God Of football

Chapter 848: To The Round Of 16.

Arteta, after shaking hands with Xabi Alonso, had something else on his mind.

He spun towards Albert Stuivenberg, who was huddled beside the staff screen, checking updates from the other group match.

”Albert, what’s the score?” Arteta asked, his voice quick, almost clipped from the adrenaline.

Stuivenberg glanced up, headset half-off, the faintest hint of a grin breaking across his usually composed face.

”Al Hilal drew. Two–two with Pachuca.”

Arteta froze for a heartbeat.

Then, as realisation sank in, he let out a low breath, a smile tugging at his lips as he turned toward the pitch again.

”We’re through,” he murmured, mostly to himself, though the words carried in the noise.

On the pitch, Izan stood near the centre circle, hands on his hips, his chest still rising and falling from the last sprint of the match.

He turned toward the bench just in time to catch Arteta’s reaction, the nod first to Albert, and then finally a small one towards Carlos Cuesta, the quiet confirmation of something bigger.

In the stands, though, the roar soon reverberated in the stadium.

Arsenal fans who had been tense during the game, since Al Hilal were leading by 2 goals in the other game at that time, were suddenly alive again, scarves whipping through the air, songs breaking out in unison.

”So it’s confirmed. Arsenal are through,” the commentator’s voice boomed above the chaos. ”A draw here and a draw in the other game, and that is enough as Mikel Arteta’s men advance to the next round!”

Izan looked around, letting the noise wash over him, that wave of red and white celebration flooding from the stands.

He couldn’t help but smile this time.

While he stood alone, a voice came from behind, causing Izan to smile as he recognised the voice.

”Oi, don’t look too happy, mate. You wanted it to make it another win, didn’t you?”

”No, I can’t say I am. I’d say you guys are lucky I didn’t come on early.”

Jude rolled his eyes at Izan’s words, waving them off.

”Enough of that, bro. When are we hanging out again, huh?” Jude asked, his tone light but his eyes tired.

”Or you’d rather hang out with Yamal and do TikToks.”

”I do not join in those TikToks,” Izan replied sharply, causing Jude to laugh.

”Besides, I think we still have like a week or something after the tournament. I’ll come find you then, when you’re in recovery after that shoulder thing, yeah? Or... maybe when you guys go out,” he added, smirking, the cheek in his tone deliberate.

Jude laughed, shaking his head as he backed away.

”Cheeky little—” he started, but the grin broke through, and he just laughed again, turning toward the tunnel.

”Alright, I’ll hold you to that.”

”For sure,” Izan said, still smiling as he watched the England midfielder jog away, giving him a thumbs up before disappearing among his teammates.

As Izan turned back toward the tunnel himself, the noise was still deafening, ”Izan! Izan!” rising from one corner, the Arsenal fans chanting his name in waves.

He lifted his hand in acknowledgement, the crowd roaring louder before Izan set his hand down.

Kylian Mbappé passed by then, shirt tucked into his shorts, sweat gleaming under the lights.

”I thought we had this in the bag”, he said, in French, offering a high-five mid-stride.

Izan slapped his palm without breaking pace, the faint smile still hanging on his lips.

”Guess you didn’t do enough”, he muttered, also in French, almost lost in the noise, before joining the bodies wearing Arsenal kits and making their way down the tunnel.

......

”Man, you gotta feel for Gabi,” Saka said, causing Gabriel Jesus, who was walking ahead, to snap his head back as they made their way to the dressing room.

”How do you feel after touching your nose more times than you touched the ball?” Nwaneri continued, but Gabriel Jesus wasn’t going to indulge them as they opened the door to the dressing room, where laughter came in bursts between gulps of water and the sound of showers running somewhere in the back.

Saka opened his mouth, but before he could, the door snapped open, and the noise dimmed the moment Mikel Arteta stepped forward.

He just stood in the middle, arms folded, waiting for the room to settle.

When it did, he started speaking.

”Alright,” he began, glancing around, eyes moving from Izan to Saka, from Ødegaard to Rice.

”You did well tonight. You showed fight, patience, intelligence and resilience against a side that doesn’t let you breathe.”

He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose, then let out a small exhale.

”But...”

A couple of players exchanged looks.

There was always a but.

”...we can do more,” Arteta said simply.

”We’re not here to draw and celebrate. We’re here to keep moving forward. And if we play the way we did in the last twenty minutes, the intensity, the focus, the courage, then we can go toe-to-toe with anyone.”

He started pacing now, his trainers squeaking slightly on the tiled floor.

”Still, we need to recover properly. This is going to be a tough run, two, three matches in a few days. So, rest, eat well, hydrate. And listen—” he suddenly turned, clapping his hands once.

”The greedy bastards who run this tournament...”

That got a laugh, quick and genuine, rippling through the room.

”...have been so kind to give us a day off tomorrow.”

The laughter grew louder.

Izan looked up, shaking his head, a grin spreading across his face.

”Even Mr Arteta is tired of the games. Guess that speaks all that needs to be said?” Martinelli uttered under his breath, earning a chuckle from Jesus beside him.

Arteta’s lips twitched.

”Don’t celebrate too much,” he said, pointing a finger toward the group.

”I said a day off, not two. And even that,” he raised a hand, ”comes with conditions. You go back to the hotel, you eat, you rest, you sleep. Because after recovery, we’ll go through tactics the next morning. Followed by a Light session. Nothing heavy.”

”Light session. Riiggghhtttt!” Ben White echoed with mock seriousness, earning a few more groans from the benches.

Arteta just smirked.

”It won’t be as intense as the normal one, so you’ve got nothing to worry about,” he said, voice softening a touch.

”Now get ready, we head back in ten. Coaches will be waiting.”

He started to turn when a voice called from the doorway.

”Mikel!”

Carlos Cuesta was there, tablet in hand, pointing towards something on the screen.

Arteta nodded toward him, then turned back to the players once more.

”Good work, all of you. Enjoy tonight, a little bit.” His expression softened, his tone dipping almost into warmth.

”You earned that.”

Then, without another word, he walked toward the door, patting Izan on the shoulder as he passed.

”Good one, kid,” he said quietly before stepping out to join Cuesta.

The moment he left, the room came alive again, jokes, chatter, the thud of lockers closing and players shuffling towards the showers in the stadium.

.....

Eventually, the players made their way outside, where the lights from the stadium bled into the parking concourse, where security guards formed half-hearted lines, trying to keep order as fans pressed forward against the barriers.

The Arsenal players emerged in clusters, jackets zipped up, bags slung over shoulders.

The moment the first red jerseys appeared, the crowd erupted again.

”Bukayo! Bukayo, over here!”

”Martinelli, quick photo please!”

”Ricey, one question—just one!”

”Ricey?” Declan Rice questioned with a raised brow as Saka came from behind, shoving him forward.

”At least they kinda’ know your name. Ask Amadou Onana what they called him.”

Camera shutters clattered like rain, the voices of reporters blending with chants from supporters waving shirts and scarves.

Arteta walked near the front, his hands tucked into his pockets, face calm but observant.

The players were already heading toward the line of buses waiting under the bright streetlights, the club’s crest shimmering faintly on the dark windows.

But before he could step on, a sudden commotion flared up near the barricade, a scuffle between two groups of fans trying to get closer to the players.

He stopped immediately, his instincts kicking in.

”Hold on,” he muttered, raising a hand to signal the team behind him.

The security detail moved in fast, but Arteta glanced back at his squad, most of them looking unsure whether to keep walking or not.

He gave them a small nod before ”Go on,” he said to Ødegaard, who lingered beside him.

”Sign some shirts. They’ve waited long enough.”

Within seconds, the tension in the air softened.

The players peeled off toward the barriers, smiles returning as phones and markers stretched out toward them, with reporters hovering close, calling out questions —

”Martin, thoughts on the draw?”

”Izan, what a goal! How does it feel to score in a game like this?”

But their words mostly vanished under the fans’ cheers and the hum of excitement filling the air.