God Of football

[Colney]

The pitch was half-cleared, half-iced.

Groundskeepers had done their best to push the snow to the corners, but the air still bit every time it moved.

The wind carried a wet chill, the kind that crept into joints before warm-ups even began.

Inside the gym, the heat was up, but the cold still clung to the glass walls.

Condensation hugged the windows where breath met frost.

Outside, the flurry hadn't stopped falling.

Light, constant, quiet.

And inside?

There was movement, but not noise.

The Arsenal squad moved through their circuits, trainers monitoring heart rates, coaches calling out intervals—but underneath it all, there was a tension that wasn't there yesterday.

Eyes flicked toward Izan in passing.

Nothing direct.

Nothing confrontational.

But subtle.

A few glances that lingered half a second longer than they needed to.

A quiet conversation that stopped just as he entered the room.

Players pretending not to look.

But they were looking.

And Izan?

He noticed.

Of course, he noticed, but he couldn't care less.

He just adjusted his grip on the dumbbells he was working with and returned to his reps with the same rhythm and pace.

Inhale. Press. Exhale. Reset.

The weight on his shoulders had nothing to do with football politics.

By the time he finished his second set, he heard footsteps approach behind him. ]

"Let me guess," came Saka's voice, cheerful but loaded, "you haven't seen the news, right?"

Izan didn't even turn around.

"You mean the one from twelve hours ago? Or the one from twenty minutes ago?"

Saka stepped beside him now, a towel draped around his neck, stretching his arm across his chest.

"The one where Perez is acting like your long-lost uncle," Saka said.

"Man's in Madrid drawing up family trees and transfer bids like it's a heist film."

Across the gym, Saliba chuckled without looking up from his set of pull-ups.

"He knows the answer, you know," Saliba called out.

"He just wants to hear you say it."

"Izan," Saka said, now grinning.

"Tell me. For real. What does this guy think he's getting? Why's he flying across the continent for you?"

Izan finally turned, grabbing the bottle beside his bench.

He took a sip, set it down, and raised his eyebrows once.

"You already said it."

Saka blinked. "Said what?"

"You said it last week, and you do almost every time before matches."

Saka frowned.

"I say a lot of things, bro."

"You said I make football feel unfair," Izan replied, voice flat but not arrogant.

"Like it's not meant to work that easily."

Saliba laughed again, louder this time.

"Ah, that's the one," he said.

"Yeah," Saka muttered. "I remember that one."

He picked up a medicine ball and spun it once in his hand.

"Well, don't go anywhere, yeah?"

Izan smirked.

"I'm not."

Saka gave him a look—half teasing, half serious, then nodded once and moved back to his station.

Outside, the snow still drifted past the windows in quiet streaks of white.

Inside, the tension wasn't gone—but it had shifted.

Because even if the eyes still watched, Izan had already given them an answer.

Without ever needing to raise his voice.

......

Away from what was happening at Colney, it didn't take long for a new headline to succeed the previous one.

The notifications came in waves.

Phones buzzed in stadiums, in cafés, in offices where fans weren't supposed to be checking football during work hours.

BREAKING: Arsenal reject £270M offer from Real Madrid for Izan.

Cheers erupted in some corners of London—pubs lit up, and supporters' groups on Discord dropped voice notes like war cries.

The Emirates faithful were already planning chants for the weekend.

"He's staying."

That was the hope.

The claim.

The belief.

But the headlines didn't stop there.

Just forty minutes later, another wave came.

BREAKING: Real Madrid, undeterred, submits new record bid for Arsenal's Izan – £290M in cash, +£30M in add-ons. No installments. Immediate transfer.

That last part?

It was the one that shook the ground.

Immediate.

As in: this window.

Three days into January, and Madrid weren't waiting for summer.

They weren't waiting for Arsenal's silence.

They were forcing the conversation into the light.

The second the story hit, feeds erupted like someone had thrown a flare into a crowded street.

On Arsenal's side, the responses were instant, emotional, and furious:

"What part of NOT FOR SALE are they not getting?"

"£290M won't buy the soul of this team. Reject it harder."

"You don't spend four years rebuilding just to fold in two weeks."

Madrid fans were split.

Some rode the wave.

Some flinched at the cost.

"He's worth every cent. Look at the numbers."

"Mbappé and Bellingham. Now Izan. You build dynasties this way."

"But we've got talent already. Youth already. Are we buying stars or buying headlines?"

Rival fans? They weren't quiet either.

"Arsenal about to learn what 'pull' really means."

"If they let him go now, it's curtains for the title race."

"Madrid just bending the game again."

But there was something different this time.

Even neutral fans were weighing in.

Even former players.

Something about the size of the bid.

The timing.

The intent.

It felt bigger than football.

It felt like a test.

A test of who Arsenal were now.

....

PRIVATE LOUNGE – ARSENAL EXECUTIVE BUILDING – LATE AFTERNOON

Josh Kroenke sat in the corner of a sleek, glass-walled room overlooking the west pitch, a coffee cooling in front of him, untouched.

The snow had started again—light, whirling flakes dotting the horizon like static in slow motion.

His phone buzzed.

He glanced at it.

Blinked.

Then leaned back in his chair, still staring at the screen.

The headline was bold and brutal.

Madrid raises the offer to £290M + £30M in add-ons. Cash. No installments. Deal for this window.

He looked up, across the table.

Miranda sat there, arms crossed, black blazer sharp against the pale backdrop.

Her tablet rested beside her.

She was just watching him.

Josh turned the phone to face her, laying it down between them without a word.

She didn't even lean forward.

Just glanced at the screen, eyes narrowing.

Then: "Of course they did."

Josh tilted his head.

"No reaction?"

"That was my reaction."

She picked up her tablet and flipped the screen around.

A different angle.

The same headline.

The same bid.

She scrolled past it like she'd already seen it ten times today.

Josh exhaled.

"You know this puts us in a different corner, right?"

Miranda didn't flinch.

He waited a beat, then added, "This is the moment they think we blink."

Her lips curled faintly.

"Then don't."

Josh stared at her for a long second, and a while, no one moved.

The sound of wind outside brushed faintly against the glass.

And somewhere in the background, the weight of legacy, loyalty, and a £320 million storm kept pressing harder on the walls.

..........

AMEX STADIUM – BRIGHTON

– EVENING, JANUARY 4TH

The floodlights bled white across the pitch as the final bands of dusk dipped behind the sea-facing stands.

Brighton's home ground was sharp-edged and modern, but tonight, it didn't quite feel like their own.

The away end was full.

Scarves waved, voices rose, and among the sea of red and white jackets, one chant rang louder than the others:

"IZAN, IZAN—STAY IN RED!"

"IZAN, IZAN—STAY IN RED!"

It wasn't angry.

It wasn't even pleading.

It was defiant.

Izan jogged out onto the pitch with the rest of the squad for warm-ups.

He didn't acknowledge the crowd directly, didn't break routine, but he heard it.

Everyone did.

His name bouncing off the roof with the rhythm of belief.

Some fans held signs.

"LEGACY > BIDDING WARS"

"17 BUT HE'S OURS"

From the beginning of the warm-ups, the cameras were dialed in.

One fixed on Izan's movement—watching every stretch, every cut, every glance.

Another panned to Arteta, arms folded, unreadable.

Inside the commentary box, the discussion had already started.

"Brighton's a tricky side on any day," one commentator said, voice calm but tuned in, "but tonight's about something else entirely."

His co-commentator nodded slowly.

"Yeah, it's not just about tactics anymore. This match—this week—has been overshadowed by one name."

"You talk about distractions... £290 million isn't just background noise. It's thunder."

"Well, we'll see what kind of thunder it is. Some players crumble under that weight. Others... turn it into rocket fuel."

They watched as Izan took a ball from one of the staff, settled it under his foot, then flicked it up and trapped it on his thigh in one fluid motion.

The fans behind the goal cheered.

The other commentator spoke again.

"All eyes on him. Again. And I'll tell you this—if there's any truth to the idea that he's unsettled... We'll find out in ninety minutes."

The players were starting to retreat toward the tunnel.

A burst of applause followed them as they left the pitch, but the chants didn't stop.

"STAY IN RED."

"STAY IN RED."

Because with everything else swirling, the match was still the match.

And once the whistle blew, talk would have to wait.

A/N: First of the day or something. I'm tired, so have fun reading, and I'll see you in a bit with the last. Also don't forget to check out the other novel Harbinger Of Glory.