God Of football

Chapter 839: Back To Save.

”We’re here,” the player liaison said as the black SUV rolled to a stop in front of the Four Seasons Hotel Philadelphia at Comcast Centre, its sleek exterior catching reflections of the city lights.

Inside, Izan sat up from where he’d been leaning against the window, headsets almost falling from his lap as he glanced outside.

The car door opened, and the Arsenal media liaison stepped out, circling around to the boot, before taking out Izan’s luggage.

”The other guys must be getting an earful for yesterday’s game,” he said politely as Izan nodded, slipping out of the vehicle.

The air was cool but heavy with city sounds, the hum of traffic, a faint shout from down the street, the rhythmic beat of afternoon life transitioning to the nightlife.

As they started toward the entrance, the liaison filled him in on a few things, minor details about the team’s stay, the training times, media schedules, and the match logistics for their final group game against Real Madrid.

Izan nodded along, the fatigue of travel dulling his usual sharp energy.

”Oh, and Albert’s waiting for you inside,” the liaison added as they entered through the glass doors, the cool blast of air-conditioning greeting them.

”He wanted to catch you and show you around before the others got back.”

Izan nodded again, dragging his luggage across the polished marble floor.

Inside, Albert Stuivenberg was already standing near the reception, arms folded and a welcoming smile on his face.

”Welcome, Izan,” Albert said warmly, stepping forward to shake his hand.

”The lads and Mikel are just upstairs doing a tactical review. They’re going over the things we missed in that 2–2 draw against Al Hilal in Washington.”

Izan chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

”I think I’ll sit this one out, coach. Might just wait for them at the dining hall.”

Albert gave an understanding nod.

”Fair enough. You’ve earned a bit of quiet.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a room key cardand handing it to Izan.

”Here, you’re on the 17th floor. Come down whenever you’re ready.”

Izan murmured a thanks before following him toward the elevator.

The ride up was silent save for the soft hum of the lift.

When the doors slid open, they stepped into a hallway lined with gold-accented lighting and thick carpet that muffled every step.

Albert stopped by the door marked 1708.

”Here we are,” he said. ”Settle in. I’ll see you downstairs later.”

”Will do,” Izan replied.

Once Albert turned and disappeared down the hall, Izan swiped the key card and stepped inside.

The room was sleek and quiet, with a view of the city stretching out like a circuit board of lights beneath him.

He set his bag by the wardrobe, kicked off his sneakers, and pulled out his phone.

A few taps later, he sent a quick message to the family group chat Hori had created:

”Just got in.”

Within seconds, Miranda replied with a simple ”Okay.”

And then, right on cue, Komi’s name flashed across the screen, calling, not texting.

Izan smiled faintly before answering.

Her voice came through bright and animated.

”How was the flight? Did you sleep? Did you eat? You sound tired already—”

Izan laughed softly, letting her talk before cutting in.

”I’m good, Komi. Landed fine. Just settling in.”

”That’s good,” she said, her tone softening. ”Take care of yourself, alright?”

”Always do,” he said before hanging up.

Moments later, a new message popped up, this one from Olivia.

”Have fun.”

Izan smiled at the screen, thumbs moving as he replied a short ”Will do.”

Then he pocketed his phone, took one last glance at the glowing skyline outside, and stepped back into the hallway, the faint murmur of city life rising from below as the door clicked shut behind him.

Downstairs, the lights in the meeting room dimmed as Arteta wrapped up the session.

”Alright, lads,” he said, glancing around at the tired but attentive faces.

”I hope you’ve learned from what we discussed. Those small details, they decide games. Don’t forget that.”

He straightened, closing his laptop.

”Now go eat. You’ve earned it... sort of.”

That earned a few half-smiles and quiet chuckles as chairs scraped back and the players began filing out.

Conversations quickly picked up, short bursts of banter, a few jokes about who misplaced the most passes, as they made their way toward the dining hall the hotel had set aside for them.

The moment they entered, Saka looked up and grinned.

Across the room, seated casually at one of the tables, Izan was already there, hoodie on, sleeves rolled, munching on breadsticks like he owned the place.

”Of course he’s eating already,” Saka muttered, elbowing Martinelli beside him.

Izan spotted the group and raised a hand lazily, one of the breadsticks still hanging from his mouth.

”You know,” he said, his voice muffled but teasing, ”if I didn’t come back, Arsenal might’ve actually failed to make it out of the group.”

The room reacted immediately, a mix of laughs, groans, and exaggerated gasps.

Nwaneri clutched his chest dramatically.

”Ah, the saviour returns!” he said. ”We are not worthy!”

Odegaard shook his head, smiling as he dropped into a chair across from Izan.

”So,” he said, voice warm but laced with sarcasm, ”how was your little vacation?”

Izan leaned back, chewing on another breadstick.

”It would’ve been longer,” he said coolly, ”if I hadn’t been called in to come and save your asses.”

That set the table off again, a chorus of drawn-out ”ooohs” echoing through the hall like a playground full of kids.

Izan laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender before nodding toward where Arteta had just walked in.

”Hey, Mr.,” Izan called out, standing and strolling over. ”You give them the talk?”

Arteta glanced up from the small tablet in his hand, expression unreadable for a moment.

”I did,” he said simply. Then, with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he added, ”Now you go for a run this evening. You’re looking a bit bloated.”

Izan’s smile froze mid-laugh.

”Bloated?” he repeated, pointing to himself. ”Me?”

Saka burst out laughing before stepping in, clapping Izan on the shoulder.

”He’s immune to your cuteness now, bro. Doesn’t work anymore.”

That got everyone laughing, even Arteta, who just shook his head before heading toward the coaches’ table.

Izan sighed dramatically as he sat back down.

”This is what I get for being honest,” he muttered, breaking another breadstick in half.

”Honest?” Raya grinned from across the table. ”You were bragging five seconds ago.”

”Semantics,” Izan said, deadpan.

.....

After dinner, Izan was waiting for the elevator, his hood up, scrolling lazily through his phone, when Saka strolled up beside him, grinning like a kid who’d just found something hilarious.

”Yo,” Saka said, tapping Izan’s shoulder and shoving his own phone into Izan’s face.

”Look at this.”

Izan squinted at the screen.

It was a post on X(Twitter), a fan account with a photo of Izan and a young guy outside the airport yesterday, with another of a cloth with a signature on it.

The caption read:

”Met Izan Hernandez today in Philly. Dude’s actually so down to earth, man treated me like I was the superstar. What a refreshing guy #ClassAct #CWC2025”

The post had already gone viral, thousands of likes, retweets, and fan edits popping up under it.

Izan blinked, then gave a small, satisfied nod, although his brow furrowed.

”I don’t remember taking a photo with him, though. At least it wasn’t something weird this time,” he said, remembering the old clip of him housing a croissant sideways in Spain.

Saka chuckled.

”Oh, come on. Be honest, bro,” he said, shaking his head.

”This was all part of your master plan, the whole ’nice guy with fans’ PR thing. You’re probably already scheduling part two in L.A.”

Izan turned to look at him, mock-offended.

”Publicity stunt? Seriously?”

”Yeah,” Saka said, leaning against the elevator door dramatically.

”You knew exactly what you were doing, big man. Hoodie up, mask half off, signing some dude’s shirt or something at the airport. You’re cooking the internet on purpose.”

Izan’s lips twitched, and he tilted his head.

”Alright then, let’s be honest, you’ve thought about doing that right,” he said, pointing a finger at Saka.

”You’re just mad because I got there first, even though I didn’t really think about doing it. You were probably gonna ask me to point you in the right direction, weren’t you?”

Saka froze mid-grin, raising both hands slowly in mock surrender.

”Okay, fine,” he admitted, laughing. ”You caught me. I just need to know how to pull off that mysterious-nice-guy balance. You’ve perfected it, man.”

”Trade secret,” Izan said coolly, straightening his hoodie as the elevator doors finally slid open.

Both of them stepped in, still laughing, their voices echoing softly in the mirrored walls.

Saka was still scrolling through the replies, memes of Izan photoshopped onto angel wings, captions like ”Football’s gentleman” and ”This boy can’t do wrong.”

”Man, they’ve built you like a saint online,” Saka said between laughs.

”You sneeze tomorrow and it’ll trend as ’wholesome.’”

Izan chuckled, leaning against the elevator wall.

”Good,” he said, deadpan. ”I might need that kind of PR when we face Madrid.”

Saka’s laughter filled the lift as the doors closed, the two disappearing upward, still trading jabs.