God Of football - Chapter 422

Chapter 422: Date At The Mestalla[Pistacho031_3]
August 29, 2024 – Evening

The cameras panned across the Grimaldi Forum in Monaco, where football’s elite gathered under the golden glow of spotlights for the much-anticipated UEFA Champions League draw.

For the first time, the single-league format would take full effect—no more group stages.

Each of the 36 qualified teams would face eight opponents, four at home, four away, with their rankings forming one long table.

The draw ceremony was sleek, the stage polished, the theme music dramatic.

Former players stood beside UEFA officials, picking out the matchups one by one from large, glowing bowls.

Excitement and tension hung in the air.

Among the crowd sat representatives from across the continent—executives, coaches, ex-players.

Cameras caught FC Barcelona’s current manager Hansi Flick watching intently, his expression unreadable.

At Real Madrid, Carlo Ancelotti’s assistant Davide sat in his father’s place, representing the Spanish giants while Ancelotti remained in the Spanish capital.

Elsewhere in Europe, the reactions were varied.

New Head Coach, Thiago Motta stood with arms crossed in Juventus’ media lounge, eyes flicking toward the screen as Juve’s opponents began to reveal.

The Bianconeri were eager to make a statement after a rocky few seasons in Europe.

At Bayern’s Säbener Straße training complex, the newly appointed manager Vincent Kompany leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head, while assistant coach René Maric jotted down notes as the draw unfolded.

Kompany, though composed, knew the coming months would test the Bavarians and his credibility to Coach.

Rúben Amorim, leading a rejuvenated Sporting CP, sat among analysts and staff, silently nodding as his team’s fixtures appeared.

The Portuguese giants had earned respect after a strong domestic run, and Amorim had ambitions far beyond the group of sixteen.

But at Arsenal, things were quieter than intended.

Training had ended early to allow proper rest ahead of their upcoming Premier League clash with Brighton in two days. So, the players had dispersed.

…..

Izan stepped into his apartment just as the UEFA jingle echoed from the television Olivia had switched on.

He set down his bag, slipping off his sneakers while the draw continued in the background.

Olivia, cross-legged on the couch in a hoodie and shorts, handed him a bottle of water.

“You’re just in time,” she said, patting the space beside her. “Arsenal’s still waiting.”

“Good,” Izan murmured, collapsing beside her. “I wanted to see it live.”

They sat side-by-side, the soft blue light of the television bouncing off the walls.

The screen displayed Arsenal’s crest, slowly being linked with one opponent after another.

ARSENAL’S FIXTURES:

Matchday 1 – Away vs Atalanta

Matchday 2 – Home vs Paris Saint-Germain

Matchday 3 – Home vs Shakhtar Donetsk

Matchday 4 – Away vs Inter Milan

Matchday 5 – Away vs Sporting CP

Matchday 6 – Home vs AS Monaco

Matchday 7 – Home vs Dinamo Zagreb

“And here comes the final one,” Olivia muttered, leaning forward.

The screen flashed. The presenter reached into the final bowl.

“Arsenal’s eighth and final match… will be away at Valencia CF,” he announced.

Izan’s eyes didn’t immediately react, but a slow, knowing grin pulled at his lips.

“Valencia,” he said quietly.

Olivia turned to look at him, the weight of it hitting. “Back home,” she said softly.

He chuckled, rubbing the corner of his lip. “I never believed the draw was rigged,” he said, more to himself. “But now… I’m starting to wonder.”

She smiled at that, bumping her shoulder into his. “You nervous?”

“Not even a little,” he replied, gaze fixed on the screen where Matchday where a Valencia (A) badge now rested beside Arsenal’s badge.

Just as the words “Valencia (A)” settled on the screen, Izan’s phone buzzed on the coffee table beside him.

The screen lit up with a familiar name: Pietro.

Beneath it, a group FaceTime icon blinked.

Izan raised a brow. “Well. That didn’t take long.”

Olivia gave a knowing smirk. “Answer it.”

He tapped the green button, and instantly, a flurry of faces filled the screen.

Pietro was front and center, his messy curls bouncing as he leaned in with a wide grin.

Around him were a few others from the old core—Sosa, Javi, Gaya, Ferrán, and Diego, all cramped together on what looked like the edge of a sofa in the Valencia players’ lounge.

“Well, well, well!” Pietro shouted laughter already in his voice. “Look who’s coming home!”

“I was just saying,” Ferrán chimed in, “I swear these draws aren’t real. We were joking about it yesterday. And now—bam. Arsenal at Mestalla.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t rig it yourself,” Javi added, pointing into the camera. “You’ve probably got UEFA contacts now.”

Izan chuckled, setting the phone down at an angle so Olivia could see them too. “Right, because I have that kind of power.”

“Come on, hermano,” Pietro grinned.

“Valencia for Matchday Eight? The stars are aligning. You’re ending your league phase back where it all started.”

Diego leaned into the frame. “You know you’re getting booed, right?”

That earned a round of laughter.

Olivia grinned as she leaned over and said into the camera, “He’s already practicing his goal celebration.”

“No, no, no—” Gaya cut in, laughing. “No celebrating at Mestalla! Not allowed.”

Izan raised both hands in mock surrender. “I’ll just play. No celebrations. Maybe.”

Pietro’s tone softened slightly, though the smile stayed. “It’ll be good to see you, bro. Seriously. No matter how it goes.”

“I know,” Izan said, nodding. “It will.”

“Just don’t nutmeg me, yeah?” Pietro joked.

“Can’t promise.”

They all groaned at once.

“Alright,” Pietro said, glancing off-camera.

“We’ve got to bounce soon, but… yeah. We’ll be waiting for you. Camp de Mestalla. Matchday Eight. Don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Izan said.

The screen blinked off, the call ending with a chorus of goodbyes and exaggerated threats of tackles.

He leaned back again, letting out a breath through his nose, still smiling.

Olivia looked at him. “That felt good?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It did.”

She nudged his side gently. “You really think they’ll boo you?”

He smirked. “Only if I celebrate or do something unthinkable.”

…….

Online, Arsenal’s Twitter (or X, depending on who you ask) was in absolute chaos.

The draw had barely finished, and the hashtags were already trending:

#UCLDraw

#IzanReturnsToValencia

#ArsenalVsPSG

#MikelKnows

@AFCVisionary:

Inter. PSG. Valencia. UEFA said “here’s your Netflix script, lads.” This draw’s got more narrative than an HBO series.

@CannonTalks:

I’m not saying UEFA rigged the draw for drama… but Izan’s returning to Mestalla on Matchday 8? Really? Someone had popcorn ready when they pulled that ball.

@NorthBankNana:

Can’t lie, Atalanta away is a sleeper banana skin. That’s a nasty first match. Don’t let the 0-0 fool you come September.

@ArsenalYouthWatch:

Izan going up against his old teammates in the final group—wait, sorry—league phase game. If he scores, I’m breaking into song.

@TacticalT:

PSG at the Emirates. That’s a proper test. Not just Dembele vs White, but how do we deal with that midfield press? Interested to see if Mikel sticks with Jorginho there.

@GoonerMemes:

[Meme of Izan smiling with sunglasses edited over his face]

UEFA: Random draw

Izan: [squints] Sure.

@TheGoonerLens:

Valencia fans are going to absolutely rattle the ground. First, match back for their prodigal son. The drama writes itself. I want a camera on Izan the entire time.

@DaniSakaEra:

Man, imagine Izan scores a winner at Mestalla and doesn’t celebrate. That’s real legacy behavior. Kid’s built different.

@GoonersUnfiltered:

We’re not ready for what that Inter away day might look like. San Siro under the lights? Loud. Chaotic. Classic UCL.

@LondonIsRed187:

Valencia aside, the PSG game at home is massive. If we want to win big in Europe, those are the nights we prove it. Emirates needs to roar.

@ArsenalWomenAlso:

Lowkey our squad depth is better than people realise. Sporting and Shakhtar are tough, but we’ve got rotations now. The fact we’re sweating Inter/PSG/Valencia proves we’re back at the table.

@MikelEra:

Mikel’s face when he sees Valencia in the draw. Bet he looked straight at Izan. “No pressure, kid.”

Even Spanish fans and some Valencia ultras chimed in online, mixing drama with dark humor.

@VCFEnfurecido:

No way they brought him back to face us in January. And no way UEFA did it for “sporting integrity.” This is cinema.

@BlanquinegreBlood:

Can we boo him and love him at the same time? Like. Respect. But also. Nah. You left us.

@IzanVibes:

We need a tribute video at Mestalla. And then we boo him after. Fair enough?

@LaLigaBackups:

If he scores and drops the no celebration, he’s HIM. If he celebrates, he’s brave. Either way, content.

Back in his apartment, Izan kept scrolling, his phone buzzing every few seconds with mentions and reactions.

Olivia peeked over his shoulder at one particular tweet:

@GoonerDramaFC:

Izan back to Valencia on Matchday 8. It’s not football, it’s poetry.

She gave a soft laugh. “They really know how to sell it.”

Izan tilted his head, smiling quietly. “Can’t lie. I’m actually looking forward to it now.”

She nudged his shoulder. “You should. You’ve earned that moment.”

His eyes flicked back to the tweet again, the reply count rising.

He sat there still looking at his phone before a buzz rang through his mind with his system materializing I front of his eyes.

[Ding, System Upgrade Complete]

“Finally” he muttered as he looked at the screen.

A/n: Okay guys. 1st of many(12). Stay tuned.