God Of football

Chapter 872: For The World.

[The next day.]

Rain never usually came, but the clouds hung low over East Rutherford, New Jersey, forming a soft grey ceiling above the stadium and the shining dark bus that rolled slowly into the MetLife Stadium’s private entrance.

The Arsenal crest gleamed faintly on its side, catching the flash of cameras that lined the barricades.

Fans in red and white jerseys leaned over rails, waving flags and holding their phones high, shouting names, some clear, some swallowed by the crowd noise.

Inside, the bus was quiet but not silent.

A mix of nerves and focus sat thick in the air.

Even with four trophies already in the bag, the players still felt the weight of nervousness encroaching on them.

Saka, usually at the back, now sat near the front, one earbud in, bouncing his knee slightly to a rhythm only he could hear.

Further down, Martin Ødegaard leaned back with his head against the window, his eyes half-closed, his fingers tapping lightly on his thigh.

And Izan was near the middle, hood up, his gaze fixed on the stadium that now loomed through the window, its size still surreal even after all the big nights they had played there.

The bus slowed to a stop as a voice came from the driver’s seat, muffled through the intercom: ”We’re here, lads.”

No one said much after that.

Bags were slung over shoulders, hoods came down, and headphones came off.

The doors hissed open, and the first noise that hit them was the wave of sound, thousands of fans outside chanting, cameras clicking, the echo of stadium staff barking directions.

Saka was the first to step out, and as soon as he did, a swell of cheers rose from the barriers.

The cameras followed, flashing bright bursts as the players filed out one by one, Arsenal tracksuits blending into the concrete tunnel that led into the heart of MetLife, where the staffers moved about sharply, trying to get everything in order.

In the dressing room, their shirts hung neatly in a row, each name glowing under the white lights.

Red with white jerseys pressed crisp and ready as the players moved about, each player finding their spots.

”Okay, guys, let’s get ready and go out there for the quick session,” Carlos Cuesta motioned just as Arteta entered, pulling the former outside with him.

The players heeded and began changing into their warm-up kits.

Izan sat on the bench for a while, his hands clasped together, elbows on his knees.

Across from him, Saliba was lacing his boots, humming softly to himself.

”You good?” Saliba asked without looking up.

”Yeah,” Izan said, nodding. ”You?”

”Never better.”

Saka wandered in from the physio room, a towel draped around his neck.

”You’d think we were playing a World Cup final,” he said, while making a beeline for his seat.

”That’s because it is, kind of,” Ødegaard said from his seat, smiling faintly.

”Just that this is the Club one.”

The players went on after that, talking about what might happen and who might be in the stands.

”Enrique’s already there,” one of the staff said as he adjusted a camera, eyes lingering on Arteta, who had posed the question.

”His team arrived an hour ago.”

Arteta nodded before turning towards the door and then entering the dressing room again.

Arteta looked around at his players.

”Alright, boys. Routine first. Stretching, muscle activation, and then focus. Cameras are everywhere, but ignore them. This is our moment, not theirs.”

The players nodded, the murmurs fading out as they began to move out of the dressing room, following the route through the tunnels and then out into the open.

Outside, the sound of the crowd swelled again, chants bouncing off the walls of the tunnel, the name Arsenal rolling like a drumbeat through the night.

A few minutes later, they began their warm-up.

The players jogged onto the pitch to a chorus of cheers, flashes bursting from all corners.

Some fans had painted faces, others waved flags.

A few PSG fans booed lightly when Izan’s name was announced over the loudspeakers, though the reaction from Arsenal’s side drowned them out almost instantly.

At one corner of the pitch, a small group of kids in Arsenal shirts chanted, ”Come on you Gunners!” over and over, their voices thin but proud against the roaring crowd until Saka turned and waved in their direction, their cheers going up a crescendo.

And after a considerable amount of time had passed, the players were made to end the warm-up.

”Izan, marry me.”

”Izan, can I have your shirt?”

”Izan, I’m a dude but subscribe to my OnlyFans!”

Izan, hearing all these, chuckled at the last sentence before making his way past the security, the tunnel and then through the narrow hallway, the echo of the studs of his warm-up boots clicking lightly on the floor just as he entered the locker room again.

He looked around briefly, scanning the benches until he spotted his bag tucked neatly under the rack where a few towels and bottles lay scattered nearby.

He crouched, unzipped the bag, and was about to pull it closer when the door swung open.

One of the staffers stepped in, holding a rectangular black box with the faint outline of three silver stripes running diagonally across it.

”Special delivery,” the man said, smiling as every head in the room turned his way.

Saka immediately grinned and then turned to Nwaneri.

”That’s 2000 quid for me,” he said, while Nwaneri shook his head with the rest of the players laughing at the ridiculous bet the two had made.

”Finally! Took them long enough. I thought I was about to lose, but Adidas always come through. Now, I am about to ditch New Balance for good!”

The players chuckled as Izan stood, wiping his palms on his shorts before reaching for the box.

He opened it carefully, the lid lifting to reveal the pair inside.

The boots gleamed softly under the white locker room light, a sleek, deep pearl white with a faint frost-blue tint that shimmered when turned.

The Adidas logo was matte black, running thinly across the side, sharp but clean.

Along the heel, faint silver text read ”10 – Crafted for the World.”

The studs were tinted in an ice-blue gradient, fading to white toward the sole, giving them a kind of subtle, electric glow without trying too hard.

The lace holes were trimmed in a thin silver mesh, catching light as he moved the boots in his hands.

They didn’t scream.

They whispered class.

”Bro...” Martinelli muttered, leaning closer. ”That’s serious. You’re the top dog now, huh?”

Saka laughed, nudging him.

”Yeah, man. Adidas’ golden boy. They had Messi, now they’ve got Izan. Time moves fast.”

Izan smiled faintly but said nothing, just looked at the boots again for a moment before sitting back down on the bench.

The others kept talking as he slid one on, the soft leather wrapping around his foot like it already knew him.

”Okay, those look clean,” Saka muttered, causing a bit more of the players to turn in Izan’s direction.

The moment he tightened the laces and stood up, something about it just felt right.

Light. Responsive.

Almost like the boot wasn’t even there, like it had melted into his skin.

He took a few small steps, then a hop, feeling the cushion and grip kick back instantly.

It felt less like equipment and more like an extension of him, an addition he didn’t need to think about, only move with.

Saka clapped from the side.

”Yeah, he’s feeling it. Look at him bounce.”

Izan grinned, turning slightly as the locker room door opened again.

Arteta walked in, hands clasped behind his back, scanning the room with that familiar mix of calm and command. The chatter quieted immediately.

He waited a second before speaking, his tone steady but charged.

”Alright, men,” he began.

”This is no time for superficial talk. We’ve done this before. Every challenge, every test, every label, you’ve faced them all. Remember what they called you months ago?”

A few players murmured, knowing exactly what he meant.

”’Bottlers,’” Arteta said softly.

”That’s what they said. But look at us now. Four trophies this season. Champions of England, Europe, and soon—” he paused, his eyes scanning the faces around him, ”—the world.”

The room grew still, all eyes fixed on him.

”So go out there and do what you do best. Play your football. Trust yourselves. You’ve already shown the world who you are.”

He stepped aside, giving them space.

Then Ødegaard rose, clapping his hands once, hard.

”Let’s make it five!” he shouted, and instantly, the room erupted.

”MAKE IT FIVE!” they roared together, voices bouncing off the walls, every echo carrying a rush of adrenaline.

Izan tugged at his shirt collar, rolling his shoulders once as they stepped back into the tunnel, the sound of the crowd above crashing into them, making it feel like what they were about to play for was more than just a trophy.