God Of football

Chapter 840: A Game To Win.

The next morning, the team bus rolled to a slow stop outside the training facility in Whippany, New Jersey, the late morning sun beating down on the tinted windows.

The parking lot shimmered faintly from the heat, a far cry from the cool drizzle of North London, the players were used to.

One by one, the doors hissed open and the Arsenal players began stepping out, stretching stiff legs and blinking against the glare.

Izan was among the last to come down, his tracksuit zipped all the way to his neck, a duffel bag slung across his shoulder.

He looked around, inhaling a chunk of the air that smelled faintly of cut grass and asphalt.

After a few seconds of silent observation, he muttered, ”Wait, remind me again why we had to drive an hour and a half just to train here?”

Odegaard, stepping down behind him, gave a small smirk as he adjusted the strap of his own bag.

”Because apparently,” he said, ”the pitches closer to Philly aren’t up to standard.”

Izan turned, frowning.

”What does that even mean? They got grass, right? And two posts?”

Odegaard chuckled, rubbing his forehead.

”Ask the management, bro. I just go where the bus takes me.”

From up front, Arteta’s voice cut through the chatter, sharp but not unkind.

”Come on, guys, change quickly. We start early, we finish early. And Saka, you can take those pictures when we are done.”

”But I won’t look nearly as good after you work me to the ground.”

Saka, after retorting, turned to look at Arteta, who had a stern look on his face.

”No, no, no, no, wait—”

But before Saka could finish, Arteta’s words rang throughout the pitch.

”10 laps before we begin, and anyone who lingers around gets double their time.”

That was enough to get them moving as bags dropped to the ground, zippers opened, and boots laced tight.

Within minutes, the session began.

The whistle sliced through the warm air, echoing faintly off the trees around the training ground.

”Follow Izan!” someone shouted.

The ball rolled toward him, and Izan darted forward, light on his feet, his touch sharp, drawing pressure to him.

But before he could pull off his usual feint, Saliba stepped in, shoulder to shoulder, and sent him stumbling onto the turf.

”Oi, what’s this?” Izan said from the ground, squinting up at the defender.

Saliba grinned, brushing invisible dust from his shirt.

”Maybe the fish and chips got to you, eh?”

The pitch erupted with laughter.

Even Odegaard cracked a grin from midfield.

”French boy jokes too, huh?”

Izan shook his head, still smiling, and got back to his feet, muttering, ”Alright, alright. I see how it is.”

The game rolled on, the tempo rising.

Sweat began to glisten under the midday sun.

Then came another long ball, high, spinning, the kind that demanded something special.

Izan moved toward it, timing his steps, positioning himself right in front of Saliba.

For a moment, the two were locked like chess pieces, anticipation thick between them as Saliba poised to lunge into the air.

But then Izan spun.

In one fluid motion, he dropped low and slipped around Saliba’s side.

The latter, already off his toes, faltered a bit as the ball descended, with Izan meeting the ball cleanly with his chest.

He took a single step, twisted again, and hammered a volley that cut through the humid air.

Raya soared and tore after the ball, lunging with every muscle fibre in his body, but the ball just smashed the bottom corner, as low whistles rang instantly.

For a second, everyone froze.

Saliba sat on the ground, grinning as Izan turned toward him, eyebrows raised, thenbroke into a sprint, straight toward Arteta.

”Let’s gooo!” he yelled, jumping onto the manager’s back in mock celebration as if he’d just scored the Champions League winner, something he had done a while ago.

Arteta staggered under the sudden weight.

”Get off me, you maniac!”

But it got worse as Saka and Myles Lewis-Skelly joined in, wrapping Izan in a playful bear hug as the entire group dissolved into laughter.

Arteta, shaking his head but smiling now, finally barked out, ”Enough! Gabriel, Saliba, don’t go easy on them next time. Let’s work properly!”

The laughter faded into focus again as the drills restarted.

......

[28th June]

Philadelphia’s streets were alive, thick with colour and chatter, as waves of fans made their way toward Lincoln Financial Field.

Red and white mixed with white and gold, the flags of Arsenal and Real Madrid fluttering together in the humid summer breeze.

Some wore jerseys old enough to have fading sponsors, others came draped in fresh kits straight from the store, while many, tourists, locals, and neutrals, just came for the spectacle, for ninety minutes of world-class football on American soil.

Food stalls lined the roads, smoke rising from grills as vendors shouted over the crowd.

A dad in a Benzema shirt argued cheerfully with his son in a Saka jersey while a group of college students, all in casual tees, debated who’d win on penalties, until one of them Googled and realised there wasn’t going to be a penalty affair in a group game, but that did little to dampen their spirits.

And everywhere, there was that low, humming excitement that follows a matchday.

Inside the stadium, the sound grew deeper, fuller.

Fans stepped into the stands and froze for a moment, taking it in, the pitch glowing under the floodlights, the vast openness of the arena, the green cut so fine it almost looked fake.

Down below, both teams were already warming up, passes snapping between cones, laughter rising between drills.

”Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Lincoln Financial Field!” The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, rolling over the stands with a rehearsed kind of enthusiasm.

He drew out every team name, tried to rally the fans, his tone dancing somewhere between hype man and ringmaster.

”Tonight, it is Arsenal versus Real Madrid! Let’s make some noise, Philly!”

A roar followed.

Some cheered just because everyone else did.

Others were already locked in, eyes on the players they had come to see.

Down on the pitch, Izan stood near the halfway line, one foot resting on the ball, hands clasped behind his back.

His expression was calm, with a look on his face that made him look like an exaggerated Karate master.

Eventually, the cameras panned toward him, the big screen above the stands showing his face.

And that got a sudden cheer from one corner of the stadium.

A section of fans, mostly Japanese women, waved small flags and homemade signs.

Their cheers carried over the music and the announcer’s voice.

Izan blinked in surprise before his mouth curled into a small grin.

He raised a hand, gave them a wave, casual, but enough to make them scream louder.

From the corner of his eye, Saka approached, grinning, a water bottle swinging from his hand.

He slung an arm over Izan’s shoulder and leaned in close.

”Ladies’ man,” he murmured, loud enough to be heard only by Izan.

Izan laughed softly, eyes still on the crowd.

”They’re just being nice.”

Saka tilted his head.

”Yeah? How come they don’t hate you for picking Spain? Thought that’d be, you know, betrayal or something. Maybe make you do that thing where they stab themselves in the stomach.”

”What? Seppuku,” Izan said, chuckling in the direction of the women before he turned toward Saka with mock seriousness.

”Because they’re understanding people, Bukayo. Kind. Forgiving.”

He paused, then added, deadpan, ”And also, I’m too innocent for them to hate.”

He pouted dramatically, his lower lip sticking out in a way that made Saka recoil instantly.

”Bro, don’t, don’t do that. I think I’m actually gonna be sick,” Saka said, stepping back, half laughing, half disgusted.

Izan burst out laughing, giving him a shove.

”You’re just jealous,” he said, turning back toward the stands where the fans were still waving.

Without missing a beat, he rolled the ball beneath his foot, flicked it toward Timber, and started jogging into position.

Timber took the ball with a grin, shaking his head.

”You two need your own TV show,” he muttered.

The warm-up carried on as music pulsed from the speakers, echoing through the massive bowl of the stadium.

Fans continued to file in, filling seats, holding up phones for pictures, pointing at players they’d only ever seen on TV.

Up in the press box, the announcer was still doing his best to keep the noise alive, but on the pitch, the players didn’t need it.

They were already locked in.

Izan gave one last wave to the stands before jogging toward the huddle forming near the sideline.

”Okay, guys,” Arteta said as all the players gathered.

”So we have 4 points from 2, and Real have 4 too. But they have a goal more than us, since they won 3-0 against Pachuca. Al Hilal, on the other hand, have 2 points from two games, and today they play Pachuca, which I am sure won’t be an easy game, but they have the quality to win and go 5 points, and that would be detrimental to our campaign should we lose here.”

He paused, looking at the faces of his men, which seemed to be attentive enough, before continuing.

”I don’t want to bet on us scoring more on Al Hilal, so a win is what we need. Something other than that, and we would have to pray that Al Hilal don’t score too much.”

”Is that clear?” he roared, earning a round of nods from his men.

”Then let’s go inside and get dressed. We have a game to win!”