God Of football - Chapter 521

Chapter 521: See You At The Emirates.
The clink of silverware and the low murmur of conversation filled the softly lit room.

In a corner booth, mostly out of view, two men sat across from each other—well-dressed, casual in posture, but with a precision in their tone that betrayed ease.

One of them—older, his hair touched with grey, his cufflinks subtle but costly—stirred his espresso slowly before speaking.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice even, eyes not quite meeting his companion’s.

“It’s time I brought someone else under the umbrella.”

The other man—slimmer, younger, but sharp in the eyes—tilted his head slightly.

“Another athlete?”

“Another face,” the older man clarified.

“Marketable. Smart. Global-ready. Not just a player, but a product.”

A pause.

The espresso remained untouched.

“Timing’s right,” he added.

“They’re still forming their foundation. Before the walls get too high.”

The younger man smiled faintly. “You mean him, don’t you.”

The older man didn’t answer at first and just let the silence settle.

Then: “All I’ll say is… I haven’t seen this kind of orbit build around someone so young in a very long time. Maybe never. And not just on the pitch. Off it too.”

His companion leaned back in the booth.

“The problem is, you’re not the only one circling.”

“I’m not worried about the others,” the older man replied, finally sipping the espresso.

“They don’t know how to talk to legacy. They only know how to talk to money.”

He set the cup down softly.

“I plan to offer both.”

Across the table, the younger man chuckled under his breath.

“Careful. If his camp catches wind, they’ll tighten the circle.”

“Let them tighten the circle as much as they can if they catch wind of it,” came the reply.

“But I want you to know that every fortress has a door. You just need to know which one opens first.”

He reached for the bill.

“Anyway,” he said, standing, “I’m not chasing. Just watching. For now.”

He left a crisp note beside the plate, buttoned his jacket, and slipped out into the night.

Behind him, the conversation settled back into the usual restaurant noise.

But something heavier had just passed through.

…….

Colney Training Ground – Friday Morning

The wind rolled low over the grass, carrying the crisp sting of autumn with it.

Boots hit the turf with rhythmic thuds.

Bibs rustled as bodies shifted, darted, and collided.

Cones were scattered across two full-length pitches, balls zipping between stations, voices slicing the morning air.

“Back, back, back! Tuck in!” White’s voice—sharp and commanding—rang out from the left side.

“Meri! Square! Square, now!” Izan shouted, pointing before the pass even came.

“Don’t switch off there! Stay with him!”

Saliba barked, urgency in his tone as Izan tried to ghost behind him.

The ball zipped across the grass again, cut in two by a sizzling diagonal from Rice.

“One more! One more!”

Rice yelled, calling for the layoff.

Players chased, adjusted, and demanded as the training grounds filled with loud, chaotic but controlled energy.

Off to the side one of the attacking coaches clapped twice, his voice calm but clipped.

“Rotate left, Izan—hold that angle.”

Izan nodded without looking.

Took the cue, and shifted three paces into the channel, just as the ball rolled toward him.

He controlled it with ease—sole stop, flick forward, then a sharp give-and-go with Nwaneri that had two defenders twisting before the ball came back to him.

“Oi, golden boy!” Saka called out, sprinting across to intercept with a grin on his face.

“You’re playing like the trophy’s already on your shelf!”

Izan smirked, slipping the ball between Saka’s legs as he passed.

Laughter rippled from a few nearby players.

Saka turned, mock-scowling.

“Nah, nah—see, this is what the Ballon d’Or talk does to a man. Man’s heated!”

“Maybe you should get nominated,” Izan shot back, deadpan.

“Wow,” Saka said, walking backward.

“He’s spicy today. Arteta better bench him before he turns this into a one-man show.”

They collided lightly in the next rotation, shoulder to shoulder continuing their friendly tussle.

Further up the pitch, Gabriel shouted across the line.

“Wide’s open! Come on! Tighten the right!”

.

Izan caught another pass, turned quickly between the lines, and sprinted forward again—Saka giving chase, laughter, and fire mixed in every step.

It wasn’t matchday yet, but he was already feeling it.

……..

[And So am I. I’m bout ta …. ]

……

AXA Centre, Kirkby – Friday Afternoon

For all the tension in the air heading into the game, the skies above Merseyside were a pale slate, clouds hanging low but unthreatening.

On the training pitch, Liverpool’s first team moved like clockwork—tight drills, fast transitions, the occasional shout but mostly clean, silent execution.

Arne Slot stood at the edge of the session in a black training top, arms folded, eyes sharp behind narrow glasses.

He watched the rotations with quiet intensity as his players moved around with concentration befitting what he had drilled in them since the season started.

“Trent,” he murmured, almost to himself, as Alexander-Arnold split two mannequins with a no-look pass in a buildup drill.

“That’s better.”

Beside him, Henrik Faber, his assistant, approached with a tablet in one hand and a physio update in the other.

Slot turned slightly, not breaking eye contact with the pitch.

“Update?”

Henrik nodded.

“Jota’s fine. Took a knock to the shin in the last UCL match but trained normally today. Konaté—precautionary. He’ll be monitored but should be cleared. Szoboszlai might need a few more hours. He’s stiff but not flagged.”

Slot nodded once. “Núñez?”

“Bit sore. Took contact but he’s not ruled out. Might need to manage his minutes.”

“Okay,” Slot said simply.

“I’ll need full clearance by tomorrow morning. No point risking half-fit players against them.”

Henrik gave a quick “Understood” before stepping away.

Slot remained.

His eyes tracked the ball as it moved—Van Dijk switching play diagonally to Robertson, who cushioned it with his thigh before firing a cross into a five-man drill in the box where Salah met it cleanly on the half-volley.

The net snapped but no shouts followed.

In midfield, Mac Allister moved in silent sync with Gravenberch, the pair playing short combinations in a pocket under pressure.

Gakpo slipped between cones at the edge of the session, moving fluidly, his eyes locked in.

Arne Slot, still staring at his players nodded before turning towards the tunnel. They had to be ready.

………..

The evening of the following day was lively as Man City had won—but it hadn’t felt like a victory.

They scraped past Southampton with a single goal.

Haaland had scored early, and everyone thought it would be routine from there.

But it wasn’t.

Southampton had dug in, made it ugly, forced mistakes.

Pep barked his way through the second half like a man chasing shadows and when the whistle blew, the scoreboard still said 1–0.

Three points.

Still, the table shifted. City climbed to 23, just one behind Arsenal Level and two ahead of Liverpool.

The message was clear: any slip now, and the title race could lurch in a new direction.

By the time the sun began to sink across North London, the buzz online had turned into a storm.

Arsenal fans were pacing.

Liverpool fans were circling and the City supporters were smug in their silence.

Who was Winning The Match The Next Day?

The debate spilled onto social media.

Everyone had a take.

Everyone had a prediction.

And then, just past six, Izan lit the fuse with a picture on his Instagram story.

The picture entailed him, standing behind a cannon while shooting at a ship that bore the colors of the Merseyside club.

The photo spread like wildfire.

Screenshots. Crops. Edits. Memes. Graphics.

Every fanbase had something to say.

His most recent post—a training photo from earlier in the day—was bombarded.

Four thousand new comments in fifteen minutes.

One stood out.

Simple and mockful.

It had been liked nearly twenty thousand times.

Big talk for someone who’s about to get eaten alive under the lights.

Liverpool isn’t your day-to-day. Enjoy disappearing.

The response came forty-eight minutes later.

Short. Precise.

@IzanHernandez: See you at the Emirates.

The reply sat there like a trap left open.

No emojis. No follow-up.

Just five words—clean, sharp, and almost prophetic.

And it was enough.

The internet folded in on itself.

Some Arsenal fans reposted it like a sermon.

Others turned it into a graphic: Izan standing at the edge of a burning Emirates, the words stamped across the bottom in bold white font like a tagline for a film.

“See you at the Emirates.”

And was already on shirts before midnight.

By the next morning, the sun over North London broke clean and soft, as if the weather didn’t yet know the war that was about to be waged beneath it.

The roads leading toward the Emirates grew tighter with foot traffic, banners unfurled, and the red of Arsenal began to flood the scene. Murmurs turned to chants.

Chants turned to songs.

Songs into mantras that were being echoed around

“Here they come,” a puny voice said, causing the fans around to turn towards the blacked-out Arsenal bus that was approaching.

A/N: First of the day. I’mma sleep now so byee.