God Of football

The Emirates airplane touched down just after noon, the tarmac shimmering under the Valencian sun.

The air outside was dry and bright, warmer than London by a good ten degrees and as the Arsenal players filed off the jet, a breeze swept across the airport apron—light, but enough to ruffle collars and brush past warm foreheads.

Their team coach had arrived earlier in the country, already parked just beyond the barriers.

Security crews and club liaisons were waiting beside it, earpieces in, clipboard-wielding.

Everything was clockwork, professional.

Inside the terminal, they moved together, a quietly focused pack.

No music, no unnecessary noise.

Just the hush of trainers on polished tiles and the occasional cough or murmur from staff.

Then came the usual checks.

Passports.

Luggage.

Faces to match the printed names.

Saka leaned over to whisper something to Ødegaard, who chuckled under his breath while Havertz, beside the duo yawned like a man who hadn't fully believed in the early alarm.

Izan, ever composed, stood tall, backpack already off, ready for the queue.

He rummaged in his side bag.

Once.

Twice.

Nothing.

He frowned slightly, shifting the zipper flap and checking again.

Still nothing.

Saka, two people ahead in the line, turned just in time to notice the hesitation.

"You good, bro?"

Izan didn't answer immediately.

He unzipped the smaller pouch.

Empty.

Saka raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you left it on the plane."

"I didn't," Izan replied calmly—but he was already going through the bag again, faster this time.

Rice leaned over to glance. "Everything alright?"

"I had it," Izan muttered. "I had it when we left Colney…"

Saka's grin widened.

"How'd you even get through Heathrow if you didn't have your passport, bruv?"

That earned a few chuckles from the players around him.

Nwaneri tried not to laugh but failed.

Even Ødegaard cracked a smirk but after watching Izan not find it even after searching for a while, Odegaard frowned while Izan kept searching, his hands moving more in and out of the bag rapidly until he touched the soft leather.

He pulled it from the narrowest seam near the bottom side of the bag, the edge caught between the lining and a notebook.

He held it up without a word.

Saka clapped once, loudly.

"Look at that—miracle recovery. MI6 clearance restored!"

Izan rolled his eyes and tucked the passport into his jacket pocket, saying nothing as he stepped forward for processing.

The checks went smoothly from there.

Outside, the sun cast long lines along the curb where the Arsenal team bus waited—painted in matte black, the club crest quietly gleaming at the front.

As they exited, a wave of noise greeted them.

A sizeable crowd had gathered behind the barriers.

Redshirts. Homemade signs. Phone screens already raised.

"Izan! Izan!" someone called.

"Declan! Capitán!"

"Gunners til we die!"

There were maybe fifty—maybe more.

Locals, expats, tourists who'd caught wind of the arrival and showed up for a glimpse.

Izan kept his head down, hoodie on, but nodded once as they passed, giving a quiet thumbs-up that sparked another round of cheers.

Saka was less subtle.

He threw up a mock double peace sign and jogged toward the bus as if he were entering a stadium and when they boarded, the driver shut the doors with the noise outside fading into just muffled sounds.

.......

Arsenal's squad arrived at their hotel, where a private training ground annex, near the stadium, had been cleared for their open-session drills before the game the next day.

It wasn't unusual—UEFA match protocol allowed for pre-match sessions near the ground when travel timelines were tight.

Still, the location felt… symbolic.

Their hotel, sleek and modern, stood adjacent to the south wing of the stadium grounds—close enough for Izan to hear the echo of boot strikes before he even left his room.

They walked out onto the training pitch just past four, kits fitted, tempo light.

Arteta had told them this was just to stretch legs and feel the pitch—"no contact, no sprints, no proving points. That came tomorrow."

Izan was among the last to emerge, boots laced, bib tucked into his waistband.

As he stepped onto the field, the memories hit immediately.

The smell of the pitch still carried that familiar blend of watered grass and Mediterranean air.

He offered a small smile to no one in particular.

But then came the sound.

Not the cheer of fans.

Not the buzz of phones or applause.

Whistles.

Not many at first—just a few, sharp and deliberate.

Then a shout.

"Mercenario!" someone barked.

He turned his head slightly.

Just beyond the fence that wrapped the far end of the training pitch, a pocket of supporters had gathered.

Maybe ten. Maybe twenty.

A few with scarves.

A couple with signs.

One held a poster that simply read.

"Why'd you leave?" like they weren't around when the whole ruckus with Valencia's financial situation was going on.

Another—more hand-painted than printed—read:

"You chose the money. Don't pretend you're home."

Izan stood still.

His first instinct was to smile again—half amusement, half familiarity.

But the smile faltered.

Just a quiet, wry twist of the mouth.

Like someone remembering the rules of a game they hadn't agreed to play.

Saka jogged past him and slowed down when he saw the crowd.

"Friends of yours?" he asked, raising a brow.

Izan exhaled softly. "Not quite."

"What are they saying?" he continued but Izan just tagged him and then ran off.

The session carried on but a few players who understood Spanish kept glancing at Izan and then the fans.

Arteta didn't acknowledge the fans at the fence—but his glance toward Izan hadn't missed a thing.

Behind the chain-link, one man continued to shout, "You abandoned us!"

But Izan's eyes stayed calm.

He hadn't abandoned anyone.

He'd left because Valencia hadn't closed any doors whichwas loosely fixed in the first place.

He'd left when the financial situation of the club saw it fit for him to leave to bring the club back to its feet.

And he hadn't left empty-handed.

€140 million.

More than enough for reinforcements.

But that was the thing about memory.

Some people remembered what you took.

Not what you left behind.

And as he jogged back into the centre circle, things became a little bit clearer.

He just nodded to himself.

This wasn't a welcome home.

This was a test of belonging.

And he intended to pass it.

After a while, the session ended without a whistle—just a quiet raise of the hand from Arteta, followed by a few sharp claps from Carlos Cuesta.

The staff began gathering cones and bibs as the players slowed their movements into jogs, then walks, and then quiet dispersals.

"Alright," Arteta said, his voice just loud enough to cut through the idle noise, "good tempo. Smart choices. Nobody got carried away."

He turned toward the group huddled near the benches.

"Izan. Martin. Media duty."

Ødegaard groaned lightly, though he was already reaching for his towel.

Izan nodded without a word, his expression unchanged.

But Arteta's eyes stayed on him a beat longer than usual.

He didn't say anything—just watched.

Watched for nerves or anything that showed that he was feeling unwell or under the weather of playing against his former club.

But Izan's face held no such tells.

His shoulders were loose.

His eyes calm.

If anything, he looked bored.

Arteta gave a small nod.

"Go wash up. Room 3 in ten," and with that, the two walked off toward the tunnel, side by side.

Minutes later, they sat under a white banner that read:

UEFA CHAMPIONS LEAGUE – MATCHDAY PRESS CONFERENCE

The room wasn't packed, but the air buzzed.

Valencia press had shown up in numbers.

So had Spanish national correspondents.

Not all of them were smiling.

Ødegaard took the lead, as captains do.

He answered the first few questions easily—tempo, preparation, and how the team was adjusting to the climate.

His voice steady, English clear, and answers balanced between cliché and sincerity.

Izan sat beside him in a clean team zip-up, posture relaxed, arms folded.

His face gave away nothing.

If you hadn't known better, you'd think he was just there to fill the seat.

Until that voice spoke.

"Una pregunta para Izan…"

The journalist's accent was clipped, familiar.

It was the same man who had asked him about Valencia before Arsenal's match against Wolves.

Back then, Izan had politely brushed it off: "Let's talk Valencia when it's Valencia."

Now, it was.

"Or you prefer I switch to English" the commentator said causing muffled chuckles to sound in the room but Izan gestured for him to continue.

The journalist didn't smile.

"English it is. Izan, is this finally the time? To talk about Valencia, I mean. You said before it wasn't—but now you're here. And a few of the local supporters didn't exactly welcome you back."

There was a pause.

Izan's lips curved into the beginnings of a smile—faint, unreadable.

He leaned slightly forward.

"I saw them," he said calmly.

"And no, I'm not taking it to heart. It's not the whole fan base. It's a few ultras who want to stir chaos before kickoff. It happens. I've seen it before."

The journalist nodded, then pushed a little further.

"And what about your return? The way it's been framed here, it's not just football—it's… theatre. Especially after Piatelli's comments."

The air shifted as Ødegaard stiffened almost imperceptibly.

A camera clicked once as the room leaned in.

Izan blinked once. Then chuckled, a bit amused.

"Yeah," he said, glancing at the floor before looking back up. "I saw the interview."

He paused, fighting back another smile.

This one more lopsided.

'The one where he sounded like he was auditioning to be the main character in an anime.' Izan thought but kept his thoughts to himself

"I like his confidence. Every player should have that. It's a good thing." he began.

He leaned in slightly.

"But confidence only matters after one thing."

He let the pause stretch.

"The ability to back it up."

A few reporters typed faster.

"As for the whole 'I was here before him' speech," Izan added, "that's not how football works. It's not school. You don't get points for seniority. You don't win matches because you arrived earlier."

Another small shrug.

"It's about talent. That's what counts. And we'll see who has more when the whistle blows."

Ødegaard smiled faintly beside him.

The moderator raised a hand sensing where things were going and ended the session early.

"That's all we have time for—thank you, gentlemen."

Cameras flicked off as flashlights dimmed, but elsewhere…

…in a modest, modern apartment near the edge of Valencia's beachside district, Lorenzo Piatelli sat on his couch.

The screen glowed in front of him, replaying the live stream.

He watched as Izan's face stared back into the camera—calm, unbothered, surgical.

The chuckle.

The line about confidence, the correction about seniority and that last sentence still echoed.

"It's about talent. That's what counts."

Piatelli leaned forward slowly, setting the remote down.

He didn't blink.

He just stared back at the screen.

And on the screen, Izan stared back—like he already knew he'd be watching.

A/N: Okay. Had a class canceled so I got enough time to whip this one up for you. Have fun reading and I'll see you in the evening with the last of the day hoping things go the same.