God Of football

Chapter 382: Clash Of Two Titans: [2]

At Arsenalʼs team hotel, the mood was lighter.

Inside the lobby, players moved casually, exchanging light-hearted jokes while staff members carried last-minute equipment to the bus.

”I swear, this feels like a Champions League night,” Martinelli said, glancing at the number of cameras already tracking their movement.

”Weʼll get there soon enough,” Saka smirked, tapping his suitcase before turning to Izan. ”But first, our boy has his first ʼbigʼ game for Arsenal. How are we feeling?”

Izan adjusted the strap of his bag, a small smirk forming. ”Itʼs just another game.”

Zinchenko let out a dramatic sigh. ”Listen to this guy. He wins one Euros and now every game is just ʼanother game.ʼ”

The group laughed as they stepped outside, where a crowd of Arsenal fans were waiting, holding up scarves and jerseys.

Some chanted Artetaʼs name, others sang player chants, but many locked their eyes on Izan.

The cameras were already fixated on him, flashing non-stop as he walked toward the Arsenal team bus.

A few fans near the front held up a banner:

”IZAN, OUR NEW STAR. TAKE US TO GLORY!”

Izan glanced at it before stepping onto the bus, feeling the weight of their expectation.

————

The Arsenal team bus was a state-of-the-art luxury coach, but inside, the routine was the same as ever.

Some players immediately put their headphones in, others scrolled through their phones, and a few kept the conversation going, still riding the energy from the lobby.

Odegaard, as usual, sat near the front, watching clips of Liverpoolʼs pressing patterns on his iPad.

Saliba and Gabriel murmured about how theyʼd handle Liverpoolʼs forward line, while Raya leaned back with his eyes closed, already focused.

At the back, though, the energy was different.

”So, whatʼs the bet today?” Saka asked, turning to Martinelli.

The Brazilian grinned. ”Loser buys dinner. The first to score wins.”

Izan, sitting across from them, raised an eyebrow. ”You guys really do this before every game?”

”Tradition, hermano,” Martinelli chuckled.

Zinchenko shook his head. ”One day, theyʼll bet their actual salaries.”

Before anyone could add more, Arteta stood up near the front, his voice cutting through the chatter.

”Listen up, everyone.”

Silence fell.

”Enjoy the moment. This stadium, this atmosphere—itʼs all part of why we play.

But donʼt forget, this is our last test before the real season begins. Letʼs show them who we are.”

The bus turned the final corner, and outside, the SoFi Stadium came into view.

A massive, futuristic coliseum, bathed in golden sunlight, with thousands of fans already filling the stands.

...…..

The Arsenal team bus pulled up outside SoFi Stadium, its sleek red-and-white design reflecting the blinding California sun.

A crowd had gathered near the entrance, a mix of local fans, traveling Gooners, and curious neutrals hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars.

Security had already set up barriers, but the excitement was palpable, camera flashes going off like fireworks as soon as the bus doors hissed open.

The first to step out was Mikel Arteta, dressed sharply in his signature black outfit, hands in his pockets, his eyes scanning the scene with a calm but authoritative presence.

Behind him came Martin Ødegaard, his expression relaxed as he adjusted his headphones.

One by one, the rest of the squad followed, some wearing headphones, others casually chatting amongst themselves.

Then came Izan, and the volume of the crowd surged.

His arrival had a different effect—people called his name, some held up jerseys with his number, while others recorded every second of his walk down the steps.

A few Liverpool fans nearby booed half-heartedly, already buying into the growing rivalry that preseason narratives had sparked.

Izan simply smirked, tugging at his Adidas travel jacket before falling into step with Saka and Gabriel Martinelli.

”Feels like weʼre playing a Champions League final, not a preseason match,” Ben White muttered, squinting at the sheer number of cameras following their every move.

”Welcome to America,” Declan Rice grinned. ”They love a spectacle. Everything has to feel like the Super Bowl”

[No offense my Lovely readers from the Land of Opportunities and Capitalism]

Nearby, a few fans were holding signs—some were wholesome, like a kid wearing a full Arsenal kit with ”Izan, can I have your shirt?” written in big letters.

Others were more entertaining, with a group of Liverpool supporters holding up a sign that read, ”Weʼll humble the Arsenal wonderboy.”

Izan glanced at it and chuckled. ”Theyʼve been watching too many highlight reels,” he murmured to Saka, who laughed.

The players continued walking, stopping briefly as a few reporters called out questions, though they didnʼt engage beyond a few nods and waves.

The moment they stepped inside the tunnel, the outside noise dimmed.

The underground hallways were a mix of futuristic architecture and old-school American football grit.

Bright LED panels showcased both clubs, alternating between Arsenalʼs red-and-white crest and Liverpoolʼs liver bird.

Staff bustled around, match officials walked past with focused expressions, and a few stadium workers casually peeked over to get a glimpse of the players.

As they made their way toward the dressing room, Arsenalʼs players passed by the Liverpool squad, who were already in the hallway. The atmosphere shifted.

Several Liverpool players—Virgil van Dijk, Trent Alexander-Arnold, Luis Díaz, and Dominik Szoboszlai—stood near the entrance of their own locker room, their eyes locked on Izan as if he had personally wronged them.

Alexis Mac Allister smirked, subtly nodding as if confirming something with his teammates while Curtis Jones leaned against the wall, watching with an amused look.

Izan didnʼt react much—just a raised eyebrow, a small tilt of his head, reading the silent message between the lines.

Saka, walking beside him, noticed it too. ”Yeah, theyʼre definitely planning to ʼwelcomeʼ you properly,” he murmured, grinning.

Martinelli chuckled. ”Man, theyʼre acting like you played for United or something.”

Zinchenko, who had also caught on, merely smiled, shaking his head. ”Enjoy it while it lasts, boys. Once the match starts, itʼs Izanʼs turn to play mind games.”

The Arsenal players laughed as they strode into their locker room before coming out just as quick as they went in.

Led by Ødegaard, the players walked onto the pitch. The massive screens overhead flashed their names, the stadium lights bathing the lush grass in a silver hue as fans, already filling the stands, cheered in anticipation.

The air buzzed with excitement, but for the players, this was the last moment of quiet focus before the intensity of the match began.

Izan jogged onto the field with his teammates, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings as he adjusted the tape on his wrists.

He could feel the weight of expectation, not just from the fans but from his teammates, coaches, and even the Liverpool players warming up on the other side. He was used to it by now.

”Alright, boys, letʼs move,” Ødegaard called, clapping his hands as the Arsenal squad spread out for their drills.

The session started light—some quick rondos, simple passing drills, and stretches.

Izan kept his touches crisp, linking up with Saka and Martinelli in close quarters, their chemistry beginning to show with every sharp exchange.

Arteta and his staff stood near the sideline, observing, occasionally barking instructions.

As the session intensified, the forwards moved into shooting drills. Ødegaard slid a ball into Izanʼs path at the edge of the box.

Without hesitation, Izan took a touch, set his body, and curled a shot toward the far corner.

The ball kissed the inside of the post and nestled into the net. A ripple of applause came from the Arsenal fans watching, and even some of the substitutes clapped.

”Manʼs making it look easy,” Reiss Nelson muttered, shaking his head as he jogged back to his position.

Izan grinned but stayed locked in. Another ball came his way—this time, he let it roll, feinting a shot before slipping it through for Martinelli to finish.

On the other side of the pitch, Liverpoolʼs players stood, glaring.

Virgil van Dijk stood with his hands on his hips, watching Izan like a hunter sizing up its prey.

Luis Díaz smirked as he whispered something to Dominik Szoboszlai, who gave a small nod.

Trent Alexander-Arnold bounced the ball at his feet, his gaze fixed on Izan.

Even Salah, usually relaxed in warmups, glanced over with a knowing look as if preparing to set some record straight.

”Theyʼre looking at him like he stole something,” Saka murmured to Martinelli and Zinchenko, who had also noticed.

Arteta clapped his hands loudly. ”Alright! Thatʼs it. Inside, get dressed, and be ready!”

The players jogged off the field, heading back down the tunnel, the tension rising with every step.

.....

Jon Champion:

”Good evening and welcome to Los Angeles, where Arsenal and Liverpool meet under the bright lights of SoFi Stadium in what is—officially—a pre-season fixture, but letʼs be honest, thereʼs nothing ʼfriendlyʼ about this one.

Two giants of English football, both eager to fine-tune their squads ahead of the new campaign, and plenty of intrigue surrounding new faces, returning stars, and tactical adjustments.”

Gary Neville:

”Yeah, Jon, you say ʼfriendly,ʼ but Iʼve been on the pitch for these types of games before, and trust me, when the whistle blows, no one is thinking about easing up.

And with a player like Izan stepping into the Arsenal team, you just know Liverpoolʼs defenders will want to leave a little reminder that the Premier League is a different beast.”

Champion:

”And why wouldnʼt they? The Spanish wonderkid arrives with huge expectations, a massive transfer fee, and a spotlight following his every move.

But heʼs not the only story tonight—Liverpool are entering the post-Klopp era under Arne Slot, and weʼll get our first real look at how his team is shaping up.”