God Of football - Chapter 513

Chapter 513: Individual Brilliance.
The match was barely over when the pundits were already getting into it.

The studio lights inside the Premier League Productions post-game show glinted softly off the lacquered desk, the wide LED screens behind them cycling through the full-time graphics:

Arsenal 2 – Newcastle United 1.

Sitting at the desk were the sharp-witted duo of Stephen Warnock and Michael Brown, joined by Fara Williams, who leaned forward, hands clasped as the screen behind them replayed highlights of the game.

“Well,” Warnock began, shaking his head, “I think if we’re talking about Arsenal edging this one out, we’re also talking about individuals stepping up, right? And it starts with Izan.”

Fara Williams nodded.

“He was electric in moments and creative in a game as dull as this. I don’t think Arsenal were dominant by any stretch. Newcastle had their structure,” she paused a bit,

“But when you’ve got a player like Izan who can do what he did for that first goal, and then to maintain composure under that kind of pressure to create the second… It’s special.”

Michael Brown chimed in, adjusting his earpiece.

“They didn’t create enough from open play aside from him. Saka had flashes. Martinelli worked, but Izan—he was the one linking, carrying, probing. And the ball to Saka at the end…”

“Yeah,” Warnock agreed, glancing off-screen as footage rolled, “he knew exactly where Hall wasn’t. That awareness, that pass weight, that’s not luck—that’s instinct and vision. Arsenal needed that.”

A new graphic slid onto the screen showing Arsenal’s next fixtures:

Shakhtar Donetsk in the Champions League, Bournemouth at the Vitality, and then Liverpool at the Emirates.

“Here’s the thing,” Fara continued.

“If they don’t sort out their midfield control, they can’t rely on Izan every game to bail them out. Shakhtar might not hurt them, but Bournemouth away can be tricky—and Liverpool… that’s a different beast entirely.”

Brown nodded, visibly contemplative.

“And if you’re Arnne Slot watching this, you know what to nullify. But that’s easier said than done. Still, Arsenal have some soul-searching to do. You can’t run on brilliance forever.”

“Not in this league,” Warnock agreed.

“Not with the schedule tightening and the pressure growing and……..”

—

Back in London, the match already felt like yesterday, even though it had been just a few hours since Arsenal squad’s flight landed back in London.

They were supposed to take the bus, but beacsue of their upcoming Champions League match in two day, Arteta had requested and gotten his men on a flight to London so they could recover in time for their UCL match against Shaktar Donetsk.

The glow of the city framed the quiet apartment.

Rain tapped the window intermittently, a soft percussion to the evening’s rhythm.

Izan sat comfortably on the couch, his legs propped on the coffee table. Olivia, her school bag abandoned on the floor, was curled beside him.

The TV was on, muted.

Both of them were glued to his tablet, which displayed a sleek list of properties Miranda had sent through earlier in the day.

“So this one’s in Hampstead,” Izan said, scrolling.

“Modern kitchen, lots of light… and look at that backyard.”

Olivia tilted her head.

“That’s more of a football pitch than a yard.”

“That’s the point.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Why would you even need that much space? It’s just you, and occasionally me when I’m not buried under schoolwork, and maybe when your Mom and Sister come to London.”

Izan shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “For the kids.”

Olivia turned to him sharply, laughing. “Kids? You’re barely seventeen.”

“And?”

“And,” she said, poking his side, “you’re already thinking like some forty-year-old dad who grills on Fundays.”

“Don’t forget the dog,” he added, grinning.

“Of course not,” she said.

“Big garden, two kids, and a golden retriever. You’ve planned it all out.”

He gave her a mock-serious nod. “Exactly.”

They both laughed, but just then, the doorbell rang.

Olivia groaned as she stood up, already knowing what it was.

“Food’s here. You were meant to get it, by the way.”

“Yeah, but you’re already up,” Izan called, not moving from the couch.

She threw him a look over her shoulder, half-amused, half-annoyed, and disappeared toward the door.

Izan leaned back, the laughter still lingering on his face.

His body ached from the match, but here, in the soft light of the apartment, it all faded into a manageable hum.

………

The next morning came swiftly, wrapped in the soft grey haze of a London dawn.

Izan stood by the window of the apartment, mug in hand, watching the drizzle bead against the glass.

The city moved slowly—cars sloshed past on the wet asphalt, and steam curled from grates into the early chill.

He looked through the gap in the half-opened door leading to the bedroom and saw Olivia still sleeping.

He smiled at her and sipped his tea before heading out for his day.

By the time Izan arrived, Colney was already alive.

A few of the boys were out on the pitch under the watchful eye of the conditioning staff, warming up with those strange band exercises that made even seasoned footballers look like tangled puppets.

Arteta stood just outside the facility, speaking with one of the analysts, glancing toward the entrance now and again.

When he saw Izan step out of his car, he gave a short nod, one that spoke more than any “good morning” ever could.

“Who keeps putting on slow jams before training?” Raya called out, half-dressed, towel slung around his shoulders, as Izan entered the room.

“This isn’t a spa!”

Izan grinned as he passed by, giving Saka a gentle nudge.

“He’s gonna blame you again.”

Saka raised both hands.

“Don’t look at me. Blame Jesus—man’s in his feels today.”

Gabriel Jesus shot a dramatic look from across the room after the accusation before chuckling.

“Music for the soul, bro.”

Laughter rippled through the room as the final bits of gear were adjusted, and Arteta’s voice echoed down the hallway.

“Ten minutes on the pitch!”

The players quickly stepped out of the room as they readied themselves for what was about to come.

The training session was intense but calculated.

With the match against Shakhtar Donetsk just a couple of days away, there was no point in overexertion, but the focus was laser-sharp.

Every movement had weight, and every pass was drilled with purpose.

Arteta stood on the sideline with his arms crossed, occasionally calling players over to correct body positioning or passing angles.

There was a quiet confidence about him, but it was underlined with tension.

European nights carried a different weight, and they all felt it.

After the session, they gathered in the tactical room.

Screens lit up with match clips—pressing triggers, build-up patterns, weak points in Shakhtar’s defensive line.

Carlos Cuesta took them through the shape and patterns Shakhtar had used in their past few games.

“They sit in a 4-1-4-1 most of the time, but it collapses quickly into a low block when pressured. Their left-back likes to drift—” he clicked on a frame where space opened up “—and that’s where we think there’ll be room.”

Izan looked closely, eyeing the screens like a movie was playing on them.

It was all starting to piece together.

Arteta turned to the squad.

“We’re at home. No match is easy in Europe, so I want all of you to be on your toes. Be patient but ruthless.”

Once that was wrapped up, they headed into media obligations.

A few players were rotated for presser duties, with Rice taking the microphones today.

Izan, though, had barely managed to slip past into recovery after feigning cramps.

“You ever gonna join the fantasy league, Izan?” Lewis Skelly called out as Izan took off his top.

“Nope,” Izan replied, slipping into the cold water with a shiver.

“Feels weird putting myself in a team.”

“Bro, I had you captain last week. Bless up.”

Izan chuckled. “Did I get you points?”

“More than Saka gives me. I got like 32 points from you alone after I triple-captained you,” Skelly joked, dodging a towel aimed at his head from Saka.

By the time they wrapped up recovery, the final match prep for the following day was already in motion.

Back in the locker room, Izan towelled off and got dressed.

On his way out, he ran into Arteta again near the exit.

“You good?” the manager asked.

“Yeah,” Izan said, nodding.

“Don’t go for any brand meetings this time, so they can take a photo and post it when we play the day after tomorrow,” Arteta said, causing Izan to chuckle.

“Okay, then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Arteta said with a nod after his words seemed to have gotten through to Izan who stepped out into the parking lot.

The driver had arrived early so Izan just slipped into the back seat but before they could go any further, Izan recieved a text from Olivia who had just finished her classes for the day.

“Can you pick me up?” it read.

Izan replied with a smirk before telling the driver to change directions towards Olivia’s location.