World football system

The sun pierced through the curtains of the Oliveira household, casting warm streaks of light across the polished wooden floors of their London home. Emilia stirred beside Tobi, her fingers curled gently around his, their hands resting over the blanket. There was a moment of silence — the kind of peaceful quiet that only ever existed in that brief pause before the day came alive.

Then came the familiar chaos.

Ava's voice rang through the baby monitor. "Mommy! Daddy! Liam took my bunny again!"

Before either parent could respond, the thump of little feet echoed down the hallway, followed by Thiago and Luna yelling something unintelligible but equally dramatic.

Tobi groaned and pressed his face into the pillow. "I swear, they have alarms in their heads."

Emilia laughed, brushing her hair from her face. "That's because they're your kids."

"I was quiet," he muttered defensively as he swung his legs over the bed.

Emilia raised a brow. "Your mom said you once scored a goal, ripped your shirt off, and jumped into a pond screaming at age six."

Tobi grinned sheepishly as he pulled on a hoodie. "That was one time. Also, we won that game."

Downstairs, the chaos had reached its full crescendo — Ava chasing Liam with a pillow, Thiago attempting to climb onto the kitchen counter, and Luna in the living room trying to feed cereal to the family cat, Meeko.

Tobi scooped up Liam with ease and held him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Right, you rascal. Where's Ava's bunny?"

Liam giggled, kicking gently. "He's sleeping!"

"In the washing machine again?" Tobi asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Nooo," Liam said, but the pause after gave it away.

With a shake of his head and a smile, Tobi carried him off to retrieve the hostage plush toy. Emilia followed shortly after, tying her robe, already grabbing the breakfast plates like it was a reflex.

These were the mornings that defined their new life — loud, unpredictable, exhausting… and absolutely everything Tobi had ever wanted.

Training resumed later that afternoon. Arsenal was now in deep preparation for the coming season. Mikel Arteta had introduced a new tactical shift, transitioning to a flexible 3-2-4-1 formation, allowing more midfield freedom for players like Tobi who thrived in transitional play. He was older now, more experienced, and no longer the flashy teenage wonderkid. He had evolved — his play was more calculated, his touches more deliberate, his vision now enhanced by years of elite football and a mind honed by pressure.

The team had just completed a week-long training camp in Austria. Most of the players had returned sharp, though many still lacked match rhythm. Tobi, however, looked in mid-season form already. His passes sliced through Arsenal's defensive lines like a knife through butter, and his positional intelligence remained unmatched.

Declan Rice jogged over during the short break. "Mate, did you seriously nutmeg Ben White three times in the first twenty minutes?"

Tobi grinned. "I'm a dad now. It's unlocked a new level of savagery."

Gabriel Jesus laughed nearby. "If fatherhood makes you this good, I'm having twins next year!"

Despite the jokes, there was something unspoken among the squad — a quiet anticipation. Arsenal had ended last season as both Premier League and Champions League winners. They weren't underdogs anymore. They were the team to beat.

Pressure mounted quietly behind the scenes. The board wanted another treble. The fans expected magic. The media circled like hawks, ready to scrutinize every misstep.

And Tobi?

He just wanted to go home before bedtime.

By evening, Tobi returned home to find Emilia on the couch with a laptop open, the children piled around her like puppies, all watching a cartoon. Liam and Thiago had fallen asleep in her lap, while Ava and Luna were arguing over who got the last strawberry yogurt.

He paused in the doorway, heart swelling. No camera, no trophy, no award could compare to this scene. These were his gold medals.

Emilia looked up and smiled at him, her eyes soft. "You're late."

"Had to stay back for a bit. Arteta wanted to review match footage." He walked over, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. "Missed you."

"You stink," she replied with a grin.

He laughed, scooping Luna into his arms. "Fair. But I come bearing chocolate milk."

Her eyes lit up. "Forgiven."

Later that night, after the kids had been tucked in, and the house was blanketed in soft silence, Tobi lay beside Emilia in bed. She was reading — something about pregnancy recovery and toddler discipline — and he was half asleep, his hand resting on her belly out of habit even though she wasn't pregnant anymore.

"You ever think it's all going too fast?" Emilia whispered.

Tobi looked at her, his voice soft. "Sometimes. But I wouldn't slow it down for anything."

A pause. "You nervous about this season?"

He nodded. "Always. But I've got four little reasons to keep going. And one perfect one lying right next to me."

She smiled, leaning over to kiss him.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees, a reminder that storms would always come — in football, in life, in everything. But inside their little world, nestled in laughter, love, and loyalty, Tobi Oliveira stood strong.

And whatever the world had waiting for him tomorrow, he'd face it head-on — not just as Arsenal's number 10, but as a husband, a father, and a legend in the making.

The early morning sunlight streamed softly through the half-drawn curtains of the Oliveira residence. Tobi lay quietly in bed, arms draped protectively around Emilia, who stirred slightly in his embrace. The subtle rise and fall of her chest matched the soft breaths of the four tiny miracles sleeping in the crib just across the room.

Four. Not one, not two—but four little humans they had created together. Ava. Luna. Liam. Thiago.

Each name echoed with a story, a memory, a hope.

Today was different, though.

Tobi's alarm hadn't gone off yet, but his mind had already begun racing. In less than four hours, he would be on the training pitch at London Colney, diving into the intensity of preseason under Arteta's watchful eye. But here… here, in the quiet sanctuary of his home, he wasn't Arsenal's golden boy. He wasn't the Champions League winner. He was simply Daddy. And he treasured that more than the world knew.

Thiago let out a little coo from the crib.

Tobi was up in an instant, bare feet pressing gently on the polished wooden floor. He moved like a shadow, careful not to wake the others. Lifting his son into his arms, he whispered softly, "Hey, champ. What's going on, huh? Another dream about scoring goals like Papa?"

Thiago blinked up at him, his little hand reaching up to grab a lock of Tobi's tousled hair. Tobi chuckled quietly and walked toward the nursery. He didn't mind these moments. Even when it was exhausting.

The house had changed since the babies arrived. The sleek, minimalistic elegance Emilia once curated had become a charming chaos of plush toys, diapers, wipes, rattles, and pastel-colored onesies. Somehow, the clutter made it more like home.

By the time the other three began to stir, Emilia had joined him, wrapping a silk robe around her frame. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, and dark circles hinted at the long nights, but her eyes still sparkled when they landed on Tobi.

"I'll take the girls," she whispered, gently picking up Ava and Luna in a practiced motion. "You handle the boys."

"Deal," he murmured, pecking her forehead.

A brief moment passed—a smile shared, a bond reaffirmed—before the flurry of bottles, bibs, and baby chatter took over.

---

Hours later, as Tobi pulled up to the training ground, the atmosphere shifted. From father to footballer. From cuddles to crunching tackles.

Arteta greeted him with a clap on the shoulder. "Good to have you back, Tobi. Ready to defend the crown?"

Tobi nodded with a grin. "Always."

The team had been buzzing. After back-to-back seasons of silverware, expectations were sky-high. But for Tobi, the pressure didn't rattle him anymore. After what he'd endured—his rebirth, his struggles, the dark pit he once clawed out of—it was all fuel.

Preseason drills were intense. The sun beat down over the pitch as players sprinted, passed, and pushed their bodies to the edge. Tobi, though a father of four, hadn't lost a step. In fact, there was a new fire in him. Every touch, every movement—it all meant something deeper now.

Midway through a scrimmage, Saka jogged up beside him, panting. "Mate, you're flying today."

"Dad strength," Tobi grinned. "You wouldn't understand."

Saka laughed. "I'd rather sleep, bro."

The banter, the sweat, the hunger—it felt good. Familiar. Yet different. Because now, when he laced up his boots, he wasn't doing it just for trophies or headlines. He was doing it for four little reasons back home.

---

That evening, after ice baths and tactical sessions, Tobi returned home to a quiet living room dimly lit with fairy lights. Emilia sat on the couch, her head leaned back, the babies asleep in their bassinets nearby.

"Long day?" she asked, without opening her eyes.

"Not as long as yours," Tobi replied, sinking down beside her and gently pulling her feet onto his lap. "How'd they do?"

"No emergency poops. So I call that a win."

They both laughed. Tobi leaned forward and kissed her temple. "I missed you today."

"You saw us six hours ago."

"That's six hours too long."

They sat in peaceful silence for a while, the only sounds being the soft hum of the baby monitor and the occasional rustle of tiny limbs.

Then Emilia turned to him, voice low. "Are you scared?"

Tobi's brow furrowed slightly. "Of what?"

"Of what's next. The pressure. The balance. Raising four kids… keeping your career going… staying us."

He reached for her hand. "Every day. But I've never been more sure that I want all of it. With you."

Tears welled up in her eyes. "You're a good dad, Tobi."

He smiled. "I had to be. I never really had one."

She moved closer, resting her head on his chest.

In that quiet, love-filled room, surrounded by family and fading starlight, Tobi Oliveira—the boy who once stood at the edge of hopelessness—felt a peace deeper than victory. Deeper than fame.

He had won a different kind of championship.

And tomorrow, it would begin all over again—with bottles, burping, and blazing the path toward yet another season of greatness.

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