God Of football

Chapter 751: News Out Of The Camp.

In a studio, lights cast a warm glow across the polished table, screens behind flickering with the looming image of the Parc des Princes, its arching roofline a shadowy silhouette against the Paris dusk.

The pre-match build-up was in full swing, but tonight’s script had shifted dramatically in the last couple of hours.

”Welcome back to our coverage,” the host began, voice steady but tinged with that journalistic gravity that only comes when the news isn’t quite what fans want to hear.

”And in unfortunate news, as it had been rumoured, we’ve had confirmation from Arsenal sources this afternoon: Gabriel Martinelli will miss the second leg against Paris Saint-Germain after sustaining an injury in training just a few hours ago.”

He shuffled a few notes in front of him but hardly needed to glance down; the details were already etched into the rhythm of his delivery.

”From what we understand, it happened late in the session at Chantilly. Arsenal were running a set of tactical drills, high-intensity repetitions, and Martinelli went down awkwardly after colliding with a teammate during a short-sided game. He clutched at his ankle immediately, looked more precautionary at first, but scans following that revealed enough damage to rule him out of tomorrow’s tie.”

The footage on the screen replayed training clips from before, the Brazilian forward smiling, darting past cones, hair tied back, boots flashing in bursts of speed.

The contrast was stark.

”That’s a significant blow for Arsenal heading into this time on the back foot,” the host continued, letting out a quiet sigh before turning to his left.

”I’m joined tonight by Michael Dawson and Ian Wright. Ian, let’s come straight to you. How big a blow is this for Arsenal, given the importance of this match and the fact they’re already chasing the tie?”

Ian Wright leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him.

The glint of his Lapel pin caught the studio light.

”It’s massive,” he said, voice low but firm.

”Martinelli is not just pace; he’s a vertical threat. He stretches teams, he keeps full-backs honest. Against a side like PSG, you need that constant running in behind to open space for Havertz, for Saka, for Ødegaard as well as Izan too.”

”Without him, Arsenal lose one of their best outlets.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly as if weighing his words.

”And remember, this isn’t an Arsenal squad at full strength. Zinchenko out. Jorginho out. Even some of the depth players, like Raheem Sterling—who we thought would play a bigger role after his loan move—haven’t been as involved as people expected. So now, losing Martinelli... it thins out Arteta’s options.”

The host nodded before looking across to Dawson.

”Michael, what do you make of it? From a defensive perspective, how does this alter PSG’s approach?”

Dawson’s tone was more pragmatic, a little less dramatic than Henry’s, but no less sharp.

”For me, it changes the picture completely. If you’re Luis Enrique right now, you’re thinking, alright, one less runner in behind. That means you can compact a little bit more. Maybe Hakimi can step forward more aggressively. And when you remove that constant wide danger, suddenly the double-marking on Izan becomes more manageable. PSG will fancy that trade-off.”

He leaned forward, tapping a finger against the desk.

”And let’s be honest, Arsenal’s bench is light. They’ve had to stretch players all season. No Zinchenko means Kiwior has been pushed further than Arteta probably wanted. No Jorginho means there’s a load on Rice and Partey. And now with Martinelli gone, it’s not just the starting eleven that takes a hit, it’s the ability to change the game later if things aren’t going their way.”

Ian Wright lifted a brow, cutting in gently.

”But that’s also where players like Trossard have to step up. He’s been one of Arsenal’s most reliable impact players in Europe. He has that knack, you know? The goal out of nowhere. So it’s not all doom.”

The host smiled faintly, sensing the natural rhythm between the pundits.

”So Ian, you’re saying this is more about adaptation than despair?”

”Yes,” Wright said firmly.

”Look, when you’re in a Champions League semi-final, there’s always adversity. No team gets here fresh, with every player available. You find solutions. But what this does is increase the burden on Izan and Saka. Both of them are going to have to carry even more of the creative load, and PSG know that. It becomes a mental battle as much as tactical.”

Dawson chuckled softly.’

”And you hope, if you’re Arsenal, that the teenager—” he meant Izan, though he didn’t have to name him—”can shoulder that responsibility in one of the most hostile stadiums in Europe. It’s a lot to ask. But hey, he’s shown before that pressure doesn’t faze him.”

”Also,” Dawson continued, ”Izan has played on the left wing several times this season, playing it even more back when he was at Valencia, so we can even see Arteta letting the boy take the position which would mean Izan would be focusing on finishing or creating rather than maintaining shape, not that he doesn’t do so every game.”

The host glanced at the camera, his voice tightening again as the Parc des Princes flickered back on the screen.

”There it is then: Arsenal without Gabriel Martinelli. It’s another hurdle, another test of depth, character, and belief. Tomorrow night, they’ll have to prove that they can find a way through regardless.”

The camera panned across the pundits’ thoughtful expressions, the silence lingering just long enough to underline the weight of the story before the program moved on.

....

The tactical room at Camp des Loges was quiet except for the soft hum of the projector, its light spilling across the table where maps of Arsenal’s patterns from the first leg flickered.

Luis Enrique stood at the front, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his gaze sweeping over the squad.

Every player was present, arms folded, eyes shifting between their manager and the screen.

”You’ve all heard the news,” he began, his Spanish accent softened but his words sharp.

”Martinelli is out. Injured. That changes things.”

A couple of murmurs rippled around the room, one or two players exchanging smirks they didn’t quite hide.

Enrique let them, for a second.

”I know,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

”It’s bad to rejoice in another player’s misfortune. But—” he lifted a hand, ”—it is what it is. Less for us to worry about.”

A few chuckles broke out.

Someone muttered something in French that drew another laugh.

Enrique’s hand dropped back to his side, and his voice hardened.

”I’m glad you can laugh. Because what I just said—” he paused, letting the silence settle, ”—wasn’t for laughs.”

The room straightened in an instant, grins fading.

”With Martinelli gone,” Enrique continued, pacing slowly in front of the screen, ”the ball will not be spread as wide. Their attack loses balance. And when that happens, the boy—” who the squad knew—”will see the ball more. Much more of it.”

The projector froze on a still image: Izan mid-volley, body twisted like a coiled spring, the ball seconds from slamming past Donnarumma into the top corner at the Emirates.

The goalkeeper exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.

He remembered every detail of that strike, the eyes of the whole stadium on him as the ball whistled past his rooted figure.

”When he has the ball,” Enrique went on, voice measured, ”there is chaos. We’ve dealt with chaos before this season, sometimes even created it ourselves. But Izan... he is a different type of chaos.”

No one spoke.

”Do not mistake his clout for exaggeration,” Enrique said, turning back to face them directly.

”Every story, every highlight reel, every headline, you’ve all seen them. And most of the time, those things are not lies. In five minutes of the first leg, he scored. He turned the momentum of a tie with one strike.”

He raised a finger, sharp, deliberate. ”Five minutes.”

Enrique let the point linger, his eyes scanning each face: Marquinhos, serious as stone; Vitinha, leaning forward with elbows on his knees; Hakimi, straight-backed but restless under his manager’s gaze.

”If Arteta does what I think he will...” Enrique’s voice slowed, deliberate, ”then Izan will start on the left.”

His eyes locked on Hakimi, holding the stare long enough to make the Moroccan shift slightly in his seat as the silence stretched thinly in the room.

Everyone in the room understood what was being said, what was being asked.

Enrique finally broke it, softer but no less commanding.

”This tie is not won by celebrating injuries. It is won by discipline, by awareness, by respect for the threat in front of us. And tomorrow, gentlemen—” his eyes swept the room once more, ”—that threat will be number 10.”

The screen went dark, the hum of the projector ceasing.

”I don’t think I need to say more since you all already get the idea. Meet me outside an hour after your Cafeteria break,” Luis Enrique let out as the players stood to their feet.