God Of football - Chapter 379

Chapter 379: Something Greater
The room fell silent as he surveyed his players, and then his gaze landed on Izan.

“You’re starting against Liverpool,” Arteta said. A few heads turned toward Izan, but he didn’t react much—just a small nod, his expression unreadable.

Arteta let the words settle before continuing.

“We’re facing a team that will press aggressively, attack in waves, and test our structure from the first whistle. I expect to focus. Precision. And above all, composure.”

The projector screen flickered to life, displaying Liverpool’s tactical setup. The first clip showed their aggressive midfield press, with Mac Allister and Szoboszlai leading the charge while Endō or Bajčetić sat deeper.

“This is where they’ll come at us,” Arteta pointed, circling the midfield. “They’ll try to force mistakes in our build-up. They want us to rush passes, play into their trap. We don’t do that.”

His gaze moved across the room, ensuring every player absorbed his words.

“They’ll also be relentless in transition.” Another clip rolled—Salah, Núñez, and Díaz breaking forward at full speed. “If we lose possession in these areas,” he tapped on a highlighted section in midfield, “we cannot switch it off. One bad moment, one lapse, and we’re exposed.”

Arteta let that linger before shifting to the next slide—Arsenal’s tactical response.

“Now let’s see where we can hurt them”.

The next screen now showed Liverpool’s defensive shape when caught out—their high line, their fullbacks pushing forward, leaving Van Dijk and Konaté isolated at times.

“This is why Izan starts,” Arteta stated, and suddenly all eyes were on the teenager.

“His movement. His ability to combine, play between the lines, and find the final pass. That’s how we break them.”

The clip played again—this time, Arsenal in possession. A simulated movement showed Izan dropping into the pocket, linking with Ødegaard and Rice before slipping it to Saka.

“This is what I want,” Arteta emphasized. “Not just movement, but intelligence. If we can stretch them here—” he pointed at the half-spaces, “—we’ll create openings.”

Izan leaned forward slightly, studying the screen. His mind was already forming the patterns, visualizing the game before it even began.

Arteta looked around the room.

“This is a test. We set the standard. We dictate the game.”

A few nods. The energy in the room had shifted.

“That’s it for now. Train well today. Be ready.”

As the players began filing out of the conference room, Arteta remained near the front, his hands on his hips.

“Alright, let’s move to the pitch,” he instructed, his voice carrying the usual authority. The players responded immediately, rising from their seats and heading toward the exit.

Izan grabbed his water bottle and was about to follow when Arteta’s voice stopped him.

“Izan. Stay back for a moment.”

A few players turned their heads, but no one said anything. Izan simply nodded, stepping aside as the others left the room.

The door shut behind the last of them, leaving Izan alone with Arteta—except they weren’t alone.

Two men had entered in silence, standing near the back of the room. Josh Kroenke and Tim Lewis.

Izan straightened slightly as he recognized them. The owners of Arsenal.

Tim Lewis, dressed in his usual sharp suit, offered a small nod of acknowledgment. Josh Kroenke, dressed more casually in a blazer and jeans, stepped forward.

Arteta moved aside, folding his arms as Kroenke spoke.

“Izan,” Josh started, his tone calm but deliberate. “We won the Premier League twenty years ago. Twenty years since Arsenal was at the very top of English football. You know how long that is?”

Izan did. He hadn’t been born yet but he had watched clips of Henry, Bergkamp, and Vieira. He nodded, but Kroenke continued.

“Too long,” he said firmly. “And we’ve come close in the past few years. Very close. But not close enough.”

Tim Lewis spoke next, his voice smooth but weighty. “We spent big on you, Izan. Not because we expect you to carry us—not alone. That’s not why you’re here. But the truth is, your signing made waves.”

Josh crossed his arms, glancing at Arteta before locking eyes with Izan.

“Every opponent you face? They want to see you fail. Every fan watching? They want to see if you can live up to the hype. We believe you can. But you have to give them a reason to believe too.”

The weight of the conversation pressed on Izan, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was reality. He had lived under expectation since he broke into Valencia’s first team.

“We aren’t PSG,” Kroenke continued. “We don’t throw money just to make a statement but we reward. Play well. Give the fans hope—even if we don’t win this season—and we will take care of you.”

Tim Lewis gave a small nod. “Handsomely.”

Izan didn’t flinch. He didn’t shift uncomfortably or look away. Instead, he absorbed every word. Then, after a moment, he nodded once.

“I understand,” he said.

Josh Kroenke studied him, then smiled faintly. “Good.”

Arteta finally spoke, stepping forward. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”

………..

Izan stepped onto the training pitch, the sunlight glaring off the freshly cut grass. The rest of the squad was already warming up, moving through their drills with ease. He jogged forward, rolling his shoulders, and was about to slot into position when—

A ball came flying at him.

Instinct took over. He stopped it dead with his chest, then flicked it up slightly before settling it on the grass. Only then did he look up.

Martin Ødegaard stood a few yards away, arms crossed, a small smirk playing at his lips.

“Eyes up, Izan,” Ødegaard said, his Norwegian accent smooth.

Izan exhaled through his nose, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, that was unnecessary?”

“Well the author needed a few extra words so I gave him some,” Ødegaard answered. Then, with a grin, “Anyways what were you talking about with Dad?.”

“Dad??”

From the side, Bukayo Saka let out a laugh. “Man, you better be careful, Øde. Izan’s about to take your spot as Arteta’s favorite son.”

A few players chuckled as they continued their drills, but Ødegaard just shook his head with a smile. “Nah,” he said. “Izan’s the new kid. Arteta’s still gotta give him the ‘you’ll be a future captain’ speech first.”

Izan huffed out a laugh. “I’ll let you keep the armband, for now.”

Ødegaard clapped him on the back as they fell into line with the others.

“Let’s see if you can earn it first.”

As the players joked about, Mikel Arteta strode onto the pitch.

The light breeze ruffled his training jacket as he clapped his hands together, drawing every player’s attention. The banter and casual chatter faded, replaced by an almost instinctive readiness.

Arteta scanned his squad, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “Alright, listen up,” he said, voice firm but not harsh. “We’ve got work to do. Liverpool will not wait for us to prepare.”

The players straightened, rolling their shoulders, shifting their weight—ready. “Same intensity as last match,” Arteta continued, pacing slightly. “We are getting closer to where we need to be, but I want more. Faster circulation. Sharper decisions. Play with conviction.”

He stopped, eyes narrowing slightly. “And above all—fight for it.”

A few nods. No one needed reminding. They had seen what Liverpool did to teams that weren’t ready.

“Now, let’s begin.”

With that, training officially started.

A few stories above the training ground, inside one of the hotel’s private executive viewing rooms, Tim Lewis and Josh Kroenke stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the session unfold below.

Kroenke had his hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the players moving across the pitch, while Lewis stood with his arms crossed, thoughtful.

“This has to be the season,” Kroenke said, voice quiet yet firm. “We’ve come close too many times.”

Lewis exhaled through his nose. “We have the squad, the coach, the structure. But football isn’t played on paper.

It’s about moments.”

Kroenke nodded. He understood that all too well. Arsenal had been building toward something for years. They had strengthened, invested, and believed. Now? It had to count.

His eyes flickered toward one player in particular—the number 10, cutting through the training session with frightening sharpness.

Izan.

“This is why we signed him,” Kroenke said, almost to himself. “He’s different. He’s the kind of player that can create those moments.”

Lewis hummed in agreement. “If he delivers, he won’t just justify his signing—he’ll define this season.”

A pause. Then, Lewis turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder.

“And what do you think?” he asked, addressing the figure standing behind them.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, Arsène Wenger stepped into the light.

His silver hair caught the glow from the windows, his expression wise, contemplative. Though he had not been involved in Arsenal’s day-to-day for years, his presence still carried weight—a legacy that could not be erased.

Wenger walked slowly to the window, gazing down at the pitch, watching Izan move. His posture was composed, but there was something in his eyes—something deep.

“Many years ago, I had the chance to sign a young Portuguese boy. He was special. Electric. But we hesitated, and Manchester United took him instead.”

Cristiano Ronaldo.

Wenger’s gaze didn’t waver from the pitch.

“When I saw Izan play, I thought about that moment. I thought about what I let slip away.” He turned slightly, the corners of his mouth curving into a rare, small smile.

“So this time, I did not hesitate. I told them not to let him slip away. I did not want to miss out on another Ronaldo.”

Silence settled in the room.

Then, Wenger’s smile faded, replaced by something even more profound.

“But now… I think I was wrong.”

Kroenke frowned slightly. “Wrong?”

Wenger nodded, his gaze returning to Izan, who had just danced past a defender with impossible ease.

“Izan is not another Ronaldo,” Wenger said softly. “He can be greater.”