God Of football

Izan returned the gesture without thinking too much of it, then turned and began walking back toward the tunnel with the rest of his squad.

The noise of the crowd faded the moment he stepped beneath the overhang.

That in-between space—neither pitch nor dressing room—felt oddly still.

Just the hum of stadium lights and the thud of boots on concrete.

He was halfway down when he heard footsteps behind him, quicker than the usual stroll.

Then came a voice.

"Izan!"

He turned.

Three figures were approaching in their warmup jackets.

Valencia players—one he hadn't seen in a while, and two he'd played alongside more times than he could count.

"Pietro?" Izan blinked as the midfielder closed the last few steps and pulled him into a quick one-armed hug.

"Dios, look at you," Pietro said with a grin, stepping back.

"Same face, just taller. And probably richer."

Izan laughed.

"You too. Minus the richer."

Sosa came next with the same grin he had a year ago, only a little bit wider this time.

"Bro. Finally, someone who plays decent football in this tunnel." Sosa said while eyeing Pietro who had just blanked out after the first hug with Izan.

"Debatable," Izan shot back.

And then came José Gayà, the captain.

His hair, more grey now, showing signs of how age was trying to catch up but he still looked sharp.

He stepped forward and offered a firm handshake.

"Good to see you again, Hermano."

"You too, capi."

There was a pause.

Not awkward—just weighty.

They were on opposite sides tonight.

But for this moment, they weren't.

Pietro broke the silence.

"Hey, Mark told us to send his regards. He's watching from home. Hurt his ankle in training on Friday—nothing broken, but he's out."

Sosa nodded. "Yeah. Gutted. Was buzzing to face you. Said he'd have tried to nutmeg you."

Izan blinked before smiling.

"I'll call him and ask if he wants to transition to a winger. By the way, has he finally gotten a girlfriend?"

"Yep," Sosa nodded, "The girl in the ice cream shop near the Cuitat. I'm pretty sure that's part of the reason he hasn't exactly rushed to come back"

Izan gave a small nod.

It sat with him, that. Quiet loyalty—he hadn't expected.

Gayà clapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Let's not go soft now," he said with a smirk.

"We still plan on winning."

Izan grinned.

"So do I."

The moment passed.

No malice.

No pretense.

Just teammates once, opponents now.

Jose Gaya nodded once more.

"See you out there, Estrella."

They turned back toward their end of the tunnel as Izan watched them for a second longer, before turning and heading into the dressing room.

The reunion had been good.

But it didn't change what came next.

He was here to win.

The dressing room had settled into silence by the time Arteta walked in.

Boots were tied.

Kits were pulled down, tight and clean.

Laces were double-checked and socks were adjusted for the last time.

Arteta stood in front of them, hands in his pockets as he began.

"I don't care where this is," he said calmly, eyes flicking from face to face.

"I don't care what story they're telling outside these walls. I care about us. About how we play. About what we know."

He took a step forward.

"They'll try to drag you into their story. Their crowd. Their emotion. Don't let them."

Then his gaze landed on Izan. It lingered there—just for a moment.

"You know who you are. Now go and show it."

A brief pause echoed through the room before, "Let's walk."

The players nodded before filing out of the away dressing room.

The corridor outside the dressing rooms narrowed slightly as both squads began to file into the tunnel.

First the referees, then the goalkeepers, then captains, then rows of black and white intermingled with the white and red of Arsenal.

The hum from the stadium spilled in.

The chant.

The thunder of feet and the flashes from phones already glinting off the concrete ceiling.

Izan stood in line behind Ødegaard, just ahead of Declan and Mikel Merino.

Across from him, Piatelli was third in Valencia's line, jaw set staring straight ahead.

Above it all, far from the scenes in the tunnel, Peter Drury took over again.

"Two clubs with very different seasons. Valencia, reborn under grit and guile and Arsenal, reshaped into a machine of movement and elegance. José Gayà—ever present, ever reliable—leads out Los Che from the back.

Beside him, the resurgent Mosquera, and in front of them is Javi Guerra with Sosa and Pietro in midfield, two for the future of Spain, now the spine of this evening. Flanked by Rafa Mir and Diego Lopez and at the heart of it all…Lorenzo Piatelli. A man who took the long way home."

Next came Clive Tyldesley, filling the space with balance, "And for Arsenal—no surprises. Ødegaard, ever the architect. Declan Rice, the shield. Nwaneri makes his Champions League debut at just seventeen, but all eyes, of course, are drawn to the other seventeen-year-old…

Izan.

Starting in the false 9 role and drifting everywhere. A Ballon d'Or finalist before his eighteenth birthday. His return to Mestalla tonight isn't just a return, it's symbolic."

The tunnel stirred as the UEFA Official gave a nod and with that, came the music.

That unmistakable swell—bold, choral, ageless.

Players walked out two by two, flanked by the Champions League anthem and waves of roaring fans.

The Mestalla glowed.

Flares didn't need to be lit.

The moment was enough.

The line of players reached the halfway mark.

They stood still for the anthem's final notes.

Then: the silence broke.

Each pair of players moved down the line to shake hands.

When Izan stepped up to Piatelli, there was no hesitation.

They looked at each other, gripped hands, and nodded once.

At that exact moment, a burst of camera flashes lit up the stands—like lightning caught in a dome.

They held the handshake a second longer than most.

Then they moved on.

Pleasantries followed.

Pat-downs from the fourth official.

Glances exchanged.

Claps on backs with final instruction sounding.

The players broke from the centre circle and jogged toward their positions.

In the centre, the referee glanced at his watch.

A sharp breath and then,

"And we're off," Peter Drury said with that familiar, rising weight.

"Ninety minutes of memory, meaning… and perhaps, more than one reckoning."

The whistle had barely left the referee's lips when the ball snapped backwards to Declan Rice.

One touch, then sideways to Ødegaard.

The sound from the stands crashed down like surf—Valencia fans on their feet, Arsenal supporters tucked behind the corner flag already out-singing their numbers.

Boots hit the turf with purpose.

No slow settling.

This match started.

Valencia pressed high, three men jumping onto Arsenal's midfield line like they'd been holding their breath all week.

Rice turned out of pressure and clipped it back to Saliba but Piatelli came charging in fast.

Gabriel, who now had the ball passed to Rice again, who was immediately closed down by Gayà.

Izan saw the angle before it fully opened—he darted back toward the sideline, arms low, calling for it once.

And Rice slipped the ball to him.

The first real touch and it stuck like it always did.

Izan turned as Mosquera lunged in but with a quick feint, he sent the defender turning the wrong way.

The crowd responded—half gasps, half jeers.

Pietro came through the middle now, barking something in Spanish to Sosa—gesturing where Izan had come from, pointing where he didn't want him to go again.

Across the touchline, Arteta clapped twice, short and sharp.

"Reset!" he barked. "Don't force it."

And they heeded as Odegaard dropped back to offer.

Izan sent it to him with a clean inside-foot pass, then sprinted up the pitch again.

Behind him, Saka was already switching flanks, checking into the half-space.

Valencia were tight.

Not sitting deep—just compact.

Playing with a rope between their lines, shifting side to side with every Arsenal touch.

And yet…

There was an edge in the way they moved.

They played like men on a hunt with Sosa, particularly baiting the Arsenal players into passing lanes opened for them by himself.

And Piatelli—he wasn't just walking around.

He turned sharply after a blocked clearance, screamed for the ball from Pietro, and took it on the spin. He let the ball bounce once, ahead of him and then he chipped it diagonally over the top toward Valencia's Rafa Mir, whose run had caught Zinchenko flat-footed.

"¡Vamos!" came the shout from the stands while Zinchenko sprinted back, body angled, arms out, forcing the attacker wide before Gabriel slid in to poke the ball out for a corner.

Mestalla roared.

And in the middle of the pitch, Izan turned, jogging back into shape with his hands on his hips.

"You can feel the tension in the back and forth we've seen here but if both teams play so conservatively, we might see a dull- oh wait a second, Izan is on the run!"

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I'll see you after my presentation in the afternoon