God Of football

Chapter 345: Arrival In Colney

The hum of the airplane was steady, a soft vibration beneath Izan’s fingers as he tapped absentmindedly against the armrest.

He wasn’t nervous—at least, not in the way people might expect. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t doubting himself.

But there was a weight to all of this. A finality.

Next to him, Miranda was flicking through her tablet, skimming over a few last-minute details. When she caught him staring out the window, she nudged him lightly with her elbow.

”You thinking about a lot of things?”

Izan exhaled, leaning back into the seat. ”More like everything at once.”

Valencia. His teammates. The training session had felt more like a farewell disguised as normalcy.

And then the goodbyes.

⸻

The drive to the airport had been quiet at first, but the moment they arrived, the atmosphere shifted.

Komi had been composed, her usual gentle smile hiding the emotions she always kept under control. But Hori—Hori hadn’t even tried.

The moment she realized he was leaving, she burst into tears, hitting him softly with her fists in frustration.

”You’re a traitor,” she sniffled, wiping at her face. ”Leaving me behind like this.”

Izan chuckled, grabbing her wrist gently before she could hit him again. ”You can come visit whenever you want, Hori.

Whenever Mom has time, you two can fly out. And when you start high school next year, you can move for real.”

Hori hiccupped, looking up at him with watery eyes. ”Promise?”

”Promise.”

That seemed to settle her, though she still clung to his hoodie for a while longer before letting him go.

Then came Olivia.

She hadn’t cried—not like Hori—but her eyes were red, her usual brightness dimmed.

When they finally stood face to face, she just looked at him for a moment before shaking her head with a small, bittersweet smile.

”I hate that you’re leaving,” she admitted, voice soft.

”I know.”

”But I’m also so proud of you.”

He exhaled through his nose, lowering his forehead against hers for a second. ”I’ll come back whenever I can.”

”I know.”

Then she kissed him, quick but lingering, her arms wrapping around him tightly. When she pulled away, she let out a shaky breath. ”You better be great there.”

Izan smirked. ”You think I’d settle for anything less?”

She laughed, smacking his shoulder before stepping back.

And that was it.

One last wave. One last look.

Then the airport swallowed him up.

⸻

Now, as the plane began its descent, Izan gripped the armrest slightly, feeling the shift in altitude.

Miranda put away her tablet, stretching slightly. ”Brace for impact.”

Izan smirked. ”What, for the landing or for what comes after?”

Miranda chuckled. ”Both.”

Through the window, the city below came into view—his new home. The Emirates Stadium wasn’t visible from here, but he knew it was waiting.

Everything was waiting.

A new league. A new club. A new chapter.

He exhaled slowly, gripping the armrest a little tighter.

The turbulence was light, but the weight in Izan’s chest was heavier.

Through the small airplane window, the skyline of London stretched beneath him—vast, unfamiliar, waiting.

His fingers tapped idly against the armrest as he exhaled slowly.

Miranda glanced at him. ”Nervous?”

Izan scoffed lightly. ”No.”

She arched an eyebrow.

”…Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted.

She smirked. ”Good. Means you care.”

The seatbelt sign flickered on, and the pilot’s voice crackled through the intercom, announcing their descent.

”Brace for impact,” Miranda murmured, half-joking.

Izan rolled his shoulders, adjusting in his seat. This was it.

As soon as they stepped off the jet bridge, the reality of the moment set in.

A group of Arsenal representatives stood waiting, dressed sharply in club attire, their expressions a mix of excitement and business-like efficiency.

At the front was Edu Gaspar, Arsenal’s Sporting Director, and Per Mertesacker, head of the academy.

Behind them, media liaisons and club staff waited to guide Izan through the next steps of his new life.

”Izan,” Edu greeted warmly, extending a hand. ”Welcome to London.”

Izan shook it firmly, keeping his posture straight. ”Thank you.”

Mertesacker smiled. ”The fans are already waiting.”

That much was clear. Even before stepping outside, he could hear them—chants, cheers, a growing roar of anticipation.

Miranda exhaled, checking her watch. ”I assume you’ve arranged a secure path?”

Edu nodded. ”Yes, but…” He glanced at Izan. ”They’re excited. Would you mind greeting them?”

Izan’s lips pressed together. He wasn’t a stranger to passionate fans—Valencia’s had been relentless.

But this? This was different. This was a new country, a new club, a new chapter.

He nodded. ”I’ll stop for a moment.”

As they exited, the noise hit like a wave.

Hundreds of Arsenal fans had gathered, packed tightly behind barriers, holding banners, scarves, and phones aloft.

The chant was simple but deafening:

”IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!”

His pace slowed as he took it in. They were here for him.

Izan lifted a hand, acknowledging the crowd with a small wave. That alone sent a ripple of excitement through them, the chants growing louder.

Then, out of the sea of red and white, he noticed a young kid near the front—his small hands gripping two Arsenal scarves, his wide eyes pleading for attention.

Izan stepped closer. Security tensed, but he gestured that it was fine.

The kid hesitated, then shakily held out both scarves. Izan took them gently.

He signed one, pressing it back into the boy’s hands. ”This one’s for you.”

Then, without hesitation, he looped the second one around his neck.

The boy’s face lit up. A moment to remember for a lifetime.

The crowd erupted.

Phones flashed. Cameras clicked. The moment was immortalized before Izan even realized what had happened.

A nearby journalist muttered, half to himself, ”The prince arrives… let’s see if he can become an emperor.”

And just like that, the headlines wrote themselves.

IZAN LANDS IN LONDON: THE PRINCE ARRIVES TO CLAIM HIS THRONE.

Izan exhaled, pulling the scarf tighter around his neck.

”Welcome to Arsenal.” A banner behind him read.

...…..

Izan walked toward the convoy of sleek black vehicles waiting outside the airport, flanked by Arsenal representatives and security personnel.

The crowd of Arsenal fans still buzzed behind the barriers, their cheers echoing through the terminal’s exterior.

Some chanted his name, others waved scarves and jerseys, desperate for one last glance before he disappeared into the London streets.

He had already made their day. Stopping despite the arranged security route, he had waved, signed a scarf for a young fan, and draped another around his neck—a small but powerful gesture that instantly spread across social media.

Miranda nudged him as they reached the car. ”You’re already making headlines.”she said, showing him the blog

Izan chuckled but didn’t check his phone.

As soon as they settled into the car, the convoy moved smoothly out of the airport, heading toward London Colney, Arsenal’s training ground.

Edu, Arsenal’s technical director, sat in the seat across from Izan.

”You made a good impression,” Edu said with a small smile. ”They already love you.”

Izan adjusted the scarf around his neck. ”Let’s see if they still do after I step on the pitch.”

Edu smirked. ”That’s why we’re here. And before that—there’s someone who wants to meet you first.”

Izan raised an eyebrow, but he already knew. Mikel Arteta.

The meeting had been planned before his medicals. It wasn’t just about signing a player.

It was about making sure the player and the manager were aligned, and that the philosophy matched.

Arteta had a clear vision for Arsenal, and Izan was supposed to be a key piece of it.

As the car sped through the streets of London, Izan leaned back, staring out the window.

He had felt this weight before. In Valencia. In Spain’s red. But this was different. A new league, a new challenge.

A new chapter.

And it was about to begin.

...….

The convoy rolled through the gates of London Colney, Arsenal’s state-of-the-art training facility.

The sun had barely crested the sky, casting long shadows over the pristine training pitches.

Even from inside the car, Izan could make out the neatly cut grass, the Arsenal crest stamped onto the walls of the buildings, and a few academy players jogging in the distance.

As the car came to a halt, Arsenal’s medical staff and club officials were already waiting.

A few players who had arrived early for training glanced over, clearly aware of the buzz surrounding his visit.

Izan emerged, dressed in a sleek, casual fit, still with the scarf wrapped around his neck.

Arteta was there to greet them.

”Welcome to Colney.” His voice was firm yet welcoming, his gaze analytical as it briefly sized Izan up.

Izan nodded. ”Thanks, coach.”

Arteta gestured towards the entrance. ”We’ll get straight to the medicals. Everything is prepared.”

No unnecessary words. Straight to work.

...

Inside, Izan was guided through a series of tests, moving from one station to the next with the efficiency of someone who had done this before.

It started routine enough:

• Height, weight, body composition. Good shape

• Joint mobility, and flexibility. Clean.

• Reaction tests. Sharp.

Then things shifted.

When they moved to the VO2 max test, something changed in the room’s atmosphere.

Izan pushed himself harder than necessary, sustaining his peak effort long past where most players would slow down.

The medical team exchanged brief glances.

By the time they reached the strength and explosive power tests, murmurs had started.

Izan’s sprint acceleration, lower-body power, and muscular endurance weren’t just good—they were pushing past elite benchmarks.

One of the physiologists frowned as the numbers updated on his screen.

The final red flag came when they checked the recovery time.

After max exertion, a player’s heart rate should take time to settle.

Izan’s normalized too fast, as if his body barely registered the fatigue.

The lead doctor tapped the screen, double-checking the data.

Silence filled the room. The tension was subtle but present.

Mikel Arteta, who had been waiting nearby, finally stepped forward.

”What’s going on?” His tone was calm but firm.

The head doctor hesitated before tilting the monitor towards him.

”Look at this.”

Arteta’s eyes scanned the numbers. VO2 max at extreme levels.

Muscle composition and endurance suggested a player deep into the season, not fresh off vacation.

Acceleration and agility beyond projections.

The physiologist beside him muttered, almost to himself, ”These numbers aren’t normal.”

Another doctor, arms crossed, added, ”It’s like he never stopped training. But even then… this is unnatural.”

Arteta didn’t react immediately. His gaze flicked to Izan, who sat on the bench, toweling off sweat, his breathing steady.

He wasn’t oblivious to the attention, but he didn’t acknowledge it either.

The Arsenal manager’s expression remained unreadable. He exhaled through his nose, then simply nodded.

”Alright. Continue.”

The medical team hesitated but complied. Meanwhile, Arteta turned away, his mind already working through what this truly meant.