God Of football

Chapter 602: Homecoming.

The screen changed again — now a freeze frame of one of Valencia’s recent games against Sevilla, which had ended 2-0 for Valencia. However, if the shots on target on the screen were anything to go by, then the match should have ended with more goals for Valencia.

”14,” Raya muttered as he stared at it.

Arteta clicked to pause.

A still of Lorenzo Piatelli stood in the centre, arms stretched out, the number 10 crisp on his back.

”Let’s begin,” Arteta said as he glanced at the screen.

”We’ve seen what they can do,” Arteta continued.

”They press high. They like to transition. They’re younger — they run. But we have control. We like chaos and they don’t and most of all, we have Izan,” Arteta ended causing the Arsenal players to break into chuckles once more.

Another flick and a few quick plays from Arsenal’s last UCL match began to loop.

As the clip played, Arteta stepped slightly to the side.

”They will press, especially in the opening twenty. They will try to isolate our full-backs. But that’s not where the game is. The game is here—” he pointed to the centre of the pitch.

”—where we decide the tempo.”

He turned slightly, addressing Rice now.

”Dec, I want you covering deep. Track their 10. If we break lines, they’ll look for second balls.”

Then to Ødegaard.

”Martin, float into the left half-space. Drag their pivot wide.”

Then his gaze met Izan’s.

”You’ll see a few familiar faces,” he said calmly.

”Don’t give them space to play you. Make them play you honest. Make them chase like they probably did in training during your time there.”

Izan gave a sort of quiet nod that said: Got it.

”Piatelli’s on form,” Cuesta added from the side, ”but he likes to drop deep to get the ball. We close the lanes, we starve him.”

Arteta folded his arms.

”Let’s not make this about who knows who and who’s against who,” he said evenly.

”Let’s make it about what we know how to do.”

Another still frame clicked onto the screen — this time of Arsenal’s midfield build-up, Izan just ahead of the play.

”We play clean. Fast. Precise. And with intent.”

He tapped the remote once more, and the screen went dark.

”For some of you, it’s just another match.”

Then a pause.

”For some of you, it’s not.”

He didn’t look at Izan this time as all knew who those words were meant for.

”Either way,” Arteta said, voice now low and steady, ”it’s ours to win.”

Chairs creaked as players shifted forward, beginning to rise.

”Let’s get started with the recovery and then go back home. I will let the media liaison handle the rest but I don’t want anyone forgetting his passport tomorrow, is that right?”

The players nodded as the lights came back on, and with that, they dispersed.

Arsenal’s training ground at Colney had just begun to wind down.

Players filtered out the complex in twos and threes, trainers slapping gently against the tunnel concrete.

Izan stood last in the hallway as Saka jogged past him, and tossed a look over his shoulder.

”You already saving all the magic for Spain?”

Izan smirked without looking up.

”You’ll see.”

.......

Across the Atlantic waters in Valencia, Paterna, the Valencia CF training complex was buzzing.

The sun was clearer here, less ashamed.

Orange trees rustled along the edges of the pitch while the players sat scattered around the locker room, some changing out of their training kits while others headed for the showers.

It was a live broadcast.

An interview.

Lorenzo Piatelli sat before a wall of microphones.

The backdrop bore the club crest—blazing bat on orange and black.

The same badge Izan once wore.

But this wasn’t Izan’s seat anymore.

This was Lorenzo’s.

Piatelli leaned forward, arms folded neatly on the table.

He looked calm.

Confident.

But in the flicker of his gaze, there was heat.

The interviewer smiled.

”You know what everyone’s saying. ’El Segundo Izan.’ How do you feel about that?”

A short breath escaped Lorenzo’s nose—half laugh, half scoff.

”I think it’s flattering if you stop thinking after five seconds.”

Polite chuckles in the room.

”And if you keep thinking?” the reporter prompted.

”Then it’s not really a compliment. It’s a box. A tight one. And I don’t fit in tight boxes.”

The other Valencia players glanced at each other, some grinning while a few, like Pietro kept throwing around senseless jokes.

”He’s heating up like our fax machine,” he whispered, prompting a few players to look at him with helpless looks.

On-screen, Lorenzo pressed on, his tone still even.

”Listen, I respect Izan. What he did here? Unforgettable. But I was here before the fireworks, before him. I was wearing the badge before anybody knew him and I was the one people were talking about until an injury cut the noise.”

The room hushed but he went on.

”So if they think I’m just the next someone else? Fine. But they haven’t been watching. Not really.”

”Well, they will be in a couple of days,” the journalist said.

”Arsenal. Matchday 8. Mestalla. All eyes on you and Izan.”

Lorenzo tilted his head, smile now sharp.

”I’m not chasing headlines. I’m not chasing ghosts. I’m just playing my football.”

A pause.

”But for those who think this place still belongs to someone else... I hope they watch carefully. Because he’s won at the Mestalla before—”

A breath.

A shift.

”—but not this time. Not with me in it.”

The screen cut to black.

The players around Pietro let out a low ”ooooooh.”

Coach Baraja stood in the doorway, his wry smile now crunching up.

”I really like your confidence kid,” he muttered, looking at Lorenzo who continued the interview, ”but you don’t go around poking dragons.”

......

Back in, North London, Miranda set her tablet down on the kitchen counter.

The interview had just ended.

The silence in the kitchen felt denser.

Izan who had now returned from training, lay in the backyard stretching beneath the setting sun with headphones in.

She reached for the glass door, paused, and turned instead to Komi, who was stirring something at the stove.

”He’s going to see it eventually.”

Komi didn’t turn.

”Then he should,” Hori suddenly interjected from the couch.

”We all know how this ends but I just love people trying to up my brother. It makes things fun when he breaks them” she continued with a sadistic smile that made Miranda shiver while Komi laughed.

.........

[The Next Day]

The Arsenal team bus rolled into Heathrow beneath a dusky January sky, headlights sweeping across a packed group of supporters waiting behind the barricades.

Even before the bus doors hissed open, chants were echoing through the air.

”IZAN! IZAN! STAY IN RED!”

”COME ON YOU GUNNERS!”

Security moved in waves—firm but respectful—as the players began stepping off the bus, duffel bags over their shoulders and travel gear sharp and coordinated.

Mikel Arteta was the first down, flanked by Carlos Cuesta and one of the club liaisons.

He offered a small wave but kept moving.

Behind him, the players filed off—Gabriel, White, Ødegaard, Trossard, Saliba.

And then Izan.

The volume rose immediately.

A swarm of young fans leaned forward with phones and shirts and scarves.

Their calls weren’t just loud—they were hopeful.

Like he owed them a moment.

Izan didn’t walk straight in.

He stopped.

A security guard flinched, but Izan simply raised a hand to let them know it was okay.

Calm and effortless, he moved toward the fans with a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

”One at a time,” he said as he crouched to sign the back of a young boy’s jersey.

”You alright, mate?”

The boy nodded, stunned into silence.

His father stood behind him, phone up, beaming while a girl next to them held out a canvas print—one of Izan scoring his goal against United in the FA Cup.

Izan took it, clicked the pen, and signed just under the arc of his strike.

”Thanks for bringing this,” he murmured, nodding slightly.

”That was a good day.”

Ødegaard stopped nearby, waiting with an amused look on his face.

”You opening up a shop here or coming with us?”

Izan grinned and jogged to catch up after signing one last sleeve.

Inside the airport, the mood shifted—more muted, more professional.

Check-ins were swift, and security was smoother than usual.

The club had done this dance a hundred times, and every staff member moved like clockwork.

On the tarmac, their chartered jet sat waiting.

Sleek.

Painted with red-and-white accents along the tail.

Once boarded, the players settled quickly.

Others sank into seats with playlists already loaded.

Izan dropped into his window seat, leaned his head against the side, and gazed out over the runway.

Spain waited on the other side.

But so did something else.

Homecoming.

Reputation.

Legacy.

A return.

But not a welcome home.

Not yet.

A/N: Last of the day. Might have to do the first of the day tomorrow night cause I have classes the whole day. Anyways, have fun reading and I’ll see you.