God Of football

"Alright, everyone, listen up. We've got Madrid coming up, and to be at our best, we need to manage our time. Here's the plan — we'll be flying out this evening. We'll end the session early today after this meeting, so you have the afternoon to yourselves. Rest, pack, prepare — whatever you need to do. But be back here at six sharp to head to the airport together."

A few groans rolled around the room, but most of the squad nodded in agreement.

The thought of free time was tempting, but the looming second leg in Madrid kept everyone grounded.

Arteta scanned the room, satisfied he had everyone's attention.

"Good. Let's make the most of the next sixty-eight hours — because after that, there's no room for distraction."

His gaze flicked toward Saka at the last word, drawing another ripple of laughter.

......

[6:45 pm]

It was still early when the Arsenal bus rolled up to Heathrow, its dark and large appearance calling the attention of whoever or whatever it passed by.

The players inside expected the usual sloppy stroll into the terminal — but the sight that greeted them when the doors hissed open was anything but routine.

A wall of camera lenses and boom mics stood waiting, reporters packed tightly behind the barriers like a firing squad of questions.

They had clearly planned this; Heathrow's main entrance wasn't usually their territory.

But this time, they had beaten the team to it.

The moment the first player stepped down, voices exploded in every direction.

"Martin, how's the confidence ahead of tomorrow?"

"Izan, is this the biggest game of your season so far?"

"Mikel! Any squad changes for tonight's flight?"

The sudden onslaught caught Arteta's travelling party off guard.

A few players instinctively pulled their jackets tighter while others kept their heads down.

Arteta tried to weave through, muttering quick greetings, but microphones kept finding their way into his path.

Before things could turn chaotic, Heathrow security staff moved in with their crisp uniforms and determination, forming a moving shield around the Arsenal group and then guiding them through the bustle.

They funnelled the squad toward the Emirates Airlines gate, keeping the swarm of press just out of reach.

By the time they reached the quieter, private section of the terminal, Saka glanced at Arteta with a half-grin.

"They thought one step ahead this time, boss," he said, still catching his breath.

Arteta gave him a thin frown, his action warning more than words would.

"Would you like to squat again, Bukayo?"

The grin faded, replaced by a quick shake of the head.

"No, sir," Saka said before he turned away without argument, disappearing toward the boarding area.

From a nearby window seat in the lounge, Izan had watched the exchange unfold with quiet amusement, his lips curving into a smirk.

When Saka walked off, he shifted his gaze back to the phone in his hands.

On the screen, Hori and Olivia were mid-argument, their voices tumbling over each other.

"It's not fair!" Hori huffed, arms crossed.

"Why does Miranda get to watch the game in person while I'm stuck at home?"

Olivia, sitting on the edge of her bed with a half-zipped suitcase beside her, rolled her eyes.

"Because Miranda's his agent, and she's supposed to be there. And don't act like you didn't want to use this as an excuse to skip school."

"I was going to skip school," Hori admitted shamelessly.

"But now it's official. I'm not going. And why are you guys acting like he isn't going to body those stuck-ups."

Before either of them could continue, Komi's face suddenly filled the screen, pushing the other two aside.

"Alright, enough," she said with mock sternness.

"We'll support him from the house. End of discussion."

Izan chuckled softly. "Thanks, Mum."

She gave a small wave.

"Go make us proud," she said before the call ended.

The phone screen went black, leaving Izan's faint reflection staring back at him.

He turned his head toward the glass beside him, watching the sun break faintly through the low clouds over the tarmac.

The hum of distant engines filled the air, and for a moment, everything beyond the airport walls felt far away.

........

[Madrid, Spain]

The sharp smack of leather against net echoed across Valdebebas as the evening session reached its climax.

"¡Perfecto, Kylian!" Ancelotti's voice cut through the training ground.

He clapped twice, his trademark eyebrow arching in approval as Mbappé wheeled away from goal with a grin, jogging back to position.

"Again—reset, let's go!" Carlo barked, drawing the rest of the squad's attention back to the drill.

One of his assistants leaned in close.

"Mister… Florentino's here."

His tone was hushed, but it still seemed to hang in the air like a passing shadow.

Ancelotti gave the faintest nod, eyes flicking toward the far end of the complex.

He let the moment linger, almost reluctant to break the rhythm of the session, before finally calling out.

"Davide—take over with Chendo," he gestured toward his son and the other coach.

"Keep the pace high and end on a high note."

Davide stepped in seamlessly, already barking positional instructions, while Ancelotti turned and began the slow walk toward the main building.

The route took him past the towering mural—players draped in white shirts frozen mid-celebration, arms raised with the Champions League trophy glinting above their heads.

The image had become almost sacred here, an altar to the club's obsession.

There, Florentino Pérez was waiting in front of it, hands clasped behind his back, the faintest of smiles on his face.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, without turning.

Ancelotti stopped beside him, following his gaze up the wall. "It's what we live for."

Florentino exhaled slowly.

"We lead… the others follow. Always. We are Real Madrid, Carlo—this sport's eternal kings. The rest, no matter how ambitious, are merely contenders."

He turned then, eyes sharp, voice lowering as if the mural itself was listening.

"But kings cannot stand still. The crown is heavy, and it demands energy… constant energy. That is why I am here."

Carlo's expression didn't change, but there was the smallest flicker in his eyes.

He had heard whispers for months—since the season's opening weeks—about who might eventually replace him.

"I want more from you," Florentino continued, each word deliberate.

"We need a team that plays with fire every second. A manager who never lets the intensity drop, not for a moment."

There was a pause, his gaze lingering almost like a test.

"I have ideas. Names. But I would rather see you prove to me that I do not need to make that change."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy—like two men both understanding more than what was being said.

Florentino straightened his suit jacket.

"We still have battles ahead and Madrid must win them, as we always do."

He glanced once more at the mural, then turned away, his shoes clicking softly against the polished floor as he walked off without another word.

Ancelotti stayed there a moment longer, eyes on the frozen image of his players lifting silver.

Then, with a slow breath, he turned back toward the pitch.

.......

"Huuuhhhhaaawwwmmm—" a long, drawn-out yawn broke through the quiet hum of the room, dragging a few tired eyes toward the source.

Bukayo Saka sat slouched in his chair, hand over his mouth, eyes blinking like they hadn't quite adjusted to the light.

Arteta, who had just wrapped up another dense slide of passing diagrams, turned his head slowly, narrowing his eyes.

"Bukayo… what was that?" His tone carried a mix of faux sternness and genuine curiosity.

Saka straightened slightly, a small, guilty smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Nah, boss, I wasn't— I mean…" He scratched the back of his neck, buying time.

"You said, uh… something about… switching play quickly… and…" His voice trailed as he glanced to his right, clearly searching for help.

Ethan Nwaneri, sitting two seats down, was already biting his lip, trying not to laugh.

He gave Saka the subtlest nudge with his elbow and nodded toward Izan, who was leaning back in his chair, pretending to look innocent.

Saka caught the cue instantly.

"Oh yeah… and that we should… pass to Izan more." He jabbed a finger toward the teenager with mock seriousness.

"That's the bit I remembered."

A couple of chuckles bubbled around the room, but Nwaneri couldn't hold it in any longer and bent forward, shoulders shaking, a wide grin splitting his face.

The sound of his laughter spread like a ripple; a few of the players grinned, a few shook their heads.

Even Arteta's lips curved into a reluctant smile.

He shook his head, exhaling sharply as if trying to swat the moment away before it got out of hand.

"Alright, enough play for once."

He straightened his notes on the table, his voice regaining its usual clipped precision.

"We're done here. Get your things and follow the staff—they'll take you to the sports complex near the hotel."

Players began to shuffle up from their seats, zipping jackets and grabbing water bottles.

"That wasn't cool, Ethan", Saka called as he passed by the teenager.

A/N: Okay. First of the day. I need to sleep now. Don't forget to spam the Golden tickets to show support.