God Of football - Chapter 484

Chapter 484: Handle Business.
Izan rolled his eyes, but before he could reply, Ethan Nwaneri—who had joined the first-team training for this session—darted over.

Without missing a beat, Nwaneri grabbed Izan’s bag like it was some kind of treasure chest, cradling it as if it were the most valuable item in the room.

“Yo, what do you think you’re doing?” Izan shot a look of mock horror at the player.

“Just protecting your stuff,” Nwaneri replied, his grin wide, before spinning around dramatically.

“You never know who’s gonna try to steal it. I’m doing you a favor.”

The group burst into laughter, the energy light and carefree as they teased Izan like he’d been away for years rather than just a few days.

Izan couldn’t help but smile, his usual quiet confidence turning to a good-natured chuckle as he ruffled Nwaneri’s hair, causing a few of the players to question who the younger one was, but it still made for a good, extra laugh.

“Enough of the affection. You haven’t forgotten how to play after missing just one matchday, have you?” Saka said, throwing a little ball they play around with when in the locker room at Izan.

Izan drew his leg up sharply, catching the little ball on his thigh. “Well, let’s see if I still got it,” he added just as Arteta entered.

……..

Out on the grass, the session had wrapped, but the sweat was still fresh.

The sun was dipping behind the clouds above Colney, casting a mellow golden hue over the training pitches.

Saliba and Gabriel leaned forward with hands on knees, breathing heavy, drenched in sweat, and exchanging exhausted, half-impressed glances.

“Il se souvient,” Saliba muttered between gasps of breath, looking up toward the touchline where Izan now strolled off calmly, water bottle in hand.

“He remembers. I think he still remembers how to play.”

Gabriel nodded slowly, a grin stretching across his face despite the fatigue.

“You think? That kid… made us look like we were standing still. Again.”

“I felt that chop in my ankles?” Saliba asked, standing upright, hands on his hips now, glancing over his shoulder.

“Like I wasn’t even there.”

“Don’t even talk about that nutmeg,” Gabriel groaned.

“I’m certain that I will be dreaming about that one tonight. He played that with disrespect.”

From a few paces away, Saka—still tying his laces—overheard them and burst into laughter.

“Guess we found out the hard way!” he called out, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“We, found out the hard way” Gabriel and Saliba both said almost simultaneously, stressing the on the “We” part .

Saliba chuckled and shook his head, still catching his breath.

“Never ask that boy stupid questions again. I think he trained all week just to embarrass us.”

“Man came back with an agenda,” Gabriel added, still recovering, half-laughing and half-defeated.

“And we were the victims.”

Saka jogged over to the pair, his grin wide, slapping Saliba on the back and then Gabriel.

“That’s why we love him, right?”

“Speak for yourself,” Saliba said, rubbing his knees. “My ankles are filing a complaint.”

They all shared a hearty laugh, the mood light despite their sore legs and pride.

Arteta stood still on the sideline, arms folded, eyes sharp.

The rest of the squad had begun filtering off the pitch after an intense session, laughter echoing across the training grounds in little bursts, but the manager’s focus never wavered.

He’d been watching, especially one player in particular.

His gaze tracked Izan as the boy strolled off toward the tunnel, calm, unhurried, as if he hadn’t just danced through Arsenal’s best defenders like it was a private exhibition.

With a quiet nod to one of the staff, Arteta finally moved, his boots brushing against the dewy grass with purpose.

He entered the tunnel just behind Izan, the quiet hum of boots on concrete accompanying his steps.

“Izan,” Arteta called, voice steady.

Izan turned halfway, already towel-drying his hair, the laces of his boots half undone.

“Coach?”

“Come with me,” the Spaniard said with a small motion of his hand.

“To my office.”

Izan blinked once but nodded, sensing the seriousness in his manager’s tone.

He followed Arteta wordlessly through the winding corridor of Colney, the noise of the training ground fading behind them, replaced by the quiet tap of footsteps echoing down the hall.

……..

Arteta’s Office – Early Afternoon, Colney.

The office was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the minimalist wall clock and the gentle creak of the leather chairs when Arteta sat down.

He gestured for Izan to follow, his posture as straight as always, but his tone slightly more measured than usual.

Izan closed the door behind him, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple after the intense training session.

Arteta waited a beat, studying the young man standing across from him—his frame still wiry, but hardened, maturing; the look in his eyes clearer, sharper.

“Sit and relax, I’m not going to kill you,” Arteta said with a slight smile, and Izan did.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then:

“You played like a man who missed football today.”

Izan cracked a small smile.

“Felt like it.”

Arteta nodded slowly, fingers steepled in thought.

“But you’re also a man with noise around him now. Big noise. Media. Sponsors. Awards. All of that.”

He leaned forward. “It’s a lot. Even for someone who makes it look easy.”

Izan’s gaze dropped to the edge of the desk for a moment, but he didn’t speak.

“I’m not here to question your focus,” Arteta continued.

“But I need to manage it. Protect it.”

Izan looked up.

“You’ll start against Leicester,” Arteta said, “but you’re coming off early—sixty minutes max. We’re managing your legs with the Paris game in mind.”

“Understood,” Izan nodded.

“Good,” Arteta said.

He paused again, as if choosing his next words carefully.

“And while we’re here… I want to remind you: this isn’t just about minutes or numbers. What you do when no one’s looking? That’s what carries you to those awards and trophies.”

Izan met his eyes this time, a flicker of recognition passing between them.

“I know you’ve got meetings, deals, cameras… and you’re handling it well. But don’t let it pull you too far. Don’t let the world turn your head before you’ve finished what you started here. You are a brand, of course, but remember, you are a footballer before that.”

“I won’t,” Izan said simply.

Arteta sat back, finally allowing a small smile to cross his face.

“Good. Because I’ll be watching. You’re not seventeen yet, and the world already wants a piece of you.”

He stood.

Izan followed.

“Sixty minutes,” Arteta repeated at the door.

“Then we wrap you in ice.”

Izan chuckled. “And bacon, if we win.”

“Get that from the kitchen, not from me.”

They shook hands briefly—no long speeches, just mutual respect—and Izan stepped out into the hallway, his mind sharper now, anchored again.

The locker room buzzed with that mellow hum of banter and recovery—studs scraping the tiled floor, the hiss of showers running in the back, music bleeding faintly from someone’s speaker on the bench when Izan stepped in.

Saka looked up instantly from where he was peeling off his socks and grinned like a kid who just saw his mate walk back from the principal’s office.

“Oii, someone got pulled for the ‘talk’,” he said, his voice echoing off the walls.

“You good, or did Daddy Mikel give you a slap on the wrist?”

A couple of the lads chuckled.

Even Nwaneri glanced up, eyes wide and curious.

Izan didn’t say a word.

He just rolled the white towel off his shoulder, balled it casually in one hand, and—without even stopping—flung it across the room.

Smack.

It hit Saka square in the face.

“Oi!” Bukayo laughed, throwing his head back.

“You see this violence, yeah?”

Izan smirked faintly, finally breaking stride as he unzipped his top and made his way toward the showers.

“Should’ve never opened your mouth,” he called back over his shoulder, voice half-lost behind the steam rising from the corridor.

Saka grinned wider and muttered to Martinelli beside him, “He definitely got told off about something.”

The laughter followed Izan down the hallway, but his mind was already clearing, already switching gears.

Sixty minutes. Handle business, then off. Paris loomed large, but Leicester came first.

…….

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to what promises to be an exciting Premier League clash here at the Emirates Stadium! The atmosphere is electric as the teams make their way onto the pitch.

Arsenal, riding high after a stunning performance in their last match, are looking to extend their unbeaten run. Of course, all eyes are on their young phenom, Izan Hernandez.

The 16-year-old sensation who stunned Manchester City with that brilliant scissor-kick goal. He’s been a revelation this season, and the question on everyone’s lips tonight: can he repeat that magic against Leicester City?

Leicester, though, will not be an easy opponent.

Back from the brink of relegation, they’ve made some solid strides under Steven Cooper, with the ever-dangerous Jamie Vardy leading their attack.

They’ll be hoping to throw a wrench into Arsenal’s title ambitions and steal points in what many are calling a ‘David vs. Goliath’ matchup, and we are all here for it. Stay tuned as we start with the lineups…..”

A/n: Last of the day. Will release the GT chapter right after this. Have fun reading