God Of football

Chapter 469: Eager For it

Arteta sighed, mock annoyance plastered across his face.

Then he turned toward his assistants, who shrugged, pointing to the team doctors. But they kept looking away, refusing to meet his gaze.

“All right, all right,” he said, waving a hand. “You’ve earned it.”

A ripple of excitement rolled through the bus.

“Cheat meal, boys,” he confirmed. “Burgers. Fries. The works.”

“Let’s gooo!” Zinchenko pumped a fist in the air, much to the amusement of the staff.

“But—” Arteta raised a finger, smirking again, “I’m letting you have this because you’re going to burn all of it off before the next match.

Understood?”

“Yessir!” the chorus rang out.

Arteta chuckled, eyes glossing over Izan as he turned back.

“We really won this transfer window,” he muttered, looking at the Atalanta fans on the sidewalk as the bus streaked past them.

The wheels hissed against the tarmac as the Arsenal team coach pulled to a halt just outside the Emirates training complex in London, early morning drizzle misting the air.

A modest crowd of supporters had already gathered behind the barricades—some in school uniforms, others in suits running late for work, but all beaming with excitement.

Word had gotten out fast.

Izan’s brace against Atalanta had lit up timelines and headlines alike.

As the players began stepping off the bus, camera shutters fired, and chants started almost immediately.

“Izan! IZAN!”

“Martinelli! One picture, mate!”

“Kai! Sign my ball!”

Arteta, halfway through checking something on his phone, looked up, spotted the eager faces, and let out a small sigh.

But even he couldn’t suppress the grin that pulled at his mouth.

“All right, five minutes,” he called to his players. “Make it count.”

The boys fanned out along the barricades.

Declan Rice was immediately mobbed, pulling a marker out of his backpack like a magician.

“Who’s first, then?” he grinned, scrawling his signature across a scarf.

Saka was already crouching down to take a selfie with a young boy whose eyes were wide behind thick glasses.

“You gonna be at the next match?” Saka asked.

“We’ll try to give you another show.”

“Izan!” someone called again.

He turned, hoodie pulled halfway over his head and gave a little wave. A teenage girl shoved her phone toward him, almost shaking.

“Can you just—? Please—”

“Yeah, yeah. Come here,” Izan smiled, taking the phone and snapping a quick photo with her before turning to the next kid with a jersey.

“Where do you want it? Back or sleeve?”

“The badge,” the kid beamed.

Izan scribbled his name just under the crest and handed it back.

“Take care of it, yeah?”

Next to him, Ødegaard—on crutches, booted ankle protected—was still signing away.

“You lot better start pulling your weight,” he called out, raising a brow.

“I’m the one who can’t run and I’ve signed, like, forty.”

“You’re just slow, bro,” Declan Rice quipped. “Gotta give the fans time to catch up.”

Trossard pointed toward Izan.

“Nah, Golden Boy over there’s stealing all the shine.”

“I only signed like ten,” Izan said, smirking.

“Yeah, per minute,” Saliba laughed.

A few more pens were passed around, phones angled, and selfies taken.

Eventually, Arteta checked his watch and clapped once.

“Let’s go, boys. Time to rest. Back at it tomorrow.”

The players waved their final goodbyes, trickling into the building.

Izan hung back just a little longer, taking one last photo with a small group of kids before slipping inside.

Once in the hallway, he pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Hey, yeah,” he said into the receiver. “You outside?”

“Just pulling up now,” came the familiar voice of his driver.

Ten minutes later, Izan was bundled into the back of the black SUV, hoodie drawn low again, bag slung beside him.

The city rushed by in soft gray tones.

The buzz of match night had faded, replaced with a calm sort of satisfaction.

When the car pulled up outside his flat, he stepped out, slinging his bag over his shoulder and bounding up the steps.

He didn’t even need to knock.

The door opened before he could reach it.

Olivia stood there in a baggy hoodie, one of his old ones, hair loose around her face.

“Took you long enough.”

Izan grinned. “We stopped. Signed like a hundred autographs.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping aside so he could come in.

“Let me guess—you signed exactly one hundred and no more?”

“Martinelli signed half a ball,” he deadpanned, toeing off his trainers.

“The poor kid just held it there like it was gold.”

She laughed, tugging him into a hug, the door closing softly behind them.

“You stink like a flight and sweat,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Champions League charm,” he grinned.

“Did you watch it? Brace on debut.”

“I watched it,” she said.

“Twice. Now go shower, superstar. You’re not sitting on the couch like that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Izan chuckled, already heading down the hallway. “I’ll be out in five.”

……..

Steam drifted from the hallway as Izan stepped out of the bathroom, a towel draped around his neck, hair still wet and sticking in uneven tufts.

He wore a simple black tee now, one of Olivia’s favorites on him, not for the brand, but for how soft it clung to his frame.

She glanced up from the sofa, legs folded underneath her as a playlist hummed in the background.

“That was definitely not five minutes,” she said, smirking as she leaned her head against the cushion.

“I didn’t realize I was on a stopwatch,” Izan replied, drying his hair with the towel, then tossing it carelessly toward the laundry basket in the corner, missing it by a solid foot.

“That’s the Champions League attitude?” Olivia teased. “Leave your towels wherever you want now? How can you score from yards out like you did yesterday but miss this?”

“Scored two, I’m legally above laundry law and don’t compare kicking with your leg to throwing with your hands. Why do you think Steph Curry is HIM?”

“You’re legally annoying. Also, Lebron is HIM.”

He stared at her, grinned, and flopped onto the sofa beside her, letting his head fall into her lap with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m hungry.”

“Then get up and eat.”

“I don’t want just food. I want, like… you-made-it food.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I have a kitchen buff hidden in my pocket after all this?”

“I think,” he said, eyes closed, “that you’re amazing and lovely and smart and talented and the greatest cook in the northern hemisphere.”

“We are in the western hemisphere currently.”

“Exactly, what is said. So there’s no competition.”

She laughed, nudging his shoulder with her knee. “Flattery won’t save you when I burn the pasta.”

Izan’s stomach let out a low, unmistakable rumble.

“There it is,” Olivia said, pushing his head lightly aside and standing up.

“The soundtrack of a boy who sprinted eighty meters twice in one night.”

“You watched the replays?”

“Obviously,” she called back over her shoulder, already padding into the kitchen barefoot.

“They were everywhere. You and your little alien powers.”

He sat up, stretching, then rose and followed her.

Olivia turned halfway, catching him mid-step. “You’re not seriously going to hover while I cook.”

He leaned against the counter. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll mess something up, and you’ll pretend not to notice, and then I’ll get mad at you for pretending.”

“I like being near you.”

She narrowed her eyes, fake suspicion blooming across her face.

“And I’m the clingy one?”

“You are. But now it’s my turn.”

She opened the fridge, shaking her head but smiling softly.

“I swear, if you make this pasta taste better just by standing there, I’m throwing you back in the shower.”

“Worth it,” Izan murmured, following behind into the kitchen.

………

Miranda leaned back in a chair in her apartment in London, tapping her pen rhythmically against her desk, a sharp contrast to the relaxed tone she maintained while speaking.

“Yes, I completely understand the direction you’re aiming for,” she said smoothly, her voice even but purposeful.

“You’re not just looking for a face, but for someone who can embody the brand ethos. Izan’s image—it’s fresh, it’s bold, and it’s what the sport needs right now. The youth, the passion, the raw talent—all of it.”

The voice on the other end of the line responded with a deep hum of agreement, the identity of the brand still hidden behind the anonymity.

“Exactly,” Miranda continued, her eyes glinting as she read the mood of the conversation.

“He’s a natural fit. And with the level he’s playing at—well, you’ve seen the Champions League debut. There’s more than potential here. There’s momentum.”

A short pause. Then the voice spoke again, this time a little more cautious.

“But we’re not just looking for talent. It’s also about authenticity. Does he really… connect with our target audience? Is he aligned with what we stand for?”

Miranda’s lips curled into a small smile.

“Izan?” She leaned forward slightly, her tone softening with genuine confidence.

“He’s as authentic as they come. His roots, his style—everything. He’s not playing a role, not trying to be someone else. What you see is what you get. And people respect that.”

A thoughtful pause came from the other side, followed by a nod of approval.

“You’re sure he’s ready for something like this? There are risks, you know. It’s a big step for him.”

“Izan thrives under pressure. You saw it in the way he controlled that game last night. This is just another step on his journey.” She paused, then added, “And believe me, he’s eager for it.”