God Of football

Chapter 700: Midweek Fever.

It was early morning in Madrid, and the bright studio lights of Fútbol Total bounced off the glossy desk where three panellists sat alongside the host.

On the massive screen behind them, an animated countdown played — a playful little sequence clearly aimed at stoking the rivalry.

A tiny cartoon character dressed in pristine all-white — the unmistakable nod to Real Madrid — tiptoed toward a giant wall calendar.

Bold black numbers marked the days until the second leg.

With exaggerated mischief, the cartoon Madrid player reached up and began to tug at the ”4 days remaining” page.

From the other side, another cartoon figure appeared, this one in Arsenal’s sleek black away kit, arms outstretched to stop him.

The two grappled comically for a moment — tugging, slipping, stumbling before the Madrid figure gave one last yank and tore the page clean off, revealing 3 DAYS REMAINING in big, dramatic font.

The studio cut back to the host, grinning knowingly at the camera.

”It’s midweek Champions League fever,” he began, his voice smooth but with a hint of tease.

”And the countdown has already started. You can almost feel it in the air. But if you’re Arsenal... well, I imagine your hands are shaking right now.”

The other panellists chuckled as the host leaned in slightly, his tone sharpening.

”Because, since that narrow 2–1 win at the Emirates, the talk in Spain and the talk everywhere has been about how Real Madrid are going to come back and win this. You can’t walk through the Bernabéu without hearing it. Even the players themselves have been... shall we say... confident. They’ve promised that by Wednesday night, they’ll be the ones celebrating.”

One of the panellists, a tall man in a crisp grey suit, nodded immediately, almost eager to jump in.

”And they should be confident,” he said, gesturing with both hands.

”Look, Arsenal played well in London, no one denies that, but this is Madrid. Even if they can’t completely stop Izan, and let’s be honest, no one person or defence can right now, but Arsenal’s defence also can’t handle what Madrid are bringing in attack. They have three, maybe four players who can decide the game at any moment. Arsenal?” He shrugged dismissively. ”They have Izan. That’s it.”

The words hung in the air for a second before another panellist, an older man with silvering hair and a neatly pressed navy blazer, leaned back in his chair and shook his head slowly.

— ”Hold on. I know you know that there are 10 other players besides Izan, right?”he said, his voice calm but edged with curiosity.

”You’re talking about stopping Arsenal like it’s a simple task. So tell me — how exactly is Madrid going to stop Izan when they couldn’t touch him in the first leg, and from where I’m sitting, they still don’t have an answer for him.”

The first panellist waved the question away with a smirk.

”Come on... Izan can’t play a one-man game, can he?”

The host cracked a grin at the cheeky jab, and the panellist broke into an easy laugh — the kind that carried a certain self-satisfaction.

The second panellist let out a laugh too, though his was slower, almost disbelieving — the kind you give when you’re wondering how someone with that level of stubbornness and intellect ended up on television.

The camera zoomed out, the laughter still echoing faintly as the feed faded.

—

A few hundred miles away in London, Bukayo Saka sat in Arsenal’s training facility lounge, hunched over on the sofa, eyes narrowed at the subtitles running across the screen of a tablet.

The video was paused mid-frame on the smirking Madrid panellist.

Saka slowly looked up from the screen, his brows knitting together.

”The disrespect to me, to us, but mostly to me,” he muttered, voice full of mock injury.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the tablet, which wasn’t even his, back toward a chuckling Leandro Trossard, who had been passing through.

The device didn’t make it to Trossard, though.

Instead, it landed neatly in the lap of Merino, who was sitting on the next couch over, scrolling through something else entirely.

”Hey—” Merino began, glancing at the screen, only to realise it was his own iPad.

”This thing is really expensive,” he uttered, clutching his iPad while whispering to it like it was his baby.

[Mid a/n: To be honest, I would do the same. Have you seen how much these things cost nowadays?

Saka was already up and walking away, shaking his head with exaggerated offence, leaving the others in the lounge to grin at the little flare-up of pre-match pride.

As Saka exited the room, Izan pushed open the door just as the low, frustrated muttering reached his ears.

Izan’s brow furrowed.

”What’s wrong with him?” he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward Saka as he stepped further out of the room.

Trossard didn’t answer right away, just gave a little tilt of his head toward the far table — specifically, toward Merino, who was hunched over his iPad.

Merino caught the glance, sighed like someone already bracing for the inevitable, and hugged the tablet a little closer to his chest.

”Don’t even think about it,” he muttered.

Izan grinned. ”Come on. I’ll be gentle.”

”No.” Merino’s tone was flat, though his eyes betrayed that he was already weakening.

Izan just kept standing there, hands in pockets, wearing the kind of patient smile that made refusal harder by the second.

Finally, Merino exhaled through his nose and handed it over — but only after a long, deliberate pause.

”Only because I trust you,” he said, like each word was costing him money.

”Appreciate it,” Izan replied, smile widening as he tapped the screen awake.

A few swipes later, he found the recently opened tabs and saw the show staring back at him.

His eyes and ears scanned and captured just enough of the story to catch certain words, the tone of it clear even without reading the full thing.

He went quiet, jaw flexing once and then, almost without thinking, he tossed the iPad back toward Merino — but the midfielder flinched as if it were a grenade.

Izan caught himself, slowed the motion, and carefully placed it in Merino’s waiting hands instead.

He turned and headed for the door Saka had gone out a few moments earlier.

Outside in the corridor, he’d taken only a few steps before he stopped, glanced back, and walked right back into the room.

”Oh,” he said suddenly, like the thought had only just returned to him.

”Arteta’s calling for you lot.”

And with that, he was gone again, the door swinging shut behind him.

The meeting room was already buzzing when Izan stepped in, only to pause at the sight before him — Bukayo Saka, in training kit, squatting near the front like a schoolboy caught chatting in class.

His cheeks were puffed out in mock suffering, arms stretched forward for balance.

The rest of the players were trying — and failing — to hold back laughter.

A couple of chuckles slipped out, and even Trossard had to hide a grin behind his hand as he followed Izan in.

Turns out, Arteta had sent Saka to fetch them five minutes ago... but the winger had been completely derailed after catching the pundit show on Merino’s iPad.

Arteta, arms folded, stood at the front, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

”Ten more seconds, Bukayo,” he said in mock sternness, glancing at his watch.

”I swear it was only a quick look—” Saka began.

”—And that quick look became half the segment,” Arteta cut in, finally chuckling as the laughter broke out properly.

”Alright, go on. Join your teammates before your legs give out.”

Saka sprang up with exaggerated relief, groaning dramatically as he made his way to an empty chair.

Once the noise settled, Arteta stepped forward and got down to business.

”Alright, everyone, listen up. We’ve got Madrid coming up, and to be at our best, we need to manage our time. Here’s the plan — we’ll be flying out this evening. We’ll end the session early today after this meeting, so you have the afternoon to yourselves. Rest, pack, prepare — whatever you need to do. But be back here at six sharp to head to the airport together.”

A few groans rolled around the room, but most of the squad nodded in agreement.

The thought of free time was tempting, but the looming second leg in Madrid kept everyone grounded.

Arteta scanned the room, satisfied he had everyone’s attention.

”Good. Let’s make the most of the next Sixty-eight hours — because after that, there’s no room for distraction.”

His gaze flicked toward Saka at the last word, drawing another ripple of laughter.

A/N: Okay guys. This is the last of the day. A bit late with it but here it is. Have fun reading and I’ll be back in a bit with the first Chapter of the day. Also, don’t forget to check out my other novel below.