Harbinger Of Glory

The road stretched smooth and quiet all the way out of London, and by the time Izan pulled off toward London Colney, the sun was properly awake, streaking the training ground with a pale, golden wash.

The Jesko purred lowly as he eased it through the security gates, the guard at the booth frowning a bit before giving a knowing shake of his head at the sight of the person in the car.

Izan parked neatly in his usual spot, the sleek silhouette of the machine looking almost alien among the mix of Range Rovers, Mercs, and Audis scattered around the lot.

He shut the engine off, slid the door up, and climbed out just as the faint roar of another car came rolling into the grounds.

Izan squinted against the sun and spotted the unmistakable red body of a Ferrari Spider crawling into the space beside him.

Bukayo Saka, hoodie up and eyes heavy, looked like he’d barely made it out of bed before dragging himself here.

His movements screamed of a man still caught somewhere between sleep and autopilot.

But as soon as his eyes fell on the Jesko, it was like a switch flicked in his brain—tiredness evaporated instantly.

”Wait,” Saka cut the engine, practically hopping out before the Ferrari had even cooled down.

He walked straight toward Izan’s car, his hand brushing across the flawless lines of the door like he was touching a rare artefact.

”In the fucking flesh. So this is the car,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe and mock annoyance.

”The car I keep seeing all over my feed, every single day—because of you.”

Izan chuckled, slipping his bag from the passenger side. ”What, you stalking me now?”

Saka gave him a look, grinning.

”Mate, I follow you, don’t act like I’m the only one. Every time I open Instagram, boom, Jesko this, Gemera that. Do you know how embarrassing it is for me? I’m supposed to be the starboy, and you’re out here making me look like I drive a Ford Focus.”

Izan laughed, shaking his head as he shut the car door with a soft click.

”A Ferrari Spider isn’t exactly a Focus, bro.”

”Yeah, but it’s not this,” Saka shot back, gesturing at the Jesko like it was a spaceship.

”First the unreleased Gemera, now the Absolut. You’ve got more exclusives than some dealerships. I need to step my game up, for real. I need a deal with a car brand or something, otherwise I’ll keep looking broke next to you.”

Izan slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder, still smiling.

”Tell you what,” he said casually. ”If we win the treble, I’ll introduce you to the CEO myself. You can ask him for a car brand deal.”

That stopped Saka dead in his tracks for half a second.

The joking grin slid right off his face, replaced by something sharp, something focused.

His eyes locked on Izan’s, dead serious now.

”You’re not playing, are you?”

”Nope.”

Saka didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, in one swift motion, he straightened up and threw a mock salute, lips pressed together in a soldier’s vow.

”Yes, captain. Treble it is.”

Izan snorted, giving him a light shove on the shoulder. ”Relax, soldier. It’s just cars, man.”

But Saka didn’t break character; his steps fell in line with Izan’s, the smile creeping back, but his eyes still carrying that spark, that competitive fire.

”Nah, bro. You’ve done it now. I’m in. Treble or nothing.”

The two of them pushed through the glass doors into the complex side by side, the lingering sound of their laughter bouncing off the parking lot behind them, engines cooling under the morning sun.

.....

”RUN. RUN LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT BECAUSE IT DOES”

The Colney air was already heavy with the rhythm of boots against turf and lungs dragging in sharp breaths when Arteta’s voice cut through the morning like a whip.

”What did you eat yesterday, eh? What did you eat that one morning session has turned you into this?”

His tone boomed across the training ground, fierce but not cruel, the kind of roar that made you feel both scolded and driven at the same time.

”You think one day without me is a holiday? You think you can come back and run like this?”

In truth, they weren’t doing badly at all.

The players were fit, sharp, and competitive.

But Arteta had always said it, that whenever they returned from even the smallest break, he would burn whatever comfort they had allowed to settle in.

He hated softness, hated complacency.

To him, the smallest lapse was an infection, and this morning, he was determined to sweat it out of them.

”Last sprint!” he shouted, raising a hand.

The players groaned, but they knew better than to protest.

”And the last man across the line...” He paused, letting the silence build, ”...gets two more laps!”

A collective sigh rose from the group, but it quickly dissolved into determination.

The pack kicked into gear as boots thudded harder, breaths sharpened, and eyes narrowed towards the final line.

Bukayo Saka, usually a smiling figure, wore a grin now that was more challenge than joy.

He turned slightly, side-eyeing Izan and Partey, the two who always seemed to dictate the front of these runs.

”Not today,” Saka muttered under his breath, pushing his legs harder.

He managed to edge closer, the gap between himself and Partey shrinking with every stride.

But just when it looked like he might overtake the Ghanaian, Izan shifted.

His shoulders lowered, stride lengthened, and in an instant, he was gone.

A burst of raw acceleration, the kind only youth, hunger, and ridiculous natural talent or a system could produce.

He tore through the finish line, but unlike the others, he didn’t slow down.

He didn’t stop.

He went straight into another lap.

The players behind him gasped, some annoyed, others in disbelief, because they knew what was coming after this.

Even Partey, usually so composed, shook his head with a disbelieving smile.

Arteta, though, beamed like a proud father.

”Look at him!” he shouted, gesturing toward Izan’s figure still eating up the pitch.

”Seventeen years old! The youngest here! The leader of the pack! He chose another lap. And you? You are seniors! Captains! Champions! You will not falter while the youngest refuses to stop!”

The words hit like fuel.

Legs wobbled, but the men found something extra in themselves.

They had to.

If Izan could go again, none of them would dare fold.

Still, Saka, ever the joker, decided to break the tension.

As the whistle blew to end the run, he collapsed theatrically right in front of Arteta, arms sprawled, tongue hanging out.

”Boss,” he wheezed, ”I’m finished. Done. Gone. Tell my mum I love her.”

Arteta raised a brow, fighting back a laugh, before turning to his assistant.

”Carlos, call a tow truck. We’ll need it to get his Ferrari Spider out of the car park. He’s not driving home like this.”

The group erupted in laughter, some doubling over despite their fatigue, as even the staff on the sidelines chuckled.

Saka popped up suddenly, abandoning the act with a grin.

”No, no, gaffer, I’m good! I’m ready! Watch this!”

And off he went, sprinting again with a burst of energy that made it look like he’d been reborn.

Arteta shook his head, smiling.

”Clown,” he muttered, though it was clear the affection in his voice outweighed the irritation.

One by one, the players dragged themselves across the finish line, hands on their knees, sweat dripping, hearts pounding.

As the last few staggered in, a collective groan of relief swept through the group, finally, finally, it was over.

But then Arteta’s voice came again, calm this time, almost too calm.

”Good,” he said, clapping his hands. ”Now... we start the proper drills after brunch.”

The chorus of complaints was instant, groans, headshakes, a few muttered curses in different languages, but beneath it all, there was a shared grin among the squad.

They were battered, yes, but this was the kind of suffering that made them stronger, together.

And as Izan jogged back toward them, bib clinging to his chest, the others couldn’t help but clap him on the back.

”Think of us next time when you decide to suddenly blast off into space,” Partey called when Izan passed by him, but before the latter could continue, Arteta’s voice cut in.

”Izan,” he called, his voice cutting above the chatter. ”With me.”

Heads immediately turned.

Some of the lads smirked knowingly; others just raised their brows.

Izan wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his chest still rising and falling fast, then jogged after the manager.

Behind him, Bukayo couldn’t resist.

He cupped his hands around his mouth, his voice carrying across the pitch in a mock-theatrical tone.

”There he goes! Arteta’s long-lost son! Nepotism at its finest! Favourites FC!”

A ripple of laughter spread across the group, a mix of tired chuckles and groans.

A couple of players even clapped dramatically as if applauding Izan’s ”special treatment.”

Arteta stopped dead in his tracks and half-turned, fixing Saka with a stare that could curdle milk.

Bukayo froze for half a second, grinned nervously, then bolted after the others toward the building before his manager could say a word.

”I know you love me, coach!” Saka shouted over his shoulder, vanishing with the rest of the pack.

Arteta exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He muttered something under his breath in Spanish before turning back to Izan.

”Come on,” he said, gesturing for him to keep up. ”Ignore that clown.”