God Of football

Chapter 972: Flowers At The San Mames.

The next day, a late morning interview dropped online.

It was a clean studio setup with a very neutral background.

And the most prominent thing in the setup was Izan, who sat relaxed in his chair, the sleeves of his dark shirt rolled casually, giving him a very approachable look.

The interviewer eased into it, starting where most people did.

Life away from football.

How he handled the attention.

What a normal day looked like when there was no match looming over his head.

Izan answered without rushing.

He spoke about routine, about keeping things simple.

Training, recovery, home.

How noise followed him everywhere now, whether he wanted it to or not and how he was dealing with it.

Then the tone shifted, gently but clearly.

After the easy and safe questions, it was time to get into the real talk.

The interviewer leaned forward a fraction.

”There’s been a lot of talk since the Nottingham Forest game. Fans noticed your reactions on the pitch. There was also an article this week suggesting tensions between you and the club. That you’re unhappy.”

The reporter paused, gauging Izan’s reaction, but after seeing no recoil, she continued.

”What do you make of such talks?”

Izan shook his head almost immediately.

”That’s just not true,” he said. ”I don’t know where that came from.”

He took a moment, choosing his words.

”I’m competitive, same as most top players. I hate losing. I hate drawing games; we should be winning. Especially ones that, in my opinion, shouldn’t cause us that many problems. But that doesn’t mean I’m angry at the club or my teammates.”

He leaned back slightly, hands resting on his knees.

”On the pitch, sometimes you shout. Sometimes you push people. After we equalised, I felt like a few heads dropped. That’s when you say something. Not because you’re mad, but because you want everyone switched on again. That’s football. They all thought we were okay with a draw, but I knew it wasn’t okay and pushed for the winner, and we got it.”

The interviewer nodded, letting it breathe, before bringing up the other topic everyone had been waiting for.

”There’s also been talk of interest from PSG and Real Madrid. Reports say they’re monitoring your situation closely, especially with all these recent talks. What are your thoughts on that, too?”

That earned a quiet laugh from Izan.

”I honestly don’t know anything about that,” he said.

”If there’s ever something serious, Arsenal would tell me. That’s how it works. They haven’t told me anything, and if not for you, I wouldn’t have really heard anything.”

The clip ended not long after that, leaving the fans and all who saw it to make of it what they would.

Arsenal fans breathed easier.

Threads filled with relief, screenshots of quotes shared again and again.

He’d cleared it up.

He wasn’t unhappy.

He wasn’t at war with the club.

Forest fans took it differently.

Some called it disrespectful, pointing to his comment about the game being one Arsenal should have controlled.

Others also pushed back, saying it was just his opinion and nothing more.

But it didn’t end there.

A few sharp-eyed listeners noticed what he hadn’t said.

He hadn’t promised to stay if offers came.

He hadn’t shut the door completely.

He’d said no offers had reached him, not that he’d refuse them if they ever did and that started the debates all over again.

That afternoon, Izan stood in front of the door leading to the compound, scrolling on his phone in one hand and seeing arguments chasing their own tails.

He shook his head, a tired half-smile crossing his face.

”They always find something,” he muttered, thinking if the interview was even worth it at all.

He had been hoping to give the fans some comfort amidst all that was going on, but it had now snowballed into something else just because of something he just didn’t say.

With a sigh, he locked the phone and slid it into his pocket.

By the door, he grabbed his keys just as Olivia walked past him, Miko cradled against her chest.

”Come on,” she said, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. ”Let’s get Miko to the vet.”

Izan nodded, falling into step beside her as they made their way to the compound.

....

Time did what it always did.

It moved on.

Inside the Arsenal camp, the noise faded back into the background, where it usually belonged.

Training went on, the jokes returned, and the talks and distractions online stayed there.

Arteta made sure of that.

In the Monday session, he announced that phones would be kept out of their training, putting it out there that players could only access them when the whole session was done, instead of in between sessions and cafeteria breaks.

It was met with little resistance because they knew their manager could be really annoying if he wanted to.

Without the buzz in their training lives, the players talked more, with Izan finding out that one of their squad players had welcomed a child with his wife, and so the whole team came together, showering said player with gifts and congratulations.

Slowly but surely, midweek crept up on the squad.

Champions League football was back.

The matches were already set in stone, so after their final session, they flew out to Spain a day before.

Upon arrival, a bus met them, taking them to a very cosy and quiet hotel in the Basque region, where green hills folded into darker stretches with the city tucked between them.

At the hotel, the staff got around things quickly, making sure all the players were settled within ten minutes of arrival.

And after that, it was dinner, a short tactical session in the conference room, where the lineups were made clear before the players made their way to their respective rooms, as the game the next day bore down on them.

....

An hour before kickoff, the city began to lean toward the stadium.

From every direction, streams of people moved uphill toward San Mamés.

Red and white scarves were wrapped tight around necks, some held aloft, and others folded carefully under arms.

Bars along the streets spilt noise onto the pavements, doors propped open as chants rolled out in waves.

Bilbao on a European night did not retreat.

Outside the stadium, the crowd thickened.

Vendors called out, steam rising from food carts as fans queued without taking their eyes off the glowing steel structure ahead.

The floodlights were already on, cutting through the early evening, reflecting off the metal ribs of the ground, making San Mamés look awake.

Inside, Arsenal arrived quietly.

The buses pulled in beneath the stands while doors opened to a controlled calm.

Players stepped out in small groups, headphones on, bags slung over their shoulders as they made their way inside the stadium, being led to the away locker room by a staff member.

Before the warm-ups, before the kits, there was something else.

A tradition.

In a corner of the stadium concourse stood the bust of Rafael ”Pichichi” Moreno Aranzadi.

Bronze, weathered with eyes set forward for as long as the San Mames was there.

It watched every first-time visitor, as it had for generations.

Arsenal lined up, jackets zipped, expressions composed.

This was their first competitive visit, and the respect was expected.

Most assumed it would be Ødegaard.

He was starting.

He was the captain, and he stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, watching.

But it wasn’t him who approached the bust.

It was Izan instead who reached for the bouquet made of white and red flowers, tied neatly at the stems.

The murmur began almost immediately among the Bilbao supporters who had gathered in the nearby stands as Izan walked alone.

He stopped in front of the bust and lowered the flowers carefully, adjusting them so they sat straight and took half a step back, eyes lifting to the bronze face, before dipping his head slightly.

The applause started slowly, polite at first, before getting fuller and fuller while the commentary rose from the gantry.

”Well, that’s not who many expected,” one of the commentators said, voice low with surprise. ”Arsenal’s captain tonight is Izan. Just seventeen years old, as demonstrated by his approaching the bust”

His co-commentator, beside him, let the moment breathe, before also coming through on the broadcast

”A huge demonstration of the trust the Spaniard has in this kid,” he replied. ”And a moment of real respect here. This tradition matters in Bilbao.”

The cameras around the stadium, lingered as Izan turned and walked back to his teammates, who were also applauding

They then moved on without ceremony, towards a side of the half where their warmups would be taking place.

....

[Half An Hour Later.]

The match official appeared from behind the players, his assistants following behind him as the last equipment checks were completed.

The players of both teams stood side by side, waiting until the referee gestured for them to follow.

The moment they appeared out of the tunnel, a bellowing roar met them, descending from the upper stands to the lower stands and then infiltrating the pitch, as the player walked onto it.

”Welcome, to the San Mames,” came the commentary from the upper stands as the players lined up in front of the side stands.