God Of football

Chapter 624: One Leg Away.

”That’s it,” the commentator’s voice landed just as the final note of the stadium faded into a blend of applause and grumbles.

”Arsenal leave the King Power with all three points. 3–1 the final score. Saka and Merino both scoring in the second half after Vardy’s equaliser and a statement from the rest of this squad as they see the game through.”

On the touchline, Arteta and Van Nistelrooy shook hands—short words, unreadable from the cameras, but respectful.

Around them, the players applauded the away end, jerseys swapped, and high-fives shared.

Izan, hoodie up and arms folded, stood still behind the bench, the final whistle still echoing faintly in his ears.

He didn’t join the post-match huddle, not out of distance, but necessity.

He had played just 39 minutes but felt every second of it in his back.

”Carabao cup action up next this Wednesday, and with Arsenal, 4 goals ahead from the 1st leg, the final is all but done here. My name is Keegan Murray. Thank you for joining us, and Goodnight”

......

”You did not”, Nwaneri croaked inside the team coach.

The bus interior glowed in soft blue LED light as the night rolled past the tinted windows.

Some players had headphones in.

Others scrolled idly on their phones, with the rest being fast asleep.

Saka leaned over toward the table between seats, grinning down at a tablet with live feed from BBC Sport rolling across it.

”Oi, look at this headline,” he laughed, flashing it toward the others.

”’NO IZAN, NO PROBLEM — THE GUNNERS PUT THREE PAST RUUD’S MEN.’”

A couple heads turned.

Saliba snorted.

Raya, half-asleep, groaned a laugh into the seatback.

Saka went on.

”Man, they’ve forgotten we used to win games before he showed up.”

”Keep talking,” Izan muttered from his seat by the window.

”I’ll remind you who assisted your goal last week.”

”That was last week. Today, we’re the stars,” Saka said dramatically, then added, ”We need our flowers too.”

”I gave you a perfect through ball last match,” Izan replied.

”You slipped and wasted it.”

”Slipped from greatness,” Saka nodded solemnly. ”That’s what pressure does.”

On the seat across the aisle, Nwaneri looked up from his phone.

”Izan’s glow is so bright,” he said, tone mock-solemn, ”we all look like shadows next to him. Shine less, bro. You’re dulling our image.”

”Yeah, tone it down,” Havertz added with a smirk, ”We’re trying to get sponsorships too.”

”Man can’t even have a bad game quietly anymore,” Lewis Skelly muttered.

”They’ll still print headlines about him.”

Izan chuckled softly, hood still over his head, eyes half-lidded from fatigue but amused all the same.

”Alright,” he said, raising both hands.

”Next match, I’ll just pass backwards and call it development.”

”Backwards passes?” Saka wrinkled his nose.

”Disgusting.”

The coach broke into quiet laughter as the bus approached the complex, and before they knew it, the bus had already come to a stop.

Shoes tapped gravel as they stepped off the bus in pairs.

Izan, sitting behind as always, was one of the people to come down last.

Arteta and the club doctor waited by the door.

”Drive easy,” the doctor said, watching Izan closely.

”We’ll do a full check in the morning. Blood, rest metrics, everything.”

”No bravado. If you feel it, say something.”

Izan nodded, the weariness visible in his eyes, but not in his voice.

”I’m fine,” he uttered before he turned toward the lot.

The Gemera sat in the far corner, its smooth angles catching the parking lights as he approached.

The doors lifted with a soft hiss, the interior aglow, and he didn’t look back again.

[Hernandez Residence – Later That Night]

”Told you,” Miranda muttered as the front door slid open automatically.

”He’s in one piece.”

Olivia peeked around the corner from the hallway, her expression easing as soon as she saw him.

Komi exhaled through her nose and walked toward him.

”You alright?” she asked.

Izan nodded. ”Yeah. Just need sleep.”

”Good,” Miranda said, already stepping away.

”Because I’m getting mine now.”

She was gone before anyone else could speak.

Komi touched his cheek gently.

”I’m okay”, he tried saying, but Komi shut him up.

”Don’t start tonight. Just go upstairs. Olivia—make sure he doesn’t fall asleep in the shower.”

”I’ll drag him out by his ears if I have to,” Olivia promised, already grabbing his hand.

Komi raised a brow but said nothing.

The hallway lights dimmed behind them as they disappeared upstairs, and soon, the house descended into silence once more.

.....

The hum of equipment filled the small examination room as Izan sat shirtless on the padded table, his posture upright but calm.

A navy-blue blanket covered his legs, and a soft click sounded as the spine and bone specialist, Dr. Yeun, adjusted the overhead monitor.

Arteta stood off to the side, arms folded, with Carlos Cuesta and Sam Wilson lingering nearby, silent.

The Arsenal doctor leaned over the desk, eyes scanning a set of blood readings and skeletal scans synced from the filgrastim regimen.

Dr. Yeun straightened.

”Well,” he said, tapping the side of the tablet gently.

”Everything looks... within the expected margins.”

Arteta exhaled through his nose.

”But,” Yeun added, turning slightly toward him, ”there’s something you should understand. Filgrastim forces the marrow into overdrive. That strain doesn’t just sit in the bloodstream—it travels down into the skeleton.”

He looked at Izan then, gaze clear and even.

”The density in your lumbar spine and pelvic crest is temporarily reduced. Not dangerous—but vulnerable.”

”How vulnerable?” Arteta asked quietly.

”Enough that if he takes repeated contact—especially mid-air landings or sudden impacts to the lower back—he could destabilise. Microfractures. Muscle spasms. Worse, if you don’t manage it.”

Izan didn’t flinch.

He simply rubbed the inside of his elbow, where the most recent sample had been drawn.

”So, what are you saying?” Carlos asked.

”I’m saying this: limit his exposure. If he plays, manage the tempo around him. Give him a zone-based role—no reckless high-impact tackles, no flying into duels. Let him dictate rather than chase. And if things get rough, sub him early.”

”That’s hard to guarantee,” Arteta murmured.

Yeun gave a small smile. ”Well, he’s not a goalkeeper and I know it’s a hard ask. But you wanted the truth.”

He stepped back, tugging off his gloves.

”That said, everything else looks good. Blood pressure, respiratory function, cardiac load—all sharp. It’s just the bone strain. It’ll pass as the body adapts.”

He packed his instruments, then turned back toward Izan.

”What you’re doing,” he said, voice less clinical now, ”is rare. Noble. Most athletes wouldn’t risk this in the middle of their season. I don’t say that lightly.”

Izan gave a small nod, just a flicker of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

”Thanks,” he said simply.

Yeun nodded once and exchanged a look with the Arsenal doctor, who silently followed him out, leaving the door to click gently shut behind them.

The assistants dispersed next—Cuesta with a soft clap on Izan’s shoulder, Sam offering a nod.

Soon, only Arteta remained.

He didn’t speak right away.

He just stood there, watching his player sit in the quiet, backlit by the glow of the medical screen still displaying skeletal scans.

Arteta finally stepped toward the door.

”We’ll talk later,” he said, low but clear.

Izan nodded once, his fingers resting over his knee as he watched Arteta step out.

....

[3 days later]

The lights beamed down on St. James’s Park like theatre spots as the second leg of the Carabao Cup semi-final pulsed into the night.

Arsenal vs Newcastle.

But something was missing—or more precisely, someone.

Izan Hernandez sat low on the bench, jacket zipped, gloves on, chin resting on a curled fist.

From the stands, cameras zoomed in like predators sniffing uncertainty.

The crowd noticed, and the commentators certainly had.

”Well, the name on everyone’s lips is the one not in the starting lineup,” the main broadcaster began, voice cutting through the thrum of anticipation.

”Izan Hernandez, the boy who’s played nearly every single fixture this season, finds himself on the bench tonight.”

His co-commentator, a former England international, let out a slow breath.

”And you get the feeling it’s not tactical. It can’t be. He’s the reason they’re alive in three competitions. More minutes than anyone in the squad, Champions League, league, even FA Cup... maybe it’s just time.”

”Rest?”

”Rest or maybe management. He’s been electric—yes—but not untouchable. Arsenal are being careful. He’s seventeen. You don’t want burnout by April.”

”Or ever,” the main voice added quietly.

The camera panned across the dugouts where Arteta stood upright, hands behind his back.

On the pitch, the players jogged into positions, final sprints cutting through the chill of the North east night.

Martinelli, back and starting again, cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck.

The crowd picked up their rhythm—clapping in waves, chants beginning to ripple through the tiers.

In the away end, the Arsenal fans stood packed shoulder to shoulder, loud and proud, aware they were one leg away from a final, but knowing this was still dangerous.

The referee checked both keepers and glanced at his watch.

A whistle, and then match was underway.

A/N: Last of yesterday. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in the morning with the first of the day.