God Of football

Chapter 771: Saturday Night Live: The Izan Show.

Arteta’s tone softened, though his stance didn’t.

”You’ll wash up, get yourselves together. Then a short lunch. After that, you’ll meet the PR team at the Sobha Realty complex near here. Be sharp, be professional. You represent more than yourselves when you walk in there.”

He gave a small nod, as if to underline his point, then turned on his heel and walked off toward the touchline, clipboard tucked under his arm.

For a moment, the squad lingered, exchanging quiet words as the message settled.

Some shoulders slumped; others rolled their back with resignation.

”Publicity again,” Saka muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt.

”They don’t pay us enough for this.”

”Bruh. You drive a Ferrari at 23. What do you mean?” Izan shot back, and a ripple of laughter cut through the fatigue.

”Still doesn’t mean I want a camera in my face when I’m this sweaty.”

Normally, a PR trip was a welcome change of pace, a chance to trade boots and bibs for shirts and smiles, an escape from the grind of endless drills.

But today, after back-to-back sessions before the clock had even hit one, it felt less like a break and more like another hill to climb.

The thought of lights, lenses, and to some extent, staged laughter wasn’t unpleasant in itself; it was just that their legs felt like concrete, their shirts clung with salt, and their heads were still buzzing from the morning’s workload.

The mood lightened a touch with the banter, though bodies still dragged as they began their walk back toward the complex.

Foots clattered against the path, water bottles tipped back in greedy gulps, and the scent of cut grass followed them until the shade of the building swallowed the sting of the sun.

Inside, the air-conditioning felt like heaven.

Players filed into the locker rooms in groups, peeling off their drenched training gear, trading playful remarks despite the heaviness in their movements.

Some went straight for the showers, water hissing as it hit skin that was still vibrating with exhaustion, while others lingered by their lockers, towels slung over their heads, catching breath before they could even think about standing up again.

”It’ll probably be something with suits again,” Myles-Lewis Skelly guessed, playing on an ad he had done with Saka and some of the boys.

”God, I hope not,” Saka groaned. ”At least let me eat before they stick a tie on me.”

There were smiles, even chuckles, because deep down, most of them liked this side of the job.

Meeting people, shaking hands, playing at being stars for a few hours — it wasn’t training, and that in itself usually felt like a win.

But today, after being run into the ground, it was hard to remember that fondness.

By the time most of them had washed up and redressed, the locker room felt alive again.

.......

The Sobha Realty complex was sleek and gleaming, glass and steel polished to a shine that made it feel less like a sponsor’s headquarters and more like some futuristic hub of luxury.

Arsenal’s players filed into the wide conference hall where cameras were already waiting, bright studio lights chasing away every shadow.

Branded banners stood behind the panel seating, microphones arranged across a long desk that could easily have been mistaken for a press conference table.

Today, Arsenal weren’t just any club anymore; they were the story of the moment.

Every journalist and camera operator here knew they might be documenting history, and that gave the air a kind of charge, like static before a storm.

The squad took their seats in staggered rows, a handful of players grouped at the front: Saka, Odegaard, Declan Rice, Martinelli, with others filtering in behind them.

Izan slipped into the chair between Saka and Gabriel Martinelli, the leather cool against his training trousers, while PR handlers hovered off-camera, whispering reminders and cues.

The first interviewer, a young man in a sharp navy suit, adjusted his notes and leaned into his microphone.

”Gentlemen, thank you for being here. I think it’s fair to say the football world is watching Arsenal right now. You’re one win or a draw away from securing the league title, a win from the FA Cup, a win from the Champions League final, and if somehow, some way, you pull through all of this, you’re looking at four trophies this season, that is, including the Carabao win.”

The interviewer paused, taking in the faces of the players that seemed pleased with his words before continuing.

”With the possibility of adding two more before the year ends. What’s the mood like inside this group when you think about that?”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then a couple of players laughed, first a bit proud at what they were doing, then just at how surreal it sounded when laid out like that.

”Four trophies?” Raya whistled softly, leaning back in his chair. ”Mate, when you say it out loud like that, it sounds like we’re playing a video game.”

Declan Rice chuckled.

”Yeah, it does sound mental. But honestly? It’s not something we can run away from. Everyone here knows how much Arteta has put us through this season. The double sessions, the details, the intensity, you can feel it’s been building to something. And now we’re here. We’re not about to blink now.”

Odegaard nodded beside him, his voice calm but firm.

”We’re proud of how far we’ve come, but we also know it’s not finished. If you can almost touch something with your hand, you don’t let go, right? You hold tighter. That’s how we’re looking at it. We’ve worked too hard to fall at the end.”

Another interviewer leaned forward, her expression keen.

”So you’re saying the pressure is driving you rather than weighing on you?”

”Exactly,” Odegaard continued quickly, gesturing with both hands.

”People think pressure kills you, but it also shows you who you are. And this group,” he looked around, catching a few teammates’ eyes, ”we don’t fear it. We want it.”

Saka grinned, chiming in.

”And it starts with Saturday, doesn’t it? Liverpool. That’s the first wall to climb. Nothing else happens without that.”

The room buzzed with the easy confidence of players who, despite being bone-tired from training, could see the finish line close enough to taste it.

The interviewers scribbled furiously, sensing they were gathering gold before one of them turned, almost inevitably, toward Izan.

His smile was polite, but his tone carried that little edge of awe that had followed the 17-year-old all season.

”Izan, if I can come to you directly. You’re the certain Golden Boot leader, with forty-four goals. Your closest competitor, Mo Salah, is on twenty-seven. The gap is extraordinary. On top of that, you’ve broken the all-time assist record, surpassing Kevin De Bruyne and Thierry Henry, with twenty-two. When you hear numbers like that, what goes through your mind?”

The question hung there as the cameras trained in, waiting for the words to come out of his mouth, but he didn’t.

”Bruh, here too,” Saka called, causing the players to chuckle.

”He always does this. Like he feels to make the mood much heavier before he speaks,” Saka said, while poking Izan, who finally opened his mouth to speak.

”When I signed for Arsenal,” he began slowly, ”I said something bold. Maybe even reckless. I said I would win the league and the Champions League within three years.”

Izan’s lips curved into a small smile.

”I got a bit of backlash for saying that until I hit it up and running. And then, it was, can he keep this up for the rest of the season? But then I kept on going, until the numbers started saying I was ridiculous.”

He turned his face toward one of the main cameras, eyes catching the lens with the sharpness of someone who knew exactly who was watching beyond it.

”I didn’t play for the critics but for the fans, so now I want to ask them,” he said, while the camera near him zoomed in for effect, ”Are they not entertained?”

The line landed like a stone dropped in water, ripples running instantly through the players beside him, then the interviewers, who let out soft, surprised laughs.

Even the PR handlers at the back exchanged looks.

Izan didn’t blink, his gaze still fixed on the camera.

”We are in the final stages of almost every competition. The league, the cups, Europe. And on Saturday, at Anfield, even though a draw would be enough to make us champions, it’s win or nothing.”

He shifted, leaning in just a touch. ”Win. Or. Nothing.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Saka, sitting beside him, reached out with a grin and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

”My boy’s said it all,” Saka said, his voice light but carrying its own weight. ”There’s nothing more to add.”

Nods went down the line of players, a silent chorus of agreement.

They didn’t need to embellish.

Izan’s words had cut straight to the point.

The interviewers shuffled their notes, almost dazed, as if unsure where to go next.

The cameras, though, kept rolling, catching every flicker of expression, every smirk, every glint in the players’ eyes.