God Of football

The glass doors of the haematology wing slid open and Komi stepped out first, guiding the rhythm of the group.

Olivia followed, eyes scanning the street instinctively—habit, not paranoia.

Miranda trailed behind them, finishing a polite nod toward the nurse at the front desk.

And then came Hori, arms folded until she got to the curb, then sighed loudly like leaving the hospital had taken more effort than the entire procedure inside.

"I swear," she muttered, "that felt like six hours."

"It was three," Miranda said without looking up from her phone.

Then came Izan.

The paper band from his wrist had been cut, and his hoodie sleeves were pushed halfway up to let the afternoon breeze hit his skin.

He looked tired, but not ruined—just slower, a little sunken around the eyes.

Until Hori turned, falling into step beside him.

"Hey."

He gave a half-nod.

She narrowed her eyes, a small grin playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Be honest," she said. "You thought you were gonna die in there, didn't you?"

Komi spun slightly at the tone. "Hori."

"What?" she shrugged. "You saw how pale he looked."

Izan smirked, finally glancing sideways.

"No. But I did hear someone hiccup crying when the nurse rolled the machine in."

"I wasn't crying."

"Uh-huh."

"It was a shock."

"Uh-huh."

"It was really big, okay?"

"I've been told that before." he said glancing innocently at Olivia who choked on a laugh, then caught herself as Komi turned around.

"Language," Komi said, stepping toward the driver's door and holding out a hand.

Izan frowned. "I'm driving."

"You just gave 0.9 litres of your cells to a child with a rare immunodeficiency."

"So?"

Komi stared, causing Izan to sigh and drop the keys he had sneaked into his pocket earlier into her palm.

They all climbed in — Miranda up front, Hori and Olivia in the back — with Izan sliding in last and shutting the door behind him.

Olivia reached over and gently laced her fingers through his as he buckled in.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied quietly, resting his head back. "Just tired."

Miranda glanced back once from the passenger seat.

"Try to relax. We're ghosting the world till tomorrow."

"I'll believe that when I see your inbox at zero," Hori muttered.

"Touché," Miranda replied, smiling.

The SUV pulled forward, merging softly into the traffic heading toward Hampstead.

They didn't notice the van parked just across the road.

Not the man inside, seated behind the wheel with a takeaway cup on the dash and a DSLR resting on his thigh.

He hadn't moved since they exited their home back in Hampstead.

Just tracked them. Steady hands. Steady breath.

Click.

One shot.

Then another.

He zoomed.

Izan's hoodie was visible.

So was the hospital signage.

He checked the angle again.

There was no ambiguity.

Then he tapped a number on his phone.

"Yeah," he said.

"Got him. Outside St. Bart's. With his family and that agent. Nah, not rehab. Haematology."

Pause.

"No. No wheelchair. He's walking. Looks okay, but pale."

Another pause.

The client was clearly asking the real question now.

The man grinned.

"I'll send it when I get my incentive," he said as he drove off before even pulling the phone from between his shoulder and ear.

........

Colney wasn't buzzing the next day, but it wasn't tense as most would expect.

The mood was something in between — the quiet of a team still recovering from the surreal nature of the weekend.

They'd battered Manchester United at Old Trafford.

And yet, in the world of elite football, the euphoria of an 8–0 win didn't even buy you a week of grace.

By Tuesday morning, the grind was back on.

Izan walked into the facility in his black zip-up hoodie and joggers, quietly tying his hair back with a band.

The second he stepped past the threshold of the performance corridor, a voice called from the hallway.

"Oi! Look who finally showed up."

He turned — Saliba, leaning against the doorframe to the gym, arms folded.

"Man skipped recovery day like it was optional," Saka added from behind him.

Ødegaard chimed in without looking up from his tablet.

"You owe us a reason, Izan."

Izan kept walking but raised a finger.

"Stan Kroenke personally called," he said, deadpan.

"Told me to take the day off. One-day vacation chit. Signed. Laminated."

The boys burst out laughing.

"Laminated?!"

"Say swear!"

"Not Kroenke with the HR perks!"

"You still kept the receipt, right?"

Izan cracked a grin as he passed through, knocking knuckles with Jesus on the way.

"Don't be jealous," he added. "One day they might give you PTO for a free-kick."

Saka jogged by him with a towel slung over his shoulder and clapped him on the back.

"Brother, I'm just trying to live." Izan fired off before he could say anything.

Inside the gym, the usual playlist rotated—Afrobeat and soft grime—while the players cycled through resistance band warmups, core work, and low-load exercises.

No ball work today.

No tactical walkthroughs.

Just strength, mobility, and management.

It was the kind of session that lulled some players into comfort.

Until Arteta walked in.

He waited until most of them had finished their cooldowns, hands on hips, mouth tight like he was bracing for a groan.

"Alright, listen up," he called, and they turned up.

"We've had a shift in schedule. Everyone should be at Colney tomorrow morning, early. No delays. We're flying to Eindhoven by midday."

A collective ugh rippled through the room.

Even Ødegaard raised a brow.

While the others flopped down onto a mat and sighed.

"Wasn't this meant to be the week with the optional activation sessions?"

Arteta didn't blink.

"This is why they pay you six figures a week."

Then he turned, almost as an afterthought.

"Saka, what's that new wage again? Two Ninety."

After Arteta's words, groans suddenly became howls.

Ribbing exploded.

"Oi! Starboy's buying lunch!"

"Saka, I want new headphones. Noise cancelling."

"I want a house. Something small. Eight bedrooms."

"I just want my taxes paid, bro. Let's talk!"

Bukayo's eyes went wide. "Don't do this. Don't make me the villain."

He turned sharply, like looking for an escape, then pointed toward the door.

"Where's Izan?! I swear he was right behind me! I know you know how much he earns, so why not him?"

But Izan was gone.

"He ghosted us," Rice said, blinking.

"Again," Saliba muttered, shaking his head.

"Real-life ninja."

"Let's not even lie," Ødegaard added with a smirk, "we all wish we had his exit timing."

They chuckled.

But nobody said what they were thinking.

They'd need that kind of timing—and that kind of player—when they landed in Eindhoven.

........

[London]

A stack of sugar packets sat untouched between them — the kind of barrier two people used when pretending they didn't know each other.

"So," a voice said as the photographer from earlier wiped the corner of his lens cloth, then slid a black USB drive halfway across the table.

The man opposite — pressed coat, dark gloves, no rings — gave a glance, then pulled out a slim leather wallet.

No names. No words.

Just objects trading places like hands in a card game.

Click.

A second later, the USB vanished into the client's coat pocket.

"St. Bart's. Haematology Wing," the photographer said without being prompted.

"Shot's from across the street. Kid's walking. No cap. No hood. The hospital name is clear behind him. So's the wristband."

He took a slow sip from his coffee.

"Izan Hernandez. Out of a speciality care wing. With his family. No Arsenal staff. No press. No PR."

The man didn't blink.

Just leaned back slightly as the weight of that sentence hung there.

"How close?"

"About twenty, thirty feet. No tampering. Got timestamps, GPS logs, raw format — it's tight."

An envelope thicker than it should've been was placed on the table.

Folded twice and sealed in red unbranded wax.

"Ohhh, Fancy," the photographer said as he snatched it up.

The man stood without touching his cup.

"You'll see the headline by morning."

"Standard tease?"

The client gave a faint nod.

"We're not naming the hospital. Not yet. Just enough to stir questions. The right ones."

"And the theory?"

A breath.

"Mystery procedure. Fitness scare. Private check-up. Pick one. They'll do the rest."

The photographer gave a dry chuckle.

"Fans don't need facts. They need friction."

As the man turned to leave, he added quietly:

"You should run it before Eindhoven. Hits harder."

The man paused, then nodded once before stepping out.

The photographer sat still, finally pulling his coffee closer.

The steam had died. The work hadn't.

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a burner phone, and sent one line to a contact labelled: CourierMidline_3.

[Drop sent. Upload live @ 7:03 AM GMT.]

Then he pocketed it.

"I love this job," he uttered as he took the cup of coffee by his knee and gulped it down in one go before standing up and leaving.

A/N: First of the day. Hopefully it won't be the last. Have fun reading and I'll see you if I can in a bit.