God Of football

Chapter 492: Headliner

Izan raised a brow. “You lot forget that we work off the pitch too. I had a meeting with the .”

“Yeah, yeah, tell that to the headline,” Nwaneri said, scrolling with a grin on his face.

Izan just stood there, too tired to continue but too agitated to sit calmly.

[System detects the host is agitated. Focus LV 3 Activated.]

Izan felt a host of calm washing over his body.

“Thanks, Max,” he said, receiving a buzz in reply.

“Arsenal Starlet Caught Stepping Out Before UCL Clash — sounds wild, bro.” Saka continued.

Odegaard stepped in again, more serious now.

“You text Arteta?”

“He knows,” Izan said.

“Told him everything. Even showed him the date we wore those fits.”

“Good. Then let them bark.”

But outside the walls of Colney, the noise only grew.

@WengerEra: “This is so unserious. PSG tomorrow and our 16-year-old wonderkid’s outside?”

@GoonerGospel: “He’s not even legal drinking age. What club lets him in?”

@RedWhiteRazor: “To be fair, we’ve seen older players actually partying and still showing up. Chill on the kid.”

@NeutralNations: “Y’all mad at a dinner outfit? He’s probably in a meeting with all those brands that want him.”

@LondonFCMemes: “Izan Hernandez spotted at ‘high-end social location’ aka the Real Madrid move. He’s probably grown tired of carrying Arsenal this season.”

@FootballDadUK: “Reminder: he’s 16. He’s a child. And he’s better than most pros. Let him live.”

Back at Colney – 20 Minutes Later

As the boys began changing for their departure to the stadium, Izan sat tying his boots loosely.

He glanced at his phone again.

Another message from Miranda:

“I just got off with Spain. They’re doing what they can to bury the keywords, but British tabloids already have traction. It’s gonna echo till kickoff. And yes, I’m finally moving our PR core to London. You were right.”

Izan sighed.

Just then, Cuesta walked in with a clipboard.

“Ten minutes till departure.”

The boys rose, energy sharpening now. The light session, the joking, the noise — all fading.

Outside Colney –

A cluster of early-arriving fans waited with phones, snapping shots as the team filtered out.

“Izan, clean the boots, not the clubs!” someone shouted, laughing.

Another said, “Romario 2.0 in London! Get your samba ready!”

But there were calmer heads.

“Let the boy be. He’s sixteen with pressure like he’s the captain of Brazil. He deserves space.”

“He couldn’t even get in a club if he tried, mate. He’s got a baby face!”

“Baby face?! He looks older than me, and I’m 23!”

Laughter rippled through the crowd as Izan pulled up his hood and boarded the bus, nodding to the fans as he went.

He slumped into his seat next to Saka, who offered a fist bump.

“Don’t sweat it,” Bukayo said. “Just a few goals could change the narrative.”

Izan didn’t answer — he just looked out the window, the Emirates rising into view in the distance, under a sky beginning to turn evening silver.

………

The Emirates was alive.

Floodlights pulsed against the low-hanging North London dusk, washing the stadium bowl in brilliant white.

The air was crisp and heavy with noise — the buzz of expectation, of competition, of Europe’s biggest stage returning to the red half of London.

Phones flashed in all directions.

There was a collective hum, a kinetic electricity that ran through the concrete and steel.

It wasn’t just Arsenal vs PSG anymore — it was Arsenal, PSG… and Izan Hernandez.

The home crowd roared as the Arsenal players stepped out for their warm-up, but it was the sudden pitch of whistles and jeers from the opposite end that snapped everyone’s attention to the away corner.

“BOOOOOOO!”

Something large began to unfurl in the PSG end.

It rolled down in synchronized waves, handled by dozens of traveling fans.

A tifo. Giant, deep navy blue canvas.

The image was unmistakable.

“CLUBBING > TRAINING?” it read in bold, acidic white.

And below it, a cartoonish caricature of a young footballer in a white Saint Laurent shirt — holes and all — sipping from a neon-styled cocktail glass with a paper straw.

The figure wore sunglasses, a smirk, and on one lens: the PSG badge signifying the impending clash that had graced them.

The irony was calculated, and the timing razor-sharp.

Slight gaps, echoed first, then a mix of laughter and outrage rippled through the home stands.

Izan had just finished a round of high knees and was rolling the ball beneath his studs at the halfway line when Bukayo Saka nudged him.

“Mate…” Saka mumbled, squinting. “You seeing this?”

Izan turned his head slowly.

His eyes locked onto the tifo.

Then, one corner of his mouth twitched up, cynical and unimpressed.

He stood there with his right foot resting on the ball, posture loose, unreadable.

After a long second, he said under his breath, “How did they get this done so fast? You see the drink in my hand?”

Saka leaned in.

“Might be a virgin mojito,” he deadpanned.

Izan gave a short laugh through his nose.

“Next time I’ll wear a disguise.”

“Yeah, wear my face. Confuse the internet. Bald fade and a grin. Sorted.”

The cameras caught them mid-laugh, grinning under the weight of a full stadium’s gaze.

Somewhere in the stands, a photographer’s shutter clicked — a perfect contrast to the mocking banner behind them.

The two passed the ball between them for a few seconds before Izan flicked it up, tapped it over Saka’s shin, and caught it with the sole of his foot.

Showboating, but quietly.

A small cheer came from the home end.

But not everyone was relaxed.

Mikel Arteta stood by the dugout, arms folded, his eyes flickering toward the tifo.

He didn’t react outwardly — didn’t flinch, didn’t scowl — but Carlos Cuesta beside him could see the pulse in the manager’s temple, the slight tightening of his jaw.

“That’s not great,” Cuesta said quietly.

Arteta shook his head. “They’re baiting him.”

“You think it will?”

“No,” Arteta said. “But i just want them to keep it about just Izan.”

Back on the pitch, Izan jogged toward the technical area for a sip of water.

As he neared, a few of the PSG fans jeered again.

“Save us a drink, Romario Jr.!”

“Where’s the party tonight?”

Izan barely looked at them.

He twisted open the bottle, took a long sip, and then subtly, deliberately winked in their direction.

A few gasped. A few laughed. Some booed louder.

The crowd buzzed louder. Fans filled in every last seat.

And far above them all, in the broadcasting gantry, the CBS crew were already live.

“Welcome to CBS Sports Champions League Night — and yes, that was the tifo you saw. A brutal one targeting Arsenal’s teenage sensation, Izan Hernandez…”

Kate Abdo turned slightly in her chair, the hum of the Emirates audible through the glass behind her.

“Well,” she said, her voice calm but laced with curiosity, “we were always expecting fireworks tonight, but maybe not before kickoff.”

Beside her, Thierry Henry folded his arms, leaning back as the tifo incident replayed on a monitor in front of them.

“That’s… brutal,” he murmured, watching the exaggerated cartoon of Izan holding a cocktail under bold letters accusing him of clubbing instead of training. He shook his head with a faint chuckle.

“Fans are getting creative.”

Jamie Carragher leaned forward, squinting.

“Look at the detail on that thing. That’s no last-minute job, mate. PSG fans came prepared.”

“Prepared to rattle a 16-year-old,” Micah Richards added, tone half-serious, half-disbelieving.

Henry gave a sideways glance. “We don’t even know if he did anything wrong. That photo could’ve been anything. Timing’s bad, yes, but I say wait. Let the boy speak — or let his football speak for him.”

Kate nodded. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s not just about public image now. This is arguably one of the biggest games of his young career. He’s played against Barca and Real Madrid, but the Champions League is a whole new feel. How he responds tonight could say a lot.”

On the pitch below, Izan was already warming up again, jogging backward toward the North Bank with the ball tucked under his arm.

His touch was sharp, his balance fluid. Saka ran past him and flicked the back of his head, and Izan grinned faintly before shifting into another drill.

Jamie pointed at the monitor.

“See that? You wouldn’t know anything happened. That’s composure. If he can keep that same energy when the ball rolls, Arsenal’ll be fine.”

Henry tilted his head. “It reminds me of the first time Messi walked into a Champions League night like this. Noise, pressure, eyes everywhere. And he just… played.”

Micah grinned. “You’re saying Izan’s the next Leo?”

“I’m saying he’s got a chance,” Henry replied calmly. “But it starts tonight. The world’s watching now. Not because of the photo, because they want to know if he’s worth all the talk.”

The camera panned across the tunnel, where PSG players were lining up in their black and pink warm-up kits, their expressions focused.

“Whether it’s noise or narrative, the game is almost here. Arsenal. PSG. Hernandez under the lights. Kickoff coming up.” Kate Abdo ended, wrapping up the session as the Arsenal players returned to the tunnel.

A/N: Okay. Last of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you with the GT chapter for 150 Golden tickets.

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