God Of football

Chapter 451: North London Derby [GT - ]

The last echoes of laughter and the shuffle of boots faded as the players filed toward the recovery room — ice baths, massages, muscle flushing before the next dayʼs tactical grind.

Outside, under the muted fluorescent lights of the coaching offices, Arteta sat with his core staff — a few tablets spread out on the table, clips paused mid-frame, lineup boards wiped clean, ready for names to be written in.

They didnʼt rush.

The real work always started in these moments, when the noise thinned, and only the hard questions remained.

Carlos Cuesta, ever meticulous, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely.

”Izan looks fine,” he said first. ”Sharp. Maybe sharper than before the break, somehow. But—”

He paused, choosing his words.

”We still need to manage it. Heʼs still growing. A knock could be detrimental, and you know how things get between us and those white chickens. Heʼs just come back. Maybe we save him for Atalanta — fresh legs, fresh mind.”

Nico Jover, the set-piece specialist, nodded thoughtfully.

”Against Tottenham, we can solve with what we have. Experience. Structure. No need to rush it.”

There was a low murmur of agreement around the table.

Conservative. Logical. The kind of caution big clubs often fell into — when every match was a risk calculated in months, not minutes.

Arteta listened, face unreadable.

Fingers steepled lightly under his chin.

Silent until the room naturally quieted itself, waiting for his call.

Then he smiled.

A small, knowing thing — almost amused, but not warm.

”Thatʼs exactly what everyone else thinks,” he said, voice quiet but cutting through the room like a thread pulled taut.

”They look at him, and they see some kid even though heʼs proved time and time again that he is not just that.”

He let that hang for half a beat, long enough for it to settle.

”And thatʼs how he punishes them.”

”When heʼs on the pitch, he isnʼt just some kid,” Arteta continued, tapping his fingers once against the tabletop for emphasis.

”He doesnʼt play like it. He doesnʼt move like it. He doesnʼt think like it. Forget the number.”

The coaches exchanged glances — some nodding, some simply absorbing it, the tone set now without room for argument.

Arteta stood slowly, pacing toward the lineup board with the dry-erase marker in hand.

When he spoke next, it was with the same calm precision he demanded from his players.

”Raya.”

A tap of the pen.

”Saliba. Gabriel. White. Zinchenko.”

Another tap after each. No discussion — just the names that picked themselves.

He paused.

”Partey, Declan and Ødegaard.”

Another pause. Longer now, the midfield needing careful shaping.

Options shifting quietly in the air between them.

The room leaned in as he continued, names and shapes slowly taking form.

The hum of the projector grew softer.

The markers squeaked once against the board, then stopped.

Outside, the London sky had darkened into a heavy gray, the promise of rain folding over the city.

Inside the room, everything hung in a delicate balance — preparation sharpening into inevitability.

..........

The evening of the day before the match, Arsenalʼs PR team posted across their socials — a clean, sharp graphic of Izan:

IZAN HERNÁNDEZ

FIRST NORTH LONDON DERBY LOADING...

#Soon #NorthLondonDerby | #AFC | #COYG

The photo showed him during training — sleeves pushed up, ball tucked under his arm, the looming Emirates arches blurred out behind him.

The caption underneath was simple:

”The first of many. What do you think will happen tomorrow? ”

Within minutes, the comment sections ignited.

—

@GoonerJakey:

”Heʼs gonna cook Van de Ven so bad, man, I can smell it already.”

@COYG_Megs:

”16 in age, 26 in soul. Tottenham ainʼt ready.”

@RivalTearsDaily:

”Broʼs composure is ILLEGAL. Spurs fans are shaking.”

But the Tottenham lot fired back just as fast:

@HotspurHearts:

”All this hype for a kid whoʼs gonna get sent to row Z by VDV.”

@SpursNation7:

Enjoy the memes when Izan gets pocketed tomorrow. Bookmarking this.”

@RealMaddersMagic:

”When Van de Ven straps him up and throws away the key, donʼt cry about it.”

It could have been it, but then the Gooners responded in kind, digging deeper into the trenches:

@AFCJules:

”They laughed at Saka once, too. Look at them now.”

@Izanʼswife: Tottenham fans talking about us hyping Izan when thatʼs all they do with Brennan Johnson is really funny to me

@ParteyTime:

”Bro, theyʼre coping hard already, and the ball hasnʼt even been kicked yet.”

@YoungGunnersClub:

”Imagine needing two defenders to stop a not-yet 17-year-old.

By the time evening rolled around, Izanʼs name was trending across London —half the city waiting to crown him,

half the city waiting to tear him down.

Either way, theyʼd all know the results once the match began.

............

The morning of the match buzzed with a strange kind of quiet energy — the calm before a war drum.

Izan moved through his apartment with his usual efficiency: bag packed, boots checked twice, headphones around his neck.

His Arsenal travel kit — black and sleek with the gold accents — fit sharp against his frame, the club crest almost glowing under the morning light seeping through the windows.

At the door, Olivia hovered, still in her university hoodie, half-asleep but smiling.

She reached up without hesitation and kissed his cheek — a quick, warm touch, a small ritual that had become automatic between them.

”Kill it today,” she said softly.

”Iʼll come straight after class. Iʼll be at the stadium. Supporting, screaming, everything.”

Izan couldnʼt help the low laugh that escaped him, deep and genuine — the rare kind that softened the sharpness he usually carried.

He kissed her forehead in return, a quick, sure press.

”Donʼt get kicked out,” he murmured, voice teasing but almost tender.

Olivia rolled her eyes, shoving him lightly in the chest.

”Go. Before youʼre late and they blame me.”

Izan chuckled again under his breath, stepping back and pulling on his cap.

When he exited onto the curb, the air was cool and brisk — London sharpening its edges for Derby Day.

Waiting by the car was the same driver from the airport pickup, dressed in black again, a quiet sentinel against the rising noise of the city.

The door swung open smoothly, and without another glance behind, Izan climbed in.

The door shut with a firm click, sealing him into the quiet space of the ride —his world narrowing, focusing, sharpening into the long, tense hours that lay ahead.

Colney first.

Then the war at Tottenhamʼs ground.

............

The sky over North London looked fractured — bruised clouds shifting restlessly above the sweeping curve of the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.

Below, the air crackled — thousands of Spurs fans already crowding the plazas and walkways, the buzz of conversation edged with something darker.

A desperation not to lose.

Outside the main entrance, reporters prowled with their crews, weaving through the dense crowds, microphones thrust into the faces of fans already two or three pints deep.

”Predictions for today?” one of the broadcasters asked, angling toward a group of Tottenham supporters draped in scarves and flags.

”Three-one to the good guys,” one of them barked immediately, grinning wide.

”Weʼll expose that little Spanish wonderkid today, just you watch,” another added, laughter rippling around him.

”You lot are in for a reality check!” a third shouted directly into the camera, voice rising above the background roar.

Their confidence wasnʼt quiet.

It was loud, brash, and threaded with the kind of spite that could only exist between these two clubs.

The reporter smiled, already shifting to move on to the next huddle —

— when the air changed.

It started as a murmur at the far edge of the crowd, a movement like animals sensing something unseen.

Then came the sound — low engines humming under the afternoon sky — growing louder, closer.

All eyes turned.

Phones shot up like a sea of arms.

The Arsenal team bus rounded the corner in a tight convoy, police motorcycles flanking its sides, sirens flashing but silent.

For half a second, there was a stunned stillness.

Then — chaos.

A knot of Tottenham fans broke loose from the barriers, slipping past stewards too slow to react.

They charged the side of the bus, fists slamming against the heavy metal panels with sharp, hollow thuds.

The noise was a mix of rage and triumph, as if just touching the bus might throw the Arsenal players off balance before the battle even began.

Inside the bus, the impact made the floor tremble lightly beneath their feet.

Izan sat by the window, headphones resting around his neck, watching it all through the tinted glass — the twisted faces, the fists pounding, the security scrambling to regain control.

Beside him, Saka leaned over slightly, elbow nudging against Izanʼs arm — a rare crack in Bukayoʼs usually easygoing exterior.

”Welcome to the North London Derby,” Saka said, the words low and almost fond — the way an older brother might warn a younger one of a storm already rolling in.

Izanʼs mouth tilted into a small, knowing grin.

He turned his head just enough for Saka to catch the look in his eyes — not fear, not nerves —

but something deeper.

Readiness.

He pulled his headphones up, sealing himself into a world where the noise couldnʼt touch him.

A/N: Okay so we won the Copa del rey and I couldnt sleep so i decided to be productive. Anyways, have fun reading and Iʼll see you in a few, sleep hours.