God Of football

Chapter 803: Suspicions [2]

”So I just blame the boots and say I’ve been working on conditioning? That’s it?”

The system gave a quiet buzz, but Izan wasn’t taking that explanation. No sane person was.

”That has got to be the wackiest shit I have ever heard,” Izan muttered, out loud in his mind, as he resumed control of his body.

”Still feels weird,” he chuckled before dressing quickly.

With his phone shoved in his pocket, he left the room, the soft click of the door echoing behind him as he moved down the corridor.

He reached the conference room, pushed the door open... only to find it empty.

Before he could turn back, a voice came from behind.

”Izan.”

He turned and saw Carlos Cuesta standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets, wearing a calm look, before shaking his head.

”Arteta’s waiting for you,” Carlos said, voice even, ”but not here. He’s down at the lobby.”

Izan gave a small nod and then slipped past him, down the stairs behind.

When he reached the lobby, the space was almost empty, save for a couple of staff lingering near the entrance.

At the far end, Arteta was there, standing by the glass doors, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable as always.

The coach turned slightly at the sound of footsteps, his eyes finding Izan at once before motioning over.

”Come,” Arteta said, his voice steady.

Without another word, he turned, heading for the exit.

Izan followed, his stride quick but quiet, trailing just a step behind.

The Destination?

The Sports and Science Centre!

And all it took was a 10-minute walk from the hotel to get there.

Arteta pushed the glass door open, the familiar clean tang of antiseptic and cooled air conditioning greeting them.

Izan followed a step behind, taking in the sight.

The last time he had been here, it had been for routine recovery work, stretching, massage and a dip into the cryo chamber, but this time the atmosphere felt different.

There were more people around.

White coats moved between rooms, clipboards in hand, conversations kept to low murmurs.

Monitors hummed softly from a corner, displaying streams of numbers that meant nothing to the untrained eye.

Izan opened his mouth, about to break the silence with a question, but Arteta’s hand came up in a sharp, halting gesture.

The manager’s tone was even, but it carried the weight of command.

”What you did today,” Arteta said quietly, ”it raised a few suspicions from me and the other coaches.”

His gaze cut sideways, dark and steady.

”It’s not that I don’t trust you, Izan. But it’s better safe than sorry.”

Izan closed his mouth again, his jaw flexing as though holding back a reply.

Before either of them could say more, a figure appeared from the corridor.

A doctor, tall, slim, with a clipboard tucked under one arm and an almost clinical sharpness in her expression.

Arteta whipped around to face her, his words ready before she even reached them.

”You’ll be undergoing blood and drug testing.”

For a moment, Izan’s expression shifted.

But not to fear.

Not even to surprise.

His face lit up slightly, as if this were a card he could turn to his advantage.

He didn’t have any viable excuse, so this could wipe out any performance boosting allegations and just show him as normal, which would save him a lot of explaining and hassle.

He gave a short nod, shoulders squaring.

”If it’s this,” he said, voice steady, ”then I don’t mind. I don’t use drugs. The test will prove it.”

Arteta studied him carefully, then allowed himself the faintest nod of approval.

”That’s what I like to hear.” He motioned toward the corridor.

”Follow the doctor.”

Izan trailed after her without hesitation, the soles of his trainers quiet against the polished floor.

Behind them, Arteta remained in the hallway.

He crossed his arms at first, leaning against the wall, but that didn’t last long.

Restlessness took over.

He began pacing, back and forth, his face tight with thought.

Izan might have been calm, but for the manager, the uncertainty weighed heavily.

Minutes dragged as a clock ticked audibly above the reception desk.

Arteta checked his watch once, then again.

Twenty-five minutes crawled past before the door swung open again.

Izan emerged first, his face unreadable as ever, but the doctor’s slower, deliberate pace made Arteta’s chest tighten.

She looked almost solemn, her head bent, and for a moment it seemed as though bad news was on its way.

Then she stopped, glanced up, and smiled faintly.

”You have nothing to worry about, Mr Arteta. The presumptive results show nothing,” she said. ”Izan hasn’t touched any performance-enhancing drugs.”

Arteta exhaled through his nose, a motion so subtle it might have passed unnoticed, but the tension in his shoulders eased.

”That’s all for now,” the doctor continued, shifting the clipboard.

”We’ll need to wait for the full turnaround, of course.”

”How long?” Arteta asked, his voice calm but clipped.

”Normally three to five business days.” She tilted her head.

”But given who we’re working with here, we can push it forward. Tomorrow evening, maybe as early as that.”

A small chuckle escaped her.

”Such a fine specimen, honestly, I’m tempted to keep some of this blood for research.”

Arteta laughed at her words and then gave a curt nod, already moving the conversation to an end.

”Thank you. That will be all.”

Together, he and Izan walked out of the centre.

The late afternoon air was cooler now, brushing against their faces as they made the short walk back toward the hotel.

Arteta’s stride was brisk, Izan’s a silent shadow at his side, the pair of them locked in their own thoughts, until they got to the hotel.

The lobby was softly lit, the scent of polished wood and faint coffee in the air.

Carlos Cuesta was waiting there, pacing a little as though he’d been searching for signs in every passing face.

His eyes flicked instantly to Arteta, scanning for tension, for any indication that something had gone wrong.

But Arteta’s expression was smooth, steady, betraying nothing but controlled calm, and that was enough.

”You missed snacks,” Cuesta said, half a grin pulling at his mouth, though relief was obvious beneath it.

”You’ll have to wait until dinner now.”

Arteta returned the faintest smile, then glanced toward Izan.

”You can go for now, Izan. And sorry for the doubts. That’s all for now.”

Izan gave a short nod, not arguing, and turned toward the lift, leaving Arteta and Cuesta standing by the desk, the manager finally—if only slightly—allowing himself to loosen.

And just like that, two days passed in a blur.

Preparations, travel, closed-door meetings, recovery sessions.

Everything funnelled toward one point.

And now, the air in Munich carried a different weight.

It was the eve of the final.

Inside the Allianz Arena, Barcelona’s training session came to a close.

The players filtered off the pitch, sweat shining under the fading floodlights as staff gathered cones and bibs.

Hansi Flick, as composed as ever, strolled toward the tunnel, his tailored jacket slung loosely over one arm.

At his side walked Lamine Yamal, the teenager’s expression serious, brows faintly furrowed beneath the crush of cameras waiting beyond.

Security and UEFA officials guided them through the narrow corridor that wound up to the press conference room.

The low rumble of voices could already be heard from behind the doors, where journalists from Spain, England, Germany, and France were all crammed into the space, adjusting their recorders and readying their questions.

When the doors opened, the sudden burst of camera flashes was blinding.

For a moment, both Flick and Lamine paused at the threshold, the light bouncing off the UEFA-branded backdrop that dominated the stage.

They climbed the short steps, each settling into their seats behind the long table.

Microphones sat waiting, water bottles already uncapped, while the flashes continued.

Lamine adjusted his chair, trying to look settled, though the constant clicking of shutters betrayed how much attention was fixed on him.

Besides him, Flick leaned slightly forward, clasping his hands together, every inch the experienced coach used to the spotlight.

The room didn’t quieten until the moderator entered.

A tall man in a UEFA blazer, he strode confidently to the side podium, raising his hand.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice carrying through the speakers, firm but calm, ”thank you for your patience. As always, we ask you to keep questions polite and orderly. Please introduce yourself and your outlet before speaking.”

He glanced at the two figures on stage, then nodded.

”We’ll begin now.”

The murmur of the room swelled again as hands shot up, reporters jockeying for position.

Some eyes were locked on Flick, others, many more, on the 17-year-old prodigy sitting beside him, Barcelona’s great hope for the final.

The Moderator looked around, at the stalks of hands in the air, before settling on one of the reporters at the back.

”Yes, you,” he muttered as his words jolted the reporter from his seat.