God Of football

Chapter 861: Off To New York. [Bonus]

Saliba was still shaking his head when he got up, brushing grass off his shorts.

”Yeah, that was very nice,” he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear, his voice dripping with mock irritation.

”Easy to say when it’s not you getting dropped to the floor, boss.”

The other players laughed at his remark while on the sideline, Arteta, who had been scribbling something into his small black notebook, lifted his head with that half-smile of his.

”I’ve had my fair share of embarrassment when I played, trust me,” he called back.

”I know exactly how it feels.”

”Not like that, you haven’t!” Jesus chimed in, pointing at Saliba, who exaggeratedly pretended to limp.

The group laughed again, while Arteta shook his head, smiling, and raised a hand.

”Alright, enough. Let’s get back to it,” he said, his tone firm but light.

”Let’s go again.”

The players groaned, all at once this time, but they obeyed, trudging back to their halves.

The ball rolled again, the sounds of sharp passes and calls for movement filling the humid air once more.

The tempo slowed slightly as the minutes ticked by; fatigue crept in, but focus remained.

Izan kept pushing, sharp even in the fading light, his movements crisp and deliberate.

After another few drills, Arteta clapped his hands twice, the sound cutting through the chatter.

”Alright, that’s it! Good work, everyone!”

The moment the whistle tone in his voice faded, half the squad dropped to the turf, some on their backs, some sitting and the remaining few stretching in silence.

The air was filled with heavy breaths, quiet laughter, and the sound of grass being rooted from its spots as the players on the ground tried to hold onto something.

Izan, though, didn’t stop.

He stood a few meters away from the group, the ball already on his foot, juggling idly, tap, tap, shoulder, knee, foot, back to the knee, like he was just passing time rather than cooling down.

His expression stayed calm, almost detached, his rhythm smooth and effortless.

Arteta noticed as he walked toward Carlos Cuesta, who was jotting something on his tablet, and nodded toward Izan.

”He’s got too much energy sometimes,” Arteta said with a small chuckle.

”I swear he runs on something else.”

Carlos grinned. ”Maybe that’s what keeps the rest of them going, or breaking.”

Arteta clapped his hands again, voice rising above the quiet.

”Alright, everyone up! Let’s close with a light jog. Come on! 10 laps”

A chorus of groans rippled through the field.

”Boss, a light jog doesn’t sound like 10 laps around the field. They are mostly just 2!” Rice called out, drawing laughter.

Arteta only pointed at Izan, still juggling like the session hadn’t ended.

”If the kid’s still up,” he said with mock sternness, ”you lot have no excuse.”

”He’s not human, though,” while Saka laughed, shoving Nwaneri to get up.

Carlos Cuesta looked at Arteta, shaking his head with a grin.

”You’ve got to stop using him to motivate them,” he said. ”Every time you do, they die a little inside.”

Arteta laughed quietly, watching as the players finally got up, one by one, and started the slow jog across the pitch under the warm orange glow of the evening.

Sweat, smiles, fatigue, the usual blend of work and camaraderie.

Izan finally let the ball fall from his foot, catching it mid-bounce before tucking it under his arm and joining the group.

....

Back at the hotel, steam rolled softly off Izan’s shoulders as he stepped out of the shower, towel hanging loose around his neck.

He glanced at the air conditioner in the room before taking the remote and then turning it up, the quiet hum rising with every degree increase, before he tossed the remote onto the bed.

He rubbed his hair dry, calling out, ”Saka?” but no response came.

The other bed was empty, sheets slightly rumpled, a sign he’d been gone for a while.

Izan chuckled, shaking his head. ”He could’ve at least bathed before running off.”

He dropped the towel on a chair, pulled on a pair of shorts, and sat on the edge of the bed.

For a moment, he just sat there, the faint buzz of city traffic slipping through the window.

Then, almost by habit, he reached for the small toiletry bag on the nightstand, face cream, hair oil, moisturiser.

His post-shower ritual.

Halfway through rubbing lotion into his palms, his phone buzzed against the duvet.

He reached over lazily, screen lighting up with a message.

Olivia:Hey

He smiled faintly, thumb hovering above the keyboard, but before he could type a word, her name flashed across the screen again with a call incoming.

”That was quick,” Olivia’s voice came through just as he answered, leaning back against the headboard.

”We just got to New York,” Olivia continued, voice light, with the faint sound of chatter in the background.

”Checking into the hotel now.”

”You’re already there?” Izan laughed softly.

”I thought you guys were supposed to come a day before the game, not almost two days early.”

”That was the plan,” she admitted, ”but then we all agreed we missed you too much. So...”

He grinned, shaking his head. ”You all didn’t miss me.”

”Yes, we did!” she fired back, then paused for a second before catching on.

”Okay, fine, maybe not all of us. Komi and I did. Hori just wanted an excuse to skip school, and Miranda...”

”Miranda just wanted another excuse to fly out to America and make more plans for me to model,” Izan finished for her, smiling.

”Exactly!” Olivia said, laughing now. ”See? You get it.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. ”Yeah, I get it.”

Then Olivia said, ”Alright, I’ll call again once we settle into our room, okay?”

”Sure,” Izan replied. ”Get some rest first. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

”Deal,” she said, and the call ended with the soft beep of disconnection.

For a while, Izan just sat there again, staring at the quiet glow of his phone screen before setting it aside.

His eyes wandered around the room, landing on the Nintendo Switch 2 sitting beside Saka’s open bag.

The one Saka had bragged about picking up right after release, limited edition and all.

Izan picked it up, turning it over in his hands before powering it on.

The startup chime filled the room, a quick burst of nostalgia just as the door clicked open then.

Saka walked in, still in his training kit, eyebrows lifting the moment he saw what Izan was holding.

Izan grinned, holding out the console.

”You might as well set this up for me. I’ve been staring at the home screen for five minutes.”

Saka laughed, shaking his head.

”I thought you said you wouldn’t buy it because it was too overpriced with fewer games,” He took the Switch, dropping his bag on the floor.

”And?” Izan said, stretching his hand out for Saka to finish.

”You were right, it is overpriced and has fewer games and to buy, no rent, those games for 80 dollars wouldn’t be the best for your average person.”

”Thank you for acknowledging it,” Izan said, but Saka didn’t stop there.

”But you are not any person. Bruh, you were worth 560 million pounds the last time checked. And then you make an additional 60 million pounds a year, as well as close to a 40 million pounds worth of yearly sponsorships.”

”That is money I have supposedly, but I don’t even have half of what you are saying in my account. Maybe by next month,” Izan said with a cheeky grin, causing Saka to toss the switch 2 at him.

”Give me a sec, let me just shower first.”

”Sure thing,” Izan said, reclining back on his bed as the bathroom door shut behind Saka.

The sound of running water filled the room again, while Izan closed his eyes for a moment, a tired smile tugging at his lips.

.....

Izan tugged the zipper of his duffel bag closed, slinging it over his shoulder as he stepped out into the hallway.

Down the corridor, Rice was already knocking on doors, urging people to move.

”Let’s go, lads! Vans are leaving in ten!”

”Ten?” Saka called out from behind Izan, still adjusting his hoodie.

”You said that ten minutes ago!”

Rice just grinned, walking backwards toward the elevator.

”And I’ll keep saying it till everyone listens.”

By the time they reached the lobby, it was a sea of red tracksuits and luggage.

Staff moved briskly between groups, checking lists, and counting heads.

Arteta stood near the entrance, coffee in hand, his usual calm somehow cutting through the noise.

”Everyone got everything?” he called out.

A few mumbled yes, boss, but it was clear no one really knew for sure.

Someone had lost an AirPod, and someone else was arguing about who had taken their charger.

Izan stood near one of the glass doors, watching the early sunlight spill through the trees outside.

The line of black vans waited just beyond the curb, engines idling, exhaust misting faintly in the morning air.

Players began filing out, one after another, laughter, yawns, sleepy smiles.

Saka jogged past him, pointing toward the door.

”Come on, bro, before they leave us behind!”

Izan followed, pulling his hood up as the Florida humidity met the morning chill.

They tossed their bags into the back of one of the vans and climbed in, the doors sliding shut behind them.

Outside, Arteta did one final head count before nodding to the drivers.

”Alright, let’s move.”

The convoy eased out of the hotel driveway, engines humming in rhythm.

Inside, the players gradually settled, some with headphones in, while others continued their deprived sleep against the windows.

Izan leaned back, eyes fixed on the blur of palm trees and early light streaking by.

Next stop: the airport, and then New York.