God Of football

Chapter 411: To Villa Park [GT - ]

The days leading up to the Aston Villa game passed in a blur of sweat, repetition, and unspoken competition.

Each session at Colney felt sharper than the last like something was building under the surface.

Sterlingʼs first full day in the squad only raised the level further.

Tuesday opened with position-specific drills.

Izan joined Rice and Ødegaard in the midfield unit.

The three cycled through patterns of play with dummies and mannequins scattered across the pitch.

On one rep, Ødegaard played a disguised pass into space.

”Take that first time,” he called.

Izan didnʼt hesitate.

He struck it clean, guiding the ball into the top corner past Ramsdale, whoʼd volunteered in goal for the drill as Raya was training with the teamʼs Goalkeeping trainers.

Artetaʼs whistle cut through the moment.

”Again. Faster. It doesnʼt count unless itʼs game speed.”

They reset. This time, Rice pressured tighter.

Izan dragged it past him with a deft touch and zipped a pass out wide.

”Oi,” Rice muttered, jogging back into position, ”donʼt think I didnʼt feel that nutmeg yesterday. Iʼm still collecting receipts.”

Izan cracked a rare smile. ”Keep count. Youʼll run out of fingers soon.”

Later, during rondos, Sterling joined in.

He was quicker than expected despite his age.

No wasted touches, no lazy movements.

On one turn, he slipped between Saka and White before laying the ball off to Izan.

”You always this sharp in training?” Sterling asked, not in jest, but in curiosity.

Izan shrugged. ”Depends whoʼs watching.”

Arteta clapped once. ”Thatʼs enough. Keep the tempo. Remember what I told you—there are no guaranteed starters. You beat the man in your role, you take it. Simple.”

Every eye turned to someone.

Izan met Sakaʼs glance for a split second before looking away.

The pressure didnʼt rattle him. If anything, it fed him.

That evening, Olivia was sprawled across the couch in his flat, scribbling in her sketchbook.

She looked up as Izan came through the door, bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the post-training rinse.

”You ever take that bag off?” she asked.

He dropped it beside the table. ”You ever take that pen out of your hand?”

”I like to be prepared.”

”For what?”

”To remember things I missed.”

She sat up and tucked her legs under her. Izan leaned on the backrest beside her.

”I didnʼt know you were into drawing,” he said.

”I wasnʼt. Not when we were kids. It started after we moved.” Her voice slowed a little.

”I used to draw our old building. The one you lived in. From memory.”

That caught him off guard. He sat down.

”You really did think about all that?”

”I was nine, Izan. I didnʼt even understand why we had to move.” She paused.

”You didnʼt write,” she said, staring at Izan.

”You didnʼt either,” Izan said back with a wry expression.

”I was scared to.”

They looked at each other, neither breaking the silence until Olivia leaned forward slightly.

”You stopped playing for a bit after your dad passed, didnʼt you?”

”Only a few weeks,” he replied. ”It didnʼt feel right at first. Then I remembered he was the one who taught me how to kick a ball. How could I stop?”

Oliviaʼs eyes softened. ”He wouldʼve been proud.” Izan nodded.

”Thatʼs why I donʼt take any of this lightly. Every game, every session… Iʼm still playing for him.”

She reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his.

”I want to know all of it. From the time we moved to now. Everything I missed.”

He looked down at their hands, then back at her. ”Then stay long enough to hear it all.”

Back at Colney, Wednesdayʼs double session tested everyone. Tactical patterns in the morning.

Small-sided games in the afternoon. Izanʼs side dominated one match, with him switching play diagonally before ghosting into the box for a tap-in.

”Manʼs got instincts,” Sterling said as he pointed toward Izan from across the pitch.

That night, Olivia stood by the balcony, tablet in hand, watching videos of Izanʼs early highlights.

”You didnʼt even smile in the youth clips,” she said as he walked out of the shower, towel on his neck.

”Didnʼt feel like smiling.”

She turned to face him. ”You smile now.”

”Itʼs because I have many more reasons to smile now,” he said, wrapping his arms around her slender but well-shaped waist.

She didnʼt say anything, just smiled and looked back at the city lights.

......

Thursday was Sterlingʼs best day yet. He beat Tomiyasu twice in wide drills and chipped in an assist during the match simulation.

At one point, after a slick one-two with Izan, he clapped once.

”This kidʼs serious, huh?”

Arteta nodded from the sideline.

”He knows whatʼs at stake.”

By Friday, it all felt like a countdown.

The team worked more efficiently and sharply.

Izan stayed after to hit free kicks while the others walked off.

The last one curled past Rayaʼs outstretched hand and slammed into the top corner.

Saka, watching from behind the cones, shook his head.

”Thatʼs the third one today. Iʼm not even mad anymore.”

Arteta turned toward him. ”Then stop watching. Beat him or let him keep taking them.”

Saka grinned and nodded. ”Fair.”

Izan jogged toward the water table, his chest rising and falling with the effort.

His mind was already drifting toward the following day.

........

Colney was already stirring when Izanʼs car pulled up just after seven-thirty.

His driver, a quiet man named Theo, gave him a short nod as Izan stepped out.

The early sun hadnʼt fully warmed the air, and there was a crispness to the morning that made him instinctively adjust his hoodie.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder and shut the door behind him.

”See you after the match,” Theo said.

Izan gave a small nod before heading toward the main entrance.

The car park was more alive than usual.

Staff were moving quickly—two kitmen wheeled heavy-duty black cases toward the team bus parked around the side, each case marked with player names in red.

Further ahead, a staffer from media relations held a clipboard and greeted passing players with nods, ticking boxes.

”Morning, Izan,” someone called.

”Morning,” he answered, spotting one of the physios loading ice packs into a cooler bin.

”Left your shin pads again?” the man teased.

”Never,” Izan said with a smirk. ”Not today.”

He moved through the lobby and out into the open area behind the training complex where the team bus was waiting, doors open, engine humming quietly.

The bus driver stood by with a coffee in hand, chatting with two stewards from the clubʼs logistics team.

Inside the bus, a few players had already taken their usual seats. Ramsdale sat near the front, scrolling through something on his phone. Rice was a few rows back, watching a video on his tablet, earbuds in.

Ødegaard, ever the early bird, sat near the middle with a notebook balanced on his knee.

Izan stepped in and moved down the aisle, giving a few subtle nods to those already aboard.

He took his seat by the window, dropping his bag at his feet and pulling out his phone.

A few more players climbed aboard as the minutes ticked on.

Sterling appeared just before eight, nodding politely as he found a spot beside Zinchenko, who gave him a quick shoulder bump in greeting.

The banter was minimal this morning—more focused than tense, like a squad that knew what needed doing.

Arteta arrived not long after, dressed in black club tracksuit bottoms and a dark polo.

He gave a short greeting to the staff before boarding the bus, eyes scanning the rows as he walked through the narrow aisle.

He paused halfway.

”Everyone good?” he asked.

A few scattered nods. Ødegaard glanced up from his notes and gave a thumbs-up.

”Weʼre not tourists today,” Arteta added calmly. ”You know what to do.”

He passed to the back, sat briefly with Carlos Cuesta and a couple of analysts, and began reviewing match visuals from a mounted screen at the rear table.

Izan leaned back in his seat, watching the Colney fields through the window.

Theyʼd spent all week building toward this.

No wild speeches, no late tweaks—just repetition, film sessions, silent focus.

He remembered one final tactical run the day before when Arteta had frozen play during a pressing drill and made him swap roles with Martinelli.

”If youʼre starting wide left today,” Arteta had said, ”show me you can hurt them from here.”

Martinelli had grinned.

”If he doesnʼt, Iʼm taking it back.”

But Izan had kept the spot and would be playing on the wings for the match against Villa.

Now, as the final bags were loaded and the bus doors hissed shut, Izan pulled out his phone and began searching for some music before settling on a slow-paced one.

The ride to Villa Park was ahead.

A/N; Another Golden ticket chapter. see you with the main releases for the day soon and as always, have fun reading.