God Of football

Chapter 514: What Are The Odds

[A day later]

The morning passed slowly, its silence broken only by the occasional hum of tyres on tarmac outside Colney’s gates.

It wasn’t the kind of day for rush or restlessness.

Arsenal had a match under the lights later that evening, but for now, it was about settling into the matchday mood for both the players and the staff.

Izan arrived just after ten thirty, his hoodie drawn up and headphones snug over his ears. He nodded faintly to the grounds staff as he made his way toward the training complex.

A few of his teammates were already milling about the locker room, chatting, lacing boots, and eating fruit off a shared tray.

Bukayo Saka looked up from his phone, grinning as Izan dropped into the seat beside him and unzipped his bag.

”Finally decided to show up, eh?” Saka teased, elbowing him lightly.

”What happened? Did your girlfriend cook breakfast too well this morning or what?”

Izan smirked. ”Something like that.”

The light session wasn’t much—some rondos, short-sided drills, a bit of tactical walkthrough.

Nothing to break a sweat over.

The kind of day where they wore base layers out of comfort rather than necessity.

But even in that casual setting, there was an electricity in the air, one that had little to do with the approaching Champions League fixture.

”Oi, did you lot see that stat this morning?” Lewis Skelly asked, juggling a ball as they gathered in a loose circle during a passing drill.

”Apparently, the oddsmakers have Izan third in the Ballon d’Or projections now. Just behind Vinicius and Rodri, and ahead of Jude Bellingham and Mbappé”

”Third?” Saka’s eyebrows jumped.

”Behind whom?”

Eddie chuckled. ”Vini. Obviously.”

”I mean, if Rodri and Vini didn’t exist...” Jorginho added with a shrug, laughing.

The mood lightened further as Declan Rice joined in.

”Seventeen in a few weeks, yet he’s already in the running for that golden ball. I was still struggling to get my Instagram verified at that age.”

Even Ben White, usually one of the more grounded figures in the group, shook his head with a chuckle.

”It’s wild when you think about it.”

No one said anything for a moment.

It had gone quiet, not out of awkwardness, but reflection.

The weight of what Izan was potentially about to accomplish settled over the group like morning mist.

He wasn’t just their mate or teammate.

He was the kid from Valencia turning the sport on its head.

”Mad,” Saka said quietly. ”Proper mad.”

By the time they returned to the dressing room, the atmosphere had changed, not somber, just quieter.

Everyone was moving a little slower, perhaps thinking about how their paths were all part of something historic.

Maybe even a little protective of it now.

After the final stretches and debrief, as boots thudded back into lockers and players filtered out for lunch or media duties, Arteta tapped Izan on the shoulder.

”Walk with me,” he said simply.

They took the back corridor, the one that looked out over the lesser-used training pitches, wind tugging gently at the windows.

Arteta didn’t speak at first. He just walked, hands in pockets, head tilted slightly downward.

”You know,” he said finally, ”when you first came, we didn’t expect this. I thought you had talent and would be something for the future, but from the first matchday, I had to rearrange my perspective.” Arteta said, staring at Izan.

”You aren’t the future Izan, you are now.”

Izan looked over but didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

”I’m proud of you,” Arteta continued.

”All of us are. But you have to understand something, and you need to hear it now, not after the ceremony. Whether you win or not... none of this”—he gestured broadly to the facility, to the club, to the pitch that awaited them that evening—”none of this cares about gold trophies or gala suits.”

.....

[Of course, bottler, what would you know about gold trophies and good silverware?]

.....

Izan nodded slowly. ”I know.”

”Do you?” Arteta stopped walking and turned to face him.

”Because it’s easy to get caught up in it. Even when you’re quiet, even when you think you’re grounded. It sneaks in—expectation, praise, the noise.”

”I’ll handle it,” Izan said.

It wasn’t defiant or arrogant, just what he truly felt like.

Arteta studied him for a long moment.

Then nodded.

”Good. Because Shakhtar doesn’t care. Bournemouth won’t care. Liverpool certainly won’t. They’ll come at you harder because of it, not in spite of it.”

He clapped Izan lightly on the shoulder. ”Keep your head in the game. Tonight’s another chance to show them why you belong there in that race.”

They parted at the doorway, Arteta returning to his office, and Izan turning back toward the locker room.

The Ballon d’Or talk would fade for now, pushed aside by the call of the pitch.

He had ninety minutes to think about instead. The rest would come later.

.........

The sun had just started to dip beneath the London skyline, casting a warm gold over the glass and steel that framed the Emirates.

Outside the stadium, the crowd buzzed—scarves wrapped tight around necks, voices loud with expectation.

Families, groups of mates, tourists seeing their first European night in the flesh—every one of them carried the same electricity in their steps.

Vendors hustled through the congestion, holding trays of meat pies and beer aloft while kids pointed excitedly at the team bus turning onto the final stretch of road.

The blacked-out windows offered no glimpse inside, but that didn’t stop the wave of noise that rose from the supporters as it rumbled past.

”COME ON, ARSENAL!”

”THIS IS TOO EASY”

”COME ON GUNNERS”

The chants rolled down the pavement as a man with a red-and-white painted face stood on a bench, arms lifted in a conductor’s pose, urging the others to get louder.

Flags waved.

Smoke flared red briefly before a steward came jogging over.

Inside the bus, Izan sat with his headphones on, but the muffled roar still broke through.

He looked up and just smiled quietly, adjusting the tape on his fingers.

Then came the shift.

The stadium lights pulsed to full brightness.

Fans flooded into the concourses and up the steps of the stands.

The outer concourse screens, once showing pre-match punditry, now turned over to the inside broadcast.

Camera crews scrambled into position as the UEFA banner stretched wide across the centre circle.

Inside the broadcast studio, tucked high in the gantry above the pitch, the familiar voices of the Champions League coverage returned.

”Good evening, everyone,” said the first commentator, settling into his chair as he looked out over a fast-filling Emirates Stadium.

”A brisk night in North London, but the buzz here is undeniable. Arsenal against Shakhtar Donetsk—Champions League, league phase action with plenty on the line.”

His co-commentator, a slightly older voice with an understated wit, followed up.

”It’s the sort of night where a few years ago, you might’ve looked at this fixture and thought, ’home win, rotate the squad, no fuss.’ But Arsenal under Arteta don’t play like that anymore. Every match is a statement. And with players like Izan lighting up the competition, how could you take your eyes off them?”

”Spot on,” the first added.

”This is a team in form, coming off a tight but important win against Newcastle in the league, and a strong run during the international break for a good few of these lads. But Shakhtar’s no pushover—they’ve got bite, and they’ll want to nick something tonight.”

As the crowd’s roar rose, so did the orchestra in the stadium speakers.

The Champions League anthem began.

That deep, swelling harmony, that unmistakable rhythm—it echoed across the stands as every camera turned toward the tunnel.

And then, they emerged.

Arsenal in red and white, Shakhtar in dark grey and orange.

Izan walked second behind the now captain, Declan Rice, his face calm beneath the swirling energy.

The sound was deafening now, a chorus of voices layered beneath the grandeur of the music.

The commentator let the moment breathe, only speaking again as the teams stood side by side.

”There’s something about this music,” said the second commentator, quieter now.

”It doesn’t matter how many times you hear it. Under the lights, with players like this, on nights like this... it still gives you goosebumps.”

The camera panned across the Arsenal lineup, pausing just a moment longer on Izan.

”Eyes will be on that young man again tonight,” the first commentator said.

”Still not seventeen, but you’d never guess by the way he plays. Every touch, every pass, it’s like he’s been doing this for a decade. As young as he is, he is in the running for the Ballon d’Or. A feat that is very hard to do for any player, and not to mention for someone as young as him, but he’s done it. Will he be able to add to his Champions League tally tonight? We wait to see”

The stadium clapped in unison as the music reached its crescendo.

Kickoff was moments away.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and be sure to check out, Harbinger Of Glory, as it’s being re-written. Anyways, have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.