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God Of football

Chapter 371: The NBA [Golden Gacha - ] · Oct 10, 2026

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Chapter List (1057)

Page number / 22

351 Chapter 351: Tour 2026-10-10
352 Chapter 352: First Day At Work[Golden Ticket] 2026-10-10
353 Chapter 353: First Session 2026-10-10
354 Chapter 354: First Session, Completed 2026-10-10
355 Chapter 355: Finding The Right Piece [Nameyelus Gifts too much] 2026-10-10
356 Chapter 356: Izan’s Tactics 2026-10-10
357 Chapter 357: Prelude to Pre-Season 2026-10-10
358 Chapter 358: Just 2 Days 2026-10-10
359 Chapter 359: Watching From Afar [Golden Gachapon: Pistacho031_3 ] 2026-10-10
360 Chapter 360 - 2 in 26 [Golden Gachapon: Pistacho031_3 ] 2026-10-10
361 Chapter 361: Ball And Banter [Golden Gachapon: Pistacho031_3 ] 2026-10-10
362 Chapter 362: Saved By PR [Pistacho031_3]] 2026-10-10
363 Chapter 363: Arsenal’s Newest Man [Pistacho031_3]] 2026-10-10
364 Chapter 364: Pending Start[Gachapon Bonus] 2026-10-10
365 Chapter 365: US Tour [Golden Gacha - ] 2026-10-10
366 Chapter 366: Pre-Season Fever [Normal Release] 2026-10-10
367 Chapter 367: It Is Time [Golden Gacha, Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
368 Chapter 368: A Real Red Devil [Golden Gacha Pistacho_031_3] 2026-10-10
369 Chapter 369: A New Menace [Normal Release] 2026-10-10
370 Chapter 370: Football At Its Finest[Golden Gacha - ] 2026-10-10
371 Chapter 371: The NBA [Golden Gacha - ] 2026-10-10
372 Chapter 372: The American Game. 2026-10-10
373 Chapter 373: Night In LA [Normal Release] 2026-10-10
374 Chapter 374: Early Lead [Golden Gacha] 2026-10-10
375 Chapter 375: Foot On The PitChapter [Golden Gacha. Pistacho031_3] 2026-10-10
376 Chapter 376: Goal In LA [Normal Release] 2026-10-10
377 Chapter 377: Relentless Leverkusen [Final Gacha - ] 2026-10-10
378 Chapter 378: First Start 2026-10-10
379 Chapter 379: Something Greater 2026-10-10
380 Chapter 380: Late Night Escapades 2026-10-10
381 Chapter 381: Clash Of Two Titans 2026-10-10
382 Chapter 382: Clash Of Two Titans: [2] 2026-10-10
383 Chapter 383: War In A Coliseum 2026-10-10
384 Chapter 384: Brilliance Under The Lights 2026-10-10
385 Chapter 385: Egyptian Magic 2026-10-10
386 Chapter 386: Little Conductor 2026-10-10
387 Chapter 387: Halfway There 2026-10-10
388 Chapter 388: Halftime Antics 2026-10-10
389 Chapter 389: Troll 2026-10-10
390 Chapter 390: Against the Best [Golden Ticket] 2026-10-10
391 Chapter 391: Something Special 2026-10-10
392 Chapter 392: Pre-Season Conference 2026-10-10
393 Chapter 393: Unexpected(Golden Ticket) 2026-10-10
394 Chapter 394: Unspoken Words. 2026-10-10
395 Chapter 395: A World Of Their Own 2026-10-10
396 Chapter 396: League Preparations 2026-10-10
397 Chapter 397: Life At Colney 2026-10-10
398 Chapter 398: Whispers Of Fame 2026-10-10
399 Chapter 399: Moments Between Whistles 2026-10-10
400 Chapter 400: The Premier League 2026-10-10

Chapter 371: The NBA [Golden Gacha - ]

The moment they landed at LAX, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.

Los Angeles wasnʼt just a city. The bright California sun bore down on them, a stark contrast to the overcast skies they had left behind.

Even through the jetʼs tinted windows, Izan could tell they were back in a place where football—or soccer, as most Americans called it—was still fighting for its place in the mainstream.

Yet, after the spectacle of Arsenal vs. Manchester United, there was no doubt in his mind that the sport was making waves here.

As the players disembarked, a small group of fans had gathered near the private terminal.

Some wore Arsenal shirts, others Manchester United, all holding out phones and jerseys, eager to catch a glimpse of the players.

A few called out for Saka, Ødegaard, and Gabriel Jesus. Then, Izan heard his own name.

”Izan! Over here!”

”Bro, we need you in MLS one day!”

”Best young player in the world, man!”

He gave them a nod and a small wave before following the rest of the team toward the awaiting SUVs.

The staff had already taken care of their luggage. All they had to do was get in and let the drivers handle the rest.

Izan slid into one of the cars alongside Rice, Saliba, and Tomiyasu.

The leather seats were cool against his skin as he leaned back, taking in the scenery as they pulled away from the airport.

”Feels good to be back,” Rice said, stretching his arms. ”Man, I might actually do something touristy this time.”

Saliba smirked. ”Thought you were a beach guy now?”

”I am, but LAʼs got more to offer than just that. Maybe Iʼll hit one of those big food spots or something.”

Tomiyasu, who had been quiet most of the ride, finally spoke up. ”I might just rest. These matches have been intense.”

Izan nodded. His body wasnʼt sore, but fatigue had settled in from the constant travel and high-intensity games.

Even if it was preseason, the expectations at a club like Arsenal were different.

The drive to Beverly Hills was smooth—palm trees lining the roads, streets buzzing with life.

Izan watched through the window, his mind half-listening to the conversation.

The contrast with Valencia was striking. The beaches, the culture, the way football dominated daily life in Spain—LA felt different.

Football was growing here, but it still wasnʼt everything.

By the time they arrived at their hotel, the players were already moving sluggishly.

The luxury was unmistakable—towering glass doors, a grand marble lobby, the scent of expensive cologne in the air.

A few guests turned their heads as the Arsenal squad walked in, some pulling out phones, whispering excitedly.

A hotel worker guided them to the elevators, swiping a keycard for their floor.

The moment the doors closed, Martinelli let out a long sigh. ”Iʼm going straight to bed,” he muttered, rubbing his face. ”Not even gonna think twice about it.”

”You? Sleeping?” Rice laughed. ”Didnʼt think you had it in you.”

Martinelli shot him a tired glare. ”Itʼs a long season ahead, man.”

Saka leaned against the wall. ”I need food first. Canʼt sleep without eating.”

”Arenʼt you always hungry?” Saliba teased.

Saka grinned. ”Thatʼs why Iʼm built different.”

The elevator doors opened, and the players shuffled toward their rooms. Izan walked a bit slower, letting the others move ahead.

He tapped his keycard against his door and stepped inside.

The room was immaculate—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a king-sized bed draped in crisp white sheets, sleek modern design that looked straight out of a magazine.

He tossed his bag onto a chair and walked to the window, staring out at the Los Angeles skyline.

The city stretched endlessly, the Hollywood Hills in the distance, the streets below alive with movement.

It felt different from Europe, from Spain, from Japan. Not home, but fascinating in its own way.

Letting out a breath, he sat on the edge of the bed. A full day off. No training, no meetings.

Now he just had to figure out what to do with it.

—

The next day, the hotel had a muted energy. No training, no meetings, no media obligations—just a rare moment to breathe.

Most of the players stayed in their rooms, scrolling their phones, catching up on shows, or sleeping in.

Izan had barely moved from his bed. His body wasnʼt sore, but the travel and matches had left him sluggish.

Dressed in a simple black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, he sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand.

Miranda had already messaged him twice that morning.

Miranda: Post something today.

Miranda: Use the pictures the team took in New York. Maybe the one with the skyline in the background.

Izan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. She never let up.

He scrolled through his gallery, picking a set of promotional pictures from their first day in the U.S.

One of him leaning against a railing with the New York skyline behind him, another near the jet in his Arsenal travel gear, and a candid shot laughing with Rice and Saka at training.

He uploaded them with a simple caption:

One win down. Next, Leverkusen. #preseason

Within minutes, the likes and comments flooded in.

A knock on his door snapped him out of his thoughts.

”Yo, you awake?” Sakaʼs voice.

Izan stood up and opened the door. Saka, in a loose hoodie and basketball shorts, leaned against the frame with a casual smirk.

”Some of the guys are heading to the Lakers game tonight. You in?”

Izan blinked. Basketball? He wasnʼt really into the sport. Nothing against it, but heʼd never followed it closely. His first instinct was to say no.

”I donʼt know,” Izan started, rubbing his neck. ”Might just chill.”

Saka rolled his eyes. ”Come on, man. Itʼs the Lakers. Weʼre in L.A. Itʼs a different experience.”

Izan hesitated, but then Mirandaʼs voice echoed in his mind.

Stay marketable.

She had drilled it into him—his career wasnʼt just about football anymore. Every public appearance, every image, every interaction had weight.

It wasnʼt just about playing well. It was about being seen.

He sighed. ”Alright. Iʼll go.”

Saka grinned. ”Knew youʼd come around. Game starts in the evening. Better be ready.”

Izan nodded as Saka left, closing the door.

Immediately, he grabbed his phone and dialed Miranda. It rang once before she picked up.

”Yeah?”

”Iʼm going to a Lakers game,” Izan said flatly.

A pause. Then, a satisfied hum. ”Good. People will love that. Get some pictures, maybe interact with some NBA players. Make sure to—”

”Yeah, yeah,” Izan cut her off. ”But what do I wear?”

Miranda laughed lightly. ”Donʼt worry. Iʼll handle it.”

Before he could ask what that meant, she had already hung up.

Izan sat back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. A full day off. No training, no media duties—just time to unwind.

His phone buzzed again. This time, it was Martinelli.

Martinelli: Bro, come to my room. Weʼre playing FIFA.

Izan smirked. He knew what that meant. A room full of guys talking trash, laughing, and pretending the game wasnʼt serious—until someone lost.

He grabbed his phone and headed down the hall. The door was already slightly open, and inside, the atmosphere was electric.

Martinelli, Saka, Rice, and Zinchenko were gathered around the TV, controllers in hand.

The air smelled like snacks and energy drinks, the universal scent of gaming marathons.

Zinchenko looked up. ”Izan! You playing?”

Izan leaned against the wall. ”Whoʼs losing?”

Saka groaned. ”Bro, these two have been running the table.” He pointed at Rice and Martinelli, who were grinning like kings.

Martinelli wiggled his controller. ”Weʼre different, man. Best duo on FIFA.”

Izan raised an eyebrow. ”That so?” He grabbed a controller and dropped onto the couch. ”Whoʼs my partner?”

Zinchenko immediately raised his hand. ”Me. I need revenge.”

”Say less,” Izan muttered, rolling his shoulders like he was preparing for a real match.

They picked their teams. Martinelli and Rice went with Brazil. Zinchenko and Izan picked France. The game kicked off, and instantly, the room was filled with shouts.

”WHAT WAS THAT PASS?”

”NO WAY, THATʼS A FOUL!”

”Izan, hit me on the counter—yes, YES!”

Then, the inevitable happened. The moment Zinchenko messed up a clearance and Rice capitalized with a sweaty goal, Martinelli was off the couch, arms spread.

”TOO EASY!” he shouted, running around the room. ”You canʼt stop us!”

Izan shook his head, laughing. ”Nah, run it back.”

And thatʼs how the day went. Hours passed, the sun moved across the sky, and they didnʼt even realize it.

They switched from FIFA to Call of Duty, then to NBA 2K when someone (probably Saka) claimed he was unbeatable.

Food was ordered—burgers, wings, and fries stacked on the table as they kept playing, barely pausing to eat.

At one point, Ramsdale and Tomiyasu joined in, adding to the chaos.

The gaming session turned into debates about basketball, anime, and which players in the squad would survive without food.

By the time evening rolled around, they had played at least ten different games, yelled at each other over bad plays, and laughed until their stomachs hurt.

Izan checked his phone. It was nearly time for the Lakers game. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders.

”Alright, boys,” he said, standing up. ”I gotta get ready.”

Martinelli smirked. ”You finally embracing American sports?”

Izan rolled his eyes. ”Something like that.”

Izan entered his room the next moment and shut his door, trying to get a few minutes of sleep in before they went for the game.

Less than an hour later, there was another knock at his door.

Izan opened it to find two men in sleek black suits standing outside. They werenʼt hotel staff. They were stylists.

”Izan Hernandez ?” one of them asked like he didnʼt know who he was.

Izan simply nodded.

”Henry Duvant sent us. We have a selection of outfits for you.”

Saint Laurent. Of course. Miranda must have called Henry directly.

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