God Of football

Chapter 499: Just A Kid [ 500 Thanks to readers.]

He touched his chest. Pointed at the badge. Raised a fist.

PSG players approached him.

Some offered tired nods, others a hand.

Marquinhos tapped his back and said something in French that made Izan smile faintly.

Hakimi walked past without a word while Donnarumma gave him a thumbs-up and received a brief, respectful handshake in return.

Then UEFA officials intercepted him, flanked by two stewards.

“Player of the Match,” one said.

Izan barely reacted—his face was still focused, eyes distant, maybe still seeing that third goal being wiped away in his mind.

But he followed slowly.

As he neared the tunnel, a reporter stepped forward with a camera crew behind her.

She smiled, holding a mic with the UEFA Champions League emblem shining silver under the stadium lights.

“Izan,” she began, “we’re live. Congratulations on a magnificent performance tonight.

Before we present you with the Man of the Match award…”

She glanced down at her notes, then looked up at him.

The reporter’s smile brightened as the camera lights stayed fixed on Izan’s face, his hair damp with sweat, shirt clinging to his lean frame.

“Let me start by saying congratulations for the award,” she said, holding up the hollow sphere- star construct engraved with Player of the Match – UEFA Champions League.

“You were… electric tonight.”

Izan smiled, nodding once.

“Thank you. I feel great. Really. These are the nights you dream about when you’re a kid. Champions League football at the Emirates? It doesn’t get much better.”

She tilted her head, maintaining her warmth.

“Except maybe if that third goal had stood. You looked a bit stunned when it was disallowed.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him—short, cautious.

“Yeah,” Izan said slowly, looking toward the pitch behind her.

“That one stung a bit. I mean, when you feel the net ripple, when you see the fans lift… You think it’s real. You live for that moment. But the ref has the final say, and sometimes there are things we don’t see in the buildup. You just trust the process, even if it hurts.”

The reporter nodded, clearly impressed by the diplomacy, though her eyes sharpened just slightly as she leaned in for more.

“So you don’t think the foul had any bearing on the goal?”

Izan’s gaze flicked past her for half a second, reading the situation like a pro.

“I think the game is fast,” he said smoothly.

“Things happen everywhere on the pitch. I don’t know all the angles they reviewed, so I’m not going to judge it. I’ve got too much respect for the officials and for PSG. But what I will say is… when you work for something, and it gets taken away… it makes the next one matter even more.”

The crowd watching at home would hear that line as composed.

Gracious. Balanced.

But in the press box?

It was enough to launch headlines with ellipses.

The reporter nodded slowly.

“That’s a very mature answer for someone your age. Izan, thank you again and—”

She paused briefly, glancing at the steward standing off-camera, who met her gaze and gave the subtlest of nods—an unspoken signal that the window was closing.

Izan noticed.

His body shifted ever so slightly.

“Thanks,” he said quickly, stepping back a half-pace.

“I should get to my team.”

And just like that, he handed the award to the nearest assistant and jogged down the corridor, boots squeaking on concrete, towel now half-draped around his neck.

He pushed the locker room doors open to find the squad mid-conversation—some changing, others still in kit, a few laughing about Kiwior’s wayward clearance that had hit the advertising board like a missile.

“Izan!” Raya called, throwing him a towel.

But before Izan could even raise his hands in acknowledgement, a firm hand gripped his shoulder.

Arteta.

“Come with me,” the manager said lowly.

“What’s up?” Izan asked, walking briskly beside him.

“Press room,” Arteta replied.

“I was hoping we could clear this before it gets spun into something else. Also, because Odegaard isn’t here.”

Izan nodded, grabbing the top of a tracksuit from Cuesta behind Arteta and putting it on.

Boots still on, sweat still fresh on his skin, heart still racing from the game, he followed Arteta toward the room.

“Straight answers,” Arteta said without turning. “But don’t let them twist you. You’ve got this.”

The two of them disappeared around the corner, the noise of the locker room fading behind.

………..

The press room was cooler than the rest of the stadium—dimmed lights overhead, a low murmur of shuffled paper, and lenses focusing from all directions.

Izan followed Arteta in, still in his kit, murmur halting as the reporters and journalists caught sight of him.

The UEFA Man of the Match award hae been passed to an aide and was now placed beside the microphone as he sat beside his manager.

Arteta gave him a calm glance and nodded once.

Behind them, the Arsenal crest glowed softly on the panel.

The moderator, seated just off-centre, tapped her mic.

“We’ll begin with a few questions. Please keep them relevant to tonight’s fixture. First question?”

A man in a grey wool coat stood, barely glancing at Izan before addressing Arteta.

“Mikel, congrats on the win. Were you satisfied with the defensive effort, particularly in the second half after the disallowed goal?”

Arteta nodded.

“It wasn’t perfect. But the boys responded well under pressure. It was a Champions League match against elite players. We managed the final minutes with the composure we needed.”

A few more questions followed. Tactical. Praise for Saka. Inquiries about Zinchenko’s fitness.

Izan leaned slightly forward, listening.

He could feel the rhythm of the room—polite, predictable.

Until it wasn’t.

A reporter further back, young, with rectangular glasses and a voice that carried, stood and shifted the tone.

“Izan,” he began, polite but pointed.

“There was a photo circulating before the match—yourself and a woman outside a venue in Soho late last night. Some fans speculated it was a club. Could you clarify what happened and whether it’s something Arteta was aware of?”

The room changed. Chairs shifted. Pens were raised.

Izan blinked once.

He didn’t panic—but the smile was gone now.

He leaned into the mic.

“Sure. I saw the photo,” he said, voice even. “It wasn’t a club. It was a dinner meeting. A private one. With Adidas. I was there to talk about a new deal, and… actually, my re-signing. That woman was with me, yeah—Olivia—but not in the way people think.”

He glanced toward Arteta, who remained still, composed.

“I didn’t go out last night,” Izan continued.

“Didn’t party. Didn’t celebrate anything early. I was in bed before midnight, reviewing PSG’s clips. My prep was the same as always.”

The reporter raised an eyebrow. “So it was a brand meeting?”

Izan nodded. “Yes. They wanted to meet before the game—timing-wise, it worked for them. I brought someone I trusted. We talked. We left. That was it.”

Another journalist jumped in, flipping her notepad.

“But still, some fans felt that was risky. You’re a young player—Barely two years in the professional scene. Don’t you think appearances matter?”

Izan gave a small laugh, leaning into the mic again. “Look, I’ve only just joined Arsenal. What would I even be celebrating this early? It’s not even been a season.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“Honestly,” he added, “if I wanted to go clubbing in London, I’d need my mum with me. She’s back in Spain. I’m not even 18. I don’t have my own debit card yet—it’s all through my agent or my mother. I couldn’t even buy a round of drinks if I wanted to.”

There was a pause.

Then, chuckles from the side of the room.

Arteta’s hand came to his mouth as he tried to hold back a laugh.

A real one. And then it slipped through—an audible, unmistakable chuckle that filled the room.

Izan turned slightly toward him. “I’m serious. Ask my teammates.”

Arteta wiped at his face. “You’ll get your card when you start scoring hat-tricks that stand,” he said under his breath, before clearing his throat and standing.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” he said to the moderator.

She nodded. “That concludes the session. Thank you to Mikel and Izan.”

As cameras shut off and reporters began to chatter among themselves, Izan pushed back from the table.

Arteta was already halfway toward the door.

“That went alright, no?” Izan muttered.

Arteta glanced back with a grin. “You should do press more often.”

One of the UEFA stewards stepped forward to hand Izan his award again, but he didn’t take it immediately.

His eyes scanned the media row.

They had come looking for cracks.

And he’d given them clarity.

No one could twist that.

As he turned for the hallway again, boots clunking softly against the floor, a few Arsenal staff members waiting nearby gave him a thumbs-up.

“You handled that,” one whispered, to which Izan gave a thumbs-up.

And he had.

With calm.

With honesty.

And with just enough humour to remind them all, he was still a kid.

A very, very good one at that.

A/n: Hello guys. ART233 here. I just wanted to type, thank you to all the readers of this book, and I wanted to thank you for your support since the start of the first chapter. I didn’t even think about reaching 500 chapters, but somehow, we are here. Thanks for reading, and I will continue to work hard so I can bring much better content to you. Have fun reading, and Izan thanks you too. Keep with me as we go on a journey to make this book one of the best in its category on this platform. Byee