God Of football - Chapter 491

Chapter 491: CTRL
[The Following Day]

The soft clink of dishes and the low hum of running water filled the kitchen.

Izan stood in front of the sink, finishing his glass of water after brushing his teeth.

He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the shower, and glanced toward the living room.

Olivia was curled up in a fleece blanket, sipping coffee with one leg tucked beneath her.

She looked half-asleep, a picture of domestic peace, phone in one hand, a book open on her lap.

“I’m heading out,” Izan said, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder as he walked back into the room.

“Don’t forget your pass.”

Olivia blinked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Pass?”

He gave her a pointed look.

“The one for the match tonight. VIP lounge. Emirates. Tall French centre-backs. Lights. Drama.”

A sleepy smile tugged at her lips. “Oh, that.”

“Don’t ‘oh that’ me,” he grinned.

“You’re coming. I already told a steward to look out for you. You miss it, I’ll make you watch it back with my commentary over the whole thing.”

“Now that’s torture,” she muttered.

As he turned toward the door, sliding his phone into his back pocket, her voice stopped him again.

“Wait.”

He turned.

Olivia had set the coffee aside.

Her brow furrowed slightly as she looked at him. “You alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

She stood, walking over to him, her hand brushing his jaw as she looked up into his face.

“You look… I don’t know, pale. Like you didn’t sleep properly.”

Izan chuckled and pulled her hand down gently.

“I slept,” he said. “Just not a lot.”

She gave him a look that demanded more.

“I was on the phone with Miranda late,” he explained, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Final checks on the Adidas stuff, a few tweaks before it gets signed. Then I stayed up, going over some film from the PSG group games. Figured if I’m gonna be playing against them, might as well clock a few of their habits.”

Olivia’s expression softened. “Of course you did.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“I’m good, Liv. Just locked in.”

She nodded, though a small sigh escaped her.

“Alright. Just don’t burn out.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, reaching for the doorknob.

“Promise.”

“Text me after the session.”

He raised a hand in a mock salute.

“Aye, ma’am.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Olivia lingered a second longer, staring at the spot he’d just been.

Then, she turned back to the couch.

Still unaware of the looming talks that might be coming their way.

…….

Colney buzzed with calm energy.

With kickoff still hours away, the players milled about, lounging through recovery massages or submerged in the freezing grip of the ice bath, teeth chattering while jokes flew around the tiled walls.

Outside, Mikel Arteta and Carlos Cuesta watched over a light tactical walkthrough, keeping things crisp but loose.

This was Champions League matchday, after all, pressure was expected, but tension wasn’t needed yet.

Izan arrived, nodding at the staff as he walked past the recovery room.

His hood was up, headphones on, face calm.

But behind that cool exterior, something hung in the air.

Inside, Nwaneri and Saka were having a water-splash war near the massage tables while Raya and Martinelli bickered about who owed whom money.

A faint buzz followed Izan’s entrance, the kind that preceded something brewing.

He barely had time to drop his bag before Arteta strode in.

“Izan,” Arteta said, his tone neutral but firm. “Come with me.”

Izan’s brows furrowed, and then followed without a word.

Once outside, Arteta reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“I was joking yesterday,” he said plainly, “about the clubs and pubs thing.”

Izan blinked, confused. “I know.”

Arteta turned the screen to him.

There it was.

A photo, grainy but clear enough.

Izan in a shirt laced with holes, Olivia in a white blazer, her hand looped through his arm as they walked through the glass doors of a sleek building.

The lighting had distorted the signage, the angle made it look like a late-night spot.

The caption floating under it: “Wonderkid gone Wild? Arsenal’s Golden Boy Spotted Out Day Before UCL Tie.”

Izan exhaled slowly.

“That’s from a meeting,” he said, “the day after Leicester. We had dinner with someone, my agent and I, and I just happened to bring my girlfriend.”

Arteta didn’t speak right away.

“That’s why you looked off yesterday at brunch,” Arteta murmured, as if confirming it for himself.

Before Izan could respond, Cuesta poked his head out from the hallway.

“Mikel—call from the Edu. Now.”

Arteta clicked his tongue, clearly reluctant.

“We’ll finish this later,” he said, turning and striding off with Cuesta.

Izan stood there for a second, the quiet hum of fluorescent lighting buzzing in his ears, before he headed back in.

The locker room popped off as soon as he stepped in.

“There he is!” Saka grinned.

“Mr. Calm-on-the-pitch, Menace-off-it.”

“Secret nightlife king,” Martinelli added with mock reverence.

“Relax,” Izan said dryly, grabbing a water bottle and twisting it open.

“Bro’s in year 11 but living like he’s 28,” Nwaneri joked, laughing until Odegaard, fresh from his personal rehab session, strolled in.

He raised an eyebrow at the banter before heading straight to Izan.

“Everything good?” he asked, more quietly than the rest.

Izan sighed and leaned against his locker. “Someone took a picture of me and Olivia when we went for dinner. Press made it seem like we went clubbing.”

Odegaard winced. “Timing couldn’t be worse.”

“I know,” Izan said.

“But it wasn’t the night before this game—it was after Leicester. We hadn’t even trained the next day.”

The captain nodded. “You’ll explain it. He knows you.”

Izan tightened his lips, eyes scanning for Arteta. “If I can find him.”

The mood outside, however, wasn’t as measured.

Fans had already started to gather outside the Emirates, and social media was a battlefield.

“He shouldn’t be out partying before PSG,” one post read.

Another user fired back: “He’s 16, ffs. A kid. He went to dinner.”

A third joked: “Romario would be proud. Let the boy ball.”

A more grounded reply followed: “Even if he’s a pro, he’s still 16. He’ll make small mistakes.”

But the comment with the most likes read: “Let’s be honest, if he didn’t have a passport, you’d say this guy was 23. Height, build, and that look? Nah.”

……

Arteta hadn’t said a word after Cuesta pulled him away.

But now, twenty minutes later, he came back into the main room and waved for Izan again.

This time, his voice was lower. “Come. Let’s talk properly.”

They stepped into one of the side rooms—no windows, just a bench and a laptop docked to a monitor showing tactical line-ups from earlier.

Arteta shut the door.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” he began, arms crossed.

“Then I saw the photo again.”

“I swear to you,” Izan said, “that was the day after the Leicester game. You remember? You gave us the day off. That was the day I had a meeting with a brand.”

Arteta studied him.

“I know. You look… drained this morning, not drunk or sloppy. But I’ve got people upstairs asking why one of our youngest is out ‘night-clubbing’ before PSG.”

“They twisted it.”

“They always do,” Arteta nodded.

“Still—we don’t want to give them ammo, Izan. You’re too important now.”

“I get it. But I didn’t mess around.”

Arteta gave a small sigh. “I believe you. But perception isn’t reality in football. It’s louder than facts.”

Just then, Izan’s phone buzzed twice in his hoodie pocket.

Olivia: “Did you see it? The pic of us from the Adidas dinner? It’s everywhere. God, not this today.”

Miranda: “PR team just saw the post. We’re trying to contain it from Spain, but honestly, you were right — we should’ve set up here like you said. This is messy.”

Izan frowned.

“Something wrong?” Arteta asked, eyeing the flicker of frustration.

“Just the PR team scrambling. They’re doing what they can from Madrid.”

Arteta gave a wry smile. “Well… they better be fast.”

They walked back into the main room.

The energy had shifted. It wasn’t just banter anymore—it was rumour fuel.

“Oi, Izan,” Nwaneri smirked, “can you even get in a club at 16?”

“Maybe he brought a fake beard and a cigar,” laughed Martinelli with his Portuguese accent.

Saka chuckled. “No way. Look at this guy. He walks in, and the bouncers just salute.”

“Y’all gotta chill,” Izan muttered, but with half a grin.

“He’s silent like a monk, but turns out he’s Romario underneath,” Martinelli said, nudging Saka.

“Except Romario didn’t rock up in Saint Laurent,” Saka joked.

Izan raised a brow. “You lot forget that we work off the pitch too. I had a meeting with the .”

“Yeah, yeah, tell that to the headline,” Nwaneri said, scrolling with a grin on his face.

Izan just stood there, too tired to continue but too agitated to sit calmly.

[System detects the host is agitated. Focus LV 3 Activated.]

Izan felt a host of calm washing over his body.

“Thanks, Max,” he said, receiving a buzz in reply.

A/N: First of the day. Hope Y’all liked it. Have fun reading, and I will see you tomorrow.