God Of football

Chapter 837: Opening.

Even without him making too many appearances on the internet for a while now, it was already buzzing with news of him.

Under the #ClubWorldCup tag, fans began asking the same question over and over again:

”Wait, is Izan even playing in this thing? I can’t be the only one who hasn’t seen him right?”

”Why wasn’t he in any of the Arsenal arrival pics?”

”Is he injured or something?”

Clips of Arsenal stepping off the plane in Los Angeles filled timelines with members of the team stepping onto their transport one by one.

But there was no Izan.

Not in the airport videos, not in the team photos, and not even in the casual snaps of fans waiting by the terminal.

It didn’t make sense.

As someone who always fell in the spotlight, even if he didn’t do anything to attract it, it was weird not to see his face on any broadcast or promotional materials used for the tournament.

Threads piled up, conspiracy theories mixed with jokes.

Then, finally, a user dropped a link with the caption:

”Here’s why he’s not in the U.S. yet.”

It led to a Sky Sports post quoting Arteta from a press conference.

”Izan will not feature in the group-stage matches,” the manager had said.

”He’s had a very long season, with him playing the most of all the players and we’ve decided to manage his minutes carefully. He’ll join us after the second group game.”

The replies came instantly.

”Fair, man’s been carrying Arsenal since January.”

”So he’s skipping the warm-up levels to jump straight into the final boss fights, huh? I am pretty sure the Author just doesn’t what to write it.”

”Just hope the team doesn’t need him before then.”

”Low-key tactical... or just Arteta protecting his trump card or just full on favouritism. Choose what helps you.”

....

Back in Hampstead, the world felt far away.

The usually quiet streets now buzzed with a rare morning energy as runners and cars alike moved to and fro.

Izan was barely awake, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting around Olivia’s shoulder.

Her hair was a mess, fanned across his chest, her breathing slow and steady.

From just outside the door came Komi’s voice, firm and calm as always.

”Olivia, Izan, we’re heading out,” she called.

”There’s wheat porridge on the table. Don’t let it get cold.”

Her heels clicked softly across the marbled floor, fading down the hall, followed by the distant creak of the front door and the muffled sound of a car engine.

Then, silence again.

Olivia moved slightly, pressing herself closer, like she was trying to melt into him.

Izan cracked an eye open, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

”What do you wanna do today?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

She shook her head against his chest without saying a word.

”Nothing?” he asked again, amused.

Her only reply was a small, sleepy hum before she went still again.

Izan exhaled, as he reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

Just as he began to drift back toward sleep, his phone buzzed quietly against the nightstand.

He groaned, one eye opening, arm stretching blindly until his fingers found the device.

The screen glowed faintly in the room, a message from Albert Stuivenberg.

Albert: ”Morning, champ. Just got confirmation of the Club World Cup groups. Sharing the full list.”

Izan rubbed a hand over his face before tapping the attachment. The list unfolded neatly across the screen:

Group A: Palmeiras, Porto, Al Ahly, Inter Miami

Group B: Paris Saint-Germain, Atlético Madrid, Botafogo, Seattle Sounders

Group C: Bayern Munich, Benfica, Boca Juniors, Auckland City

Group D: Flamengo, Chelsea, Espérance de Tunis, Los Angeles FC

Group E: Inter Milan, Monterrey, River Plate, Urawa Red Diamonds

Group F: Borussia Dortmund, Fluminense, Ulsan HD, Mamelodi Sundowns

Group G: Manchester City, Juventus, Wydad AC, Al Ain

Group H: Real Madrid, Al-Hilal, Pachuca, Arsenal

He blinked a few times, then let out a low whistle.

”Real Madrid, huh?” he muttered, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk.

He hadn’t paid much attention to the groups but there was something about seeing that name beside Arsenal’s, something that stirred the part of him that always loved a challenge, although most things in football would just be a formality for him at this point.

He scrolled down once more, then locked the phone and set it aside, his chuckle barely audible in the quiet room.

He turned his head toward Olivia, still sprawled lazily across the sheets, one leg tangled in the blanket, her hair a mess of soft waves across the pillow.

Leaning closer, he brushed his lips near her ear, whispering,

”Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s go eat.”

Her eyelids fluttered open just enough for one eye to peek out, unfocused and still heavy with sleep.

She stretched her arms out wordlessly, a silent request that needed no translation.

Izan smiled, shaking his head, but he slid an arm beneath her anyway.

As soon as he lifted her, she looped her arms around his neck, clinging on with the lazy grip of a koala refusing to let go of its branch.

”You’re heavy,” he murmured with a grin, adjusting his hold as he started down the stairs.

Olivia only hummed in response, burying her face into his neck warm, comfortable, and completely content as the two of them disappeared down the hallway, morning light spilling gently across the staircase.

...

A few days later, it was the opening night of the Club World Cup and it had the world glued to their screens at least from their houses because the seating and ticket problem was still as relevant.

Al Alhy versus Inter Miami, the kind of matchup that sounded like a video game fantasy a few years ago.

The cameras cut to Lionel Messi jogging across the pitch in the thin Florida humidity, captain’s armband tight on his left arm, his expression calm but older, older in that way football fans never really admit until it’s too late.

The commentators filled the silence between touches with half-nostalgic tones:

”It’s strange, isn’t it? Seeing Messi out here... not as invincible, but still untouchable.”

Twitter (or what everyone still called Twitter, even if it wasn’t) was alive before halftime.

”Messi still got it, but man... he’s got no help.”

”Father Time’s real. Even for him.”

”Bro imagine watching this and realising your goat era’s ending thank God we got Izan now fr.”

”We’d be cooked without that boy.”

The fan wars sparked as always, the Messi ultras telling the other fans not to compare Izan to their Idol’s greatness

....

16th June — one day before Arsenal’s first game.

The heat in Cincinnati was the kind that pressed down like a hand, heavy and unforgiving as the players moved across it in sluggish lines, dark kits clinging to their backs, water bottles tucked under arms whenever they stopped to breathe.

From the sideline, Arteta stood with his hands on his hips, cap turned backwards, his eyes narrowed at the glare.

Sweat rolled down the side of his face, as he lifted a hand to shade his eyes, glancing up at the blazing sun.

”Dios mío,” he muttered under his breath.

Then, louder, to no one in particular, ”The heat’s going to be a problem tomorrow.”

His voice carried across the pitch, but most of the players were too tired to respond.

Arteta looked back at them, a team that had just conquered England, now facing a different kind of opponent: exhaustion, distance, and a heatwave that refused to let up.

He clapped his hands suddenly.

”Alright!” he called out, his voice cutting through the thick air. ”One more lap!”

A chorus of groans rose instantly.

”Gaffer, come on!” came from somewhere near the back.

”Boss, mercy!” another added, barely audible through the panting and laughter that followed.

Someone else muttered something in Spanish that made a few heads who understood turn and chuckle under their breath.

It didn’t stop the ones who didn’t understand from asking though.

Arteta only smiled faintly, hands behind his back like a general too used to rebellion.

”You’re going to thank me later,” he said simply, tone half-warning, half-promise.

He watched as they pushed off again, slow at first, then faster as the competitive spark kicked in.

The sun dipped a little lower, but the heat stayed as the players’ shadows stretched long across the field, crisscrossing like lines in a painting.

By the time the whistle blew, the sound echoed hollow and sharp in the thick summer air.

Some players dropped where they stood.

Others shuffled toward the shade, heads tilted back, chests heaving.

Arteta glanced at them one more time before turning toward his assistants.

”They’ll thank me tomorrow,” he said again, quieter now, almost convincing himself.

...

[The Next day]

The TQL stadium shimmered under the floodlights, patches of shadow flickering where the glare met the lingering heat.

The pitch was a worn canvas of sweat and divots with players of both teams scattered across it like pieces of a puzzle that had just come apart.

And up from the gantry, the commentary came.

”Full time at the TQL Stadium...”