God Of football - Chapter 424

Chapter 424: Off The Sheets
Across the room, Olivia shifted under the covers.

Her hand fumbled out from under the hoodie sleeve, blindly searching the couch until she found the pillow she’d kicked off in her sleep. She mumbled something, barely audible.

“…Izan…”

He glanced over, watching her face soften as she turned into the pillow.

“…love you so much…”

He froze. A quiet warmth filled his chest, slow and steady.

The kind you didn’t show on your face but felt anyway. She was still asleep, clearly unaware she’d said anything.

He took a quiet breath, smiled faintly, and walked over. His footsteps were light as he knelt beside the couch.

Carefully, he tucked the loose edge of the blanket back over her shoulder and brushed one of the stray strands of hair from her face.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll be back before you even notice.”

She didn’t stir this time. Just murmured something incomprehensible and sank deeper into the couch.

He stood up again, grabbed his bag, and slung it over one shoulder.

His boots were already by the door—cleaned and set out the night before.

He slid them on, zipped his jacket up halfway, and gave the place one last glance.

On the small coffee table were two mugs—one still with a little cold tea in it—and the TV remote resting between them.

He pulled the door open and stepped outside into the cool morning air.

His driver was already waiting at the curb, the usual black car with tinted windows humming quietly.

Izan climbed in and nodded a silent good morning.

The roads were quiet, early sunlight casting long shadows through the passing streets.

As they pulled away, he rested his head against the window, watching London drift by.

As he sat, his mind buzzed again.

[System Tip: Arsenal Training Session Detected]

> Tactical Lens [ON]

> Passive Perks: ACTIVE

> Reputation Tracker: Observation Mode

Welcome to Colney, Alien. Let’s make it count.]

Izan smiled at the system taking initiative before looking right back outside.

……

The training pitch at Colney buzzed with its usual rhythm—shouts, thuds of boots against the turf, whistles cutting through the crisp morning air.

The grass was sharp with dew, sunlight bouncing off the pitch lines as the first team went through their rondos, dynamic drills, and positional patterns.

Mikel Arteta stood near midfield, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in that typical half-frown he wore when watching closely.

But today wasn’t typical.

Not by a long shot.

Izan was untouchable.

In every drill, he moved like he already knew the next three passes.

Interceptions, touches, movements off the ball—it all clicked.

There was no hesitation, no clutter in his decision-making.

When the team shifted from a tight possession drill to a small-sided game, it became impossible to ignore.

Every time the ball found Izan’s feet, something happened.

A first-time flick behind the backline that left White completely turned around.

Next, a give-and-go with Jesus in a tight pocket, followed by a backheel split that took out both Rice and Kiwior.

What followed was a sudden turn past Tomiyasu that left the defender stumbling, hand up in apology before he even recovered.

Carlos Cuesta walked over to Arteta during a pause, lowering his voice.

“Mikel… you sure he’s alright? You want me to check if he’s… on something?”

Arteta didn’t answer at first. He just stared.

Izan had just received the ball under pressure from Havertz and Partey, spun between them with a drag-and-cut, and then pinged a left-footed diagonal across to Zinchenko in stride.

“Nope.,” Arteta finally said, squinting. “He’s on something alright but not what you think.”

Cuesta looked at him.

“He is something.”

The laughter on the pitch wasn’t helping.

“Oi!” Saka called, jogging backward as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.

“What did they put in the draw last night, bro? We couldn’t handle you already but why did you suddenly turn up like this since Valencia came up.”

Izan didn’t answer. He just shook his head once and smiled.

The ball rolled back to him. One bounce.

He adjusted his stance and struck it cleanly with his left, no run-up—just timing.

Top bin.

The net rippled violently. Even Raya, in goal for that segment, just threw his hands up.

The whistle blew, signaling a transition.

Players jogged into the next phase—11v11, staggered teams—but not before Jorginho gave Izan a playful shoulder bump.

“If you play like that at the Mestalla,” he smirked, “they’ll boo you in four languages.”

Izan only smiled again, chest rising and falling with calm breaths.

Inside, he could feel the system ticking quietly, enhancing—not overwhelming.

[Tactical Lens Active]

•Positional errors of teammates marked in faint red.

•Lane probabilities are highlighted subtly, fading with each decision cycle.

•Energy distribution prediction: 84% optimal load.

•Vision: No temporary boost activated.

Everything flowed through him like it had finally synced.

Like all the time spent pacing himself, observing instead of rushing—it was paying off.

He wasn’t invincible. He was just finally in gear.

And the staff had noticed.

Arteta turned to Cuesta again. “Don’t touch him. Don’t say anything.”

“Yeah?”

“Let him keep going.” His arms dropped from his chest. “We’ll watch.”

…..

The final whistle of the session had long gone, but Izan’s strike was still replaying in everyone’s heads.

Even as they filtered off the pitch, there was a lingering buzz—something between awe and disbelief.

Inside the changing room, the energy simmered.

Boots were peeled off, tape ripped free. Conversations dropped into pockets of murmurs, most of them still circling back to Izan’s performance.

Saka nudged him with a towel slung over his neck. “Still not gonna tell us what’s in your water bottle?”

Izan gave a lopsided shrug. “Just focus.”

“Focus? Nah, that was something else,” Timber muttered, rubbing down his shins.

“If you don’t play Saturday, we better all have that kind of focus.”

A few heads turned—everyone knew he was suspended. No need to say it out loud.

“Don’t worry,” Rice grinned, looking at Izan from across the room.

“I’ll do your celebration if we score. Flop like I got sniped.”

The room cracked up. Even Arteta, stepping in with his tablet, wore a faint smirk.

“All right, enough,” he said. “We refocus now. Brighton’s coming.”

As the squad huddled around the screens for the tactical brief, Izan stayed on the periphery—allowed to listen, not take part.

His name wouldn’t be in the lineup discussions this week.

Arteta brought everyone back in.

“We know what Brighton do. We’ve seen it for three seasons now. Build from the back. Wait for a mistake.

Press high, but disciplined. The key will be to make them overcommit—and then punish them. We rotate Izan’s central play accordingly. Havertz tucks behind Jesus .”

Izan nodded at Arteta’s words, understanding his sentiments. He knew it already. Had watched the footage. Analyzed the rotations.

Brighton’s press wasn’t chaotic; it was methodical. But vulnerable if you slipped behind their line.

After the session, he headed to the recovery room, lying still with a compression sleeve wrapped around his leg, even if it wasn’t sore.

After a while, the physio slipped it off before telling Izan it was fine to leave.

As he left the room and headed down the hallway, he crossed paths with Jorginho and Ben White, already changed and heading out.

“You’re still here?” Jorginho asked. “Trying to break into the lineup from the physio room?”

“Just using the time,” Izan replied.

Ben nodded. “You’re not playing Saturday, but keep going like today—you’re undroppable after.”

Izan didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The work spoke for itself.

Outside, the late afternoon sun filtered through Colney’s glass corridor, golden and stretched out.

His driver was already waiting near the gates, but he took a second to himself. Walked slowly, head low, eyes half-focused on nothing.

…

August 31st. Matchday.

Izan sat on the couch, flipping through early coverage. Sky Sports had started their build-up.

Brighton’s squad was shown arriving at the Emirates, followed by clips from Arsenal’s training session the day before.

His name flashed briefly—”suspended after the Villa red card”—before they moved on.

He set the remote down and leaned back. There wasn’t much to do now except wait.

From the bedroom, Olivia was rustling through the wardrobe.

The sharp slide of hangers, a drawer opening and shutting.

She mumbled something, mostly to herself.

“You good?” Izan called.

“I don’t know what to wear,” she said. “If I wear red, I feel like a fangirl. If I don’t, I look like I’m supporting Brighton.”

“I think you’ll survive,” Izan said. “It’s not a fashion gala. You’ll blend in with everyone yelling at the ref.”

She reappeared in the doorway a moment later, holding up a blue sweater with a skeptical look. “Too obvious?”

“You’re not trying to sneak into the away end, are you?”

She rolled her eyes and disappeared again.

A pause.

“Hey,” Izan called, sitting up straighter.

“What if we just stayed in and cuddled instead? You know, skipped the whole matchday traffic, fake smiles, awkward ‘oh no you’re not playing today’ chats—”

“No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did. For half a second. And then I remembered it’s your team’s match.”

“Exactly. I’m not even playing.”

She stepped out again, hair still slightly damp, now dressed and pulling on a pair of sneakers.

“Then this is the one match where you can sit next to me the entire time without disappearing. I’m taking full advantage.”

Izan let out a short laugh. “You’re ruthless.”

“Someone has to keep you grounded.”

He grabbed his jacket and stood. “Let’s go, then.” offering his hand in the process which Olivia took.

And with that, the duo left for the Emirates.

A/n: First of the day. Have fun reading.