God Of football

Chapter 470: Result For The Weekend

The warm clatter of dishes and running water echoed through the kitchen as Izan rinsed a glass and handed it to Olivia, who wiped it dry with a towel. The mood was light and comfortable.

She bumped his hip gently with hers as he leaned forward to grab another plate.

“Careful, Hernández,” Olivia teased, grinning.

“You splash me again, and you’re getting dish duty for the rest of the week.”

“I thought this was dish duty,” Izan laughed, flicking a droplet her way anyway.

She rolled her eyes but was smiling as she took the next plate from him.

The two stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, lost in the easy rhythm of shared silence.

As the last plate was stacked into the rack, Izan leaned closer, nudging her nose with his.

“You know, I think we’ve earned a bit of time to just—”

“Kiss?” Olivia asked innocently, already leaning in.

“Cuddle,” Izan whispered, right before his lips brushed hers.

Buzz-Buzz.

His phone lit up on the counter. Both of them froze.

Izan sighed. “Miranda,” he muttered.

Olivia groaned and let her forehead fall onto his shoulder.

“Of course it is.”

“Sorry,” he said with a half-apologetic smile, giving her waist a gentle squeeze before picking up.

As he picked up, Olivia dramatically flopped against the counter, arms sprawled wide in theatrical despair.

“Hey, Miranda,” Izan said with a slight chuckle towards the end.

Her voice came through calm but firm.

“Sorry to interrupt your little domestic paradise, but we’ve got movement.”

“You don’t say,” Izan replied dryly, eyes still tracking Olivia as she began stacking cutlery with exaggerated noises.

“Yeah. Nothing’s in stone yet, but let’s just say everyone’s watching. Nike are circling and Adidas are making plans, obviously. Puma’s started asking questions.

Mizuno’s made a couple of interesting back-channel inquiries. Even New Balance tossed their name in just now.”

“New Balance, too, huh?” Izan blinked.

“I said don’t read into anything yet,” Miranda warned.

“It’s vague. They’re all… curious. Watching the trajectory. Some want meetings. But no offers yet.”

“Alright,” Izan nodded slowly, his free hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“And the brand you just got off the phone with?”

“I can’t name names,” she replied smoothly.

“It’s not how I do things, and you know that. But let’s say it’s one you wouldn’t expect. Different market.

Different type of play. But they like you. No one’s making moves yet—so don’t hold your breath. You’ve got to be patient.”

Izan paused, digesting it all.

“Okay. Keep me posted.”

“I always do,” Miranda said.

“Now get back to your evening. And tell Olivia I said sorry for ruining whatever you two were doing.”

He chuckled. “Will do.”

As he hung up and turned back around, Olivia was still leaning against the counter, arms crossed but grinning.

“I swear, that woman’s got a sixth sense for timing,” she said.

“She said sorry.”

“She better have,” Olivia smirked, walking up to him and looping her arms around his neck.

“Now. Where were we?”

“Cuddling,” he murmured, pulling her close again. “Definitely cuddling.”

………….

The sun bore down on London in a way that felt almost unnatural—no clouds, no breeze, just the relentless blaze of midday heat that turned the training ground at Colney into something resembling a desert pitch.

Sweat shimmered on every player’s brow, jerseys clung to torsos like second skins, and cleats dug into the dry turf with heavier weight than usual.

“What is this, Dubai?” Martinelli groaned, hands on his hips, as he dragged himself across the pitch during another transition drill.

“It’s like the sun has a personal grudge today.”

“I’m gonna melt,” Bukayo Saka muttered, spitting to the side and wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

“Nah, seriously—if Izan is sweating, you know it’s hell out here.”

That drew a few laughs, even as the players panted like runners at the end of a marathon.

Izan, who was usually the picture of calm efficiency, had rivulets of sweat dripping from his neck down to the back of his collar.

He didn’t complain—he never did—but his pace had slowed just slightly, his movements a touch less sharp than usual.

That alone was alarming.

Declan Rice dropped onto one knee, both hands planted in the turf.

“I can still feel the burgers in my veins, man. Why did I say yes to that second one?”

“You had three,” Partey corrected from nearby, voice half-choked with laughter.

“I had two and a half. Kai stole the rest.”

Kai Havertz, standing just behind Carlos Cuesta, raised both hands innocently.

“Man’s trying to blame me for his poor life choices.”

“Alright, alright!” Arteta’s voice sliced through the haze, sharp and unforgiving.

“No one forced you to eat like boxers after weigh-in. You lot begged me for burgers in Bergamo. You don’t get both—grease and comfort.”

A collective groan rolled over the squad like thunder.

“But boss,” Saka piped up, a grin pulling at his lips, “we didn’t expect to be sprinting under this sun. This is criminal.”

Arteta narrowed his eyes, arms crossed as he stood near Carlos Cuesta and Steve Round.

“Oh, so you expected me to feed you junk and then let you stroll through the next match?”

“Nooo…” Saka said, drawing out the word in mock innocence.

“Yes,” Martinelli mumbled beside him.

“I heard that!” Arteta snapped, though the corner of his mouth twitched with a smile.

“Don’t look at me,” Rice said, sprawled out on his back now.

“I’m done. Finished. I don’t even like burgers anymore. I might go vegetarian after this.”

“Lies,” said Ben White without looking up, calmly juggling a ball by himself like the heat didn’t affect him.

“You’re eating Nando’s by Wednesday.”

“Traitor,” Rice mumbled.

Arteta clapped his hands once.

“Up! Last set. Then recovery. Then you can cry in the ice bath.”

As the players shuffled into formation, grumbling like schoolboys on punishment, Izan jogged next to Saka, his voice barely above a murmur.

“How do you always have the energy to talk this much?”

“It’s called survival instinct,” Saka replied, deadpan.

“If I don’t complain, I’ll die.”

Izan shook his head, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

“You remind me of someone back in Valencia.”

“Was he funny like me?” Saka said beside Izan.

“Nope. Just dumb. At least he thought he was, just like you think you are.”

As the drill began again—a tight sequence of passes under pressure, rapid transitions from defense to attack—the grumbling faded into sheer effort.

Despite the moaning, the team worked hard.

It was hot.

It was painful. But the kind of cohesion they’d shown in Bergamo didn’t come from talent alone.

It came from these moments. Under the sun. Under pressure. With nothing but sweat and sarcasm to pull them through.

And as Izan found himself turning sharply past a rushing defender, slicing a pass into Kai’s feet before darting forward to receive the return ball, he could feel it—the system inside him humming, waiting, watching.

The Alien path demanded more.

But Colney, even under a punishing sun, was where that kind of fire was forged.

Even if Saka was seconds away from passing out.

“Water,” Bukayo wheezed as he finished the rep and leaned on Izan.

“Izan… if I die… tell my family I loved them.”

“Tell them yourself,” Izan replied, grinning as they walked off the pitch.

Rice groaned again. “That’s why sunlight and London are spelled differently. I’ll be allergic to the sun at this rate.”

“You weren’t allergic to burgers,” Carlos Cuesta quipped from the sideline.

“Those had lettuce!” Rice defended.

The laughter, as strained and breathless as it was, rippled through the group.

Sunburnt, sore, and borderline delirious, the players stilled laughed their way to the lockers as the sun kept raining it’s shine on Colney.

………..

The overhead lights dimmed slightly as the large screen at the front of the room flickered to life.

The room was quiet now, the usual banter simmered down to soft murmurs as Arsenal’s first team players slouched into the cushioned seats, most of them still towel-dried and recovering from the blistering sun workout outside.

Declan Rice sat with his arms folded, water bottle resting against his leg.

Saka leaned back beside Martinelli, who had a protein bar halfway to his mouth but was frozen mid-bite.

Izan settled in near the center of the row, focused but relaxed, his long legs stretched out under the seat in front of him.

His mind, tuned and receptive, switched to matchday mode the moment the footage began to roll.

Arteta stood near the screen, arms behind his back, his voice calm but clear.

“Alright. You’ve earned your break today,” he began, nodding once.

“Now we earn our result for the weekend.”

The screen showed the Etihad pitch from above—City in their light blue patterns, pressing in that relentless machine-like rhythm.

The footage then cut quickly between moments—De Bruyne’s curling ball behind the backline, Rodri holding a pivot with frightening precision, Haaland ghosting behind defenders with that chilling lack of emotion.

“This isn’t a team you beat with passion alone,” Arteta said.

“You beat them with detail,” he added, glossing over their faces before turning his attention back to the screen.

A/N; This is the first of the day. See you soon with the Golden ticket chapters. Also, I will start bringing the powerstone bonus so save them for me

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