nah. I’m still sixteen, remember? I don’t even think I’m legally supposed to be here.”

Saka chuckled. “You don’t look sixteen, though. You could probably get away with it.”

Rice smirked. “Yeah, but imagine the headlines if someone finds out.” He mimicked a newsreader’s voice.

“‘Arsenal Wonderkid Caught Partying in LA Instead of Sleeping Like a Good Boy.'”

Izan rolled his eyes. “Exactly. I think I’ll call it a night.”

Reaves, who had been listening in, grinned. “Man, you’re disciplined. Respect.”

Zinchenko sighed dramatically. “Alright, alright. We’ll head out too. No point staying if our star boy is going home.”

The Arsenal players said their goodbyes, exchanging a few more handshakes with the NBA guys before making their way out.

The cool LA night air hit them as they stepped outside, a stark contrast to the warmth of the party inside.

Rice stretched. “Not a bad night, though.”

Izan nodded, glancing at the city lights. “Yeah. But I think I’ve had enough of LA for today.”

…

The ride back to the hotel was quieter, the energy from earlier settling into a comfortable lull.

The city lights blurred past the windows as they cruised through LA, the roads emptier now that it was late.

Zinchenko was still chuckling about something from the party, while Saka scrolled through his phone, probably checking the videos he had taken.

Rice, leaning back in his seat, let out a yawn.

Izan just stared out the window, exhaustion creeping up on him.

The night had been fun, but now that it was over, he could feel the weight of it settling into his muscles.

By the time they pulled up at the hotel, none of them wasted time. They moved through the lobby with barely a word, each one ready to crash.

Izan entered his room, kicking off his sneakers before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto a chair.

The Lakers jersey was still slung over his shoulder. He placed it carefully on the table before collapsing onto the bed.

His body sank into the mattress, and he exhaled deeply. No interviews, no cameras, no expectations—just sleep.

As his eyes drifted shut, the last thing he thought about was how insane his life had become.

Two years ago, he was just another academy kid with a dream. Unlike others, he had a system. Now, he was here.

The thought didn’t last long. Sleep pulled him under almost instantly.

…….

The early morning air in Los Angeles was crisp, the city still waking up as Izan jogged down the quiet streets near the team hotel.

His footsteps echoed lightly against the pavement, the only other sounds being the occasional car passing by and the distant hum of the city stirring to life.

This was routine. Even if he wasn’t playing much, he needed to stay sharp and also because his system wouldn’t let him.

By the time he returned to the hotel, the sun had risen higher, casting a warm glow over the skyline.

He made his way back to his room, took a long, cold shower, and threw on a fresh training kit before heading down for breakfast.

His teammates were already there, scattered across the dining area, eating and chatting. Saka spotted him first.

“Man, you’re always up early,” he said, shaking his head.

Izan smirked, grabbing a plate. “You lot sleep too much.”

The team spent the morning relaxing, some playing cards while others scrolled through their phones.

The energy was light—until word came that Arteta wanted them at the sports complex next to the hotel.

When they arrived, their manager was already there, standing in the middle of the court with his hands on his hips.

A grin played on his face as he watched them stroll in.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Arteta started, his tone already teasing. “I trust you all had a great time last night?”

A few players chuckled.

“Nothing crazy,” Zinchenko said, playing innocent.

Arteta raised an eyebrow. “Nothing crazy? I saw videos. Half of you were acting like Lakers superfans.”

Saka laughed. “Come on, coach, it was LeBron!”

“Yes, yes, and what about the party? Should I be worried about my players making midseason transfers to the NBA?”

Rice smirked. “Depends. If you keep making us run double sessions, we might start thinking about it.”

The squad burst into laughter, and even Arteta had to shake his head.

“You know what? Maybe I should’ve put some of you on the court. I saw Izan shooting threes like he was Steph Curry.”

Izan, leaning against the wall, raised his hands. “Missed the half-court shot, though.”

Arteta nodded dramatically. “Yes, yes, I saw that. Very disappointing. I expected more.”

The players laughed again, the atmosphere light but focused.

“Alright,” Arteta finally said, clapping his hands. “Now that we’ve had our fun, let’s get to work.

You’re footballers, not NBA stars. Time to show me you remember how to use your feet, not just your hands.”

…

After a solid hour of light drills and movement exercises, Arteta finally called them in, gesturing for the squad to gather around.

The sun was higher now, and the heat starting to settle over the complex, but no one complained.

The session hadn’t been overly intense—more about rhythm and keeping everyone engaged—but Arteta’s face told them he had something to say.

He folded his arms, glancing around at his players. “That was decent,” he said, his voice calm but measured. “Not bad. But not where I want us to be.”

The team stayed quiet, listening.

“You look good in moments. Some of you are sharp, and some of you are still playing catch-up. And I get it—it’s preseason. But understand something…” He took a step forward, eyes locking onto different players as he spoke.

“Cohesion. That’s what we need. Right now, we don’t have it yet.”

No one argued. They knew it was true. The squad had new faces and different dynamics. Some had come in later than others. It wasn’t clicking at the level Arteta wanted—not yet.

“But,” he continued, his voice firm, “I believe in this team.”

That made a few heads lift. Arteta’s intensity was always there, but when he spoke like this, it carried weight.

“I look at this squad, and I see potential. I see a team that can win something this season.”

There was a murmur of agreement, players nodding to themselves.

“I’m not just saying it to make you feel good,” Arteta added, his tone serious. “I mean it. We have the talent. We have the depth. Now, we just need to bring it together.”

He let that sink in before finally nodding. “Alright, that’s enough for now. Rest up, recover. We go again tomorrow.”

With that, he clapped his hands once, signaling the end of the session.

The players broke apart, some heading straight for water bottles, others lingering in small groups, discussing what had just been said.

Izan stayed quiet, processing it all. He wasn’t even playing yet, but he could feel the energy, the ambition.

Winning something.

He glanced around at his teammates, wondering how far they could go.