God Of football

Chapter 947: Centre Of His Universe.

Training opened up slowly, mainly because of the various departments that had been brought into the session.

But after that section of the day’s session was done with, the squad spread out across the grass, boots thudding softly as they jogged into their starting shapes.

Coaches stayed closer to the touchline, clipping notes on their tablets or watching with their arms folded.

The first passing drill moved at a steady pace, nothing complicated, just short combinations in tight lanes.

Even in something that simple, Eze stood out in flashes.

Even as a new guy, he had this easy looseness to him, like he always had an extra half-step in reserve.

In short, he was good.

A couple of players nodded at him the way people do when someone’s talent is exactly as advertised.

Until it got to Izan.

He was walking, and then the next second, he would still be walking.

Even when the others tried to bring up the intensity, he set things low, and he wasn’t even trying to, because he had made it easy for them to play without all that running.

Every pass he hit landed where he wanted it. ’

When he carried the ball, defenders tried to tighten their shape instinctively, even though this was only a drill.

The ball stayed close to his foot, rolling in smooth touches.

Even when the opposing players tried to win the ball back, it was difficult because Izan’s frame felt much more sturdy than it looked.

The second drill mapped into larger grids with pressing triggers, two-touch limits and defenders released to hunt.

It forced sharper thinking.

Eze received under pressure twice and wriggled out with a neat pivot, drawing a compliment from Ødegaard, who also showed his craft.

But when it always got to Izan’s, they all just slowed to watch.

Izan barely needed to pivot.

The ball arrived, and he shifted it away from the press with minimal effort, as if the pitch tilted towards his preferred exit.

A defender lunged at him once, trying to anticipate his touch, but Izan nudged the ball past him with a gentle tap, stepped around him almost casually and played a disguised pass into space for the next man.

A few players on the far side laughed quietly, mainly at Timber, who was being forced to chase.

They moved into mini-games next, where two teams played six minutes per round.

As they said, competition breeds excellence, but what breeded competition?

Ambition, scarcity and pressure, because the standard had been set.

The club had become the third in football history to win the sextuple, and so they were ambitious.

Scarcity because there were many players and so few positions to fill them in, since only 11 could start at the time.

And that in turn raised the pressure on the players to perform.

And so when the session started, it was an all-out war to prove your worth or be tossed.

Eze pressed high with Jesus, snapping into a short sprint whenever the ball shifted across the back line.

And when he won a loose ball and threaded it through to Merino, the latter cushioned it back for him.

But their move broke down a while later, when Izan drifted across and intercepted the return touch without sliding or tackling.

He just cushioned the ball off his instep and kept going.

During the next phase, Izan took his first shot.

It wasn’t a dramatic moment, but it was felt through the pitch.

The play built up cleanly with a couple of switches followed by one good layoff from Havertz, and then the ball rolled across Izan’s stride about thirty yards out.

He didn’t slow down or wind up.

He simply connected.

The strike rose for a split second, then dipped hard, hitting the bottom corner before the keeper reacted.

Kepa, who had been tasked with facing those shots, felt deja vu, all over again, since this was the kind of shots he had faced the past season when Arsenal went against Bournemouth.

”So glad I am on this side,” he said while rising to his feet.

The second shot came near the end of the game when a looping cross dropped behind the back line.

Most players would have taken it down or reset the play, but Izan didn’t.

Instead, he adjusted his steps, let the ball fall over his shoulder and caught it clean with a volley that looked almost too easy.

It angled inside the far post, where Raya, this time, just watched it go in and shook his head.

By now, the coaching staff had stopped giving instructions.

They watched more than they spoke.

Play continued, but the rhythm of the session had shifted.

The ball found Izan too often, or maybe he found it.

Either way, every touch settled the tempo around him.

At one point, three defenders boxed him in, yet he shaped as though passing backwards, then slid between two of them with a turn so slow that it felt like the defenders were letting him go, but that was just how it had gotten.

The third defender tried to hold him off but never got close.

When the whistle finally went, the first group drifted toward the sideline.

Bottles cracked open as players dropped to the floor.

Eze stepped aside with Saka, still catching his breath, but his eyes stayed fixed on Izan, who was jogging across to pick up stray bibs.

Saka smirked at Eze’s stare before nudging the latter to draw his attention.

”How is it? You see things yet?”

Eze let out a short breath that sounded more like a laugh.

”Yeah. I knew he was good when I played against you lot, but training with him is a different thing.”

He paused, watching Izan knock a ball forward with the tip of his boot and flick it back up again, and then kicking it against the crossbar.

”No wonder nobody got near you last season.”

Saka nudged him with his elbow again.

”And this year?”

Eze shook his head with a grin that couldn’t quite hide his disbelief.

”This year is going to be ridiculous.”

And that was exactly how it felt.

Away from his players, Arteta stood near the touchline with Gabriel Heinze, watching the last groups train while the staff helped the other players collect cones and bibs as the pitch slowly emptied.

The shouts on the pitch had died down a bit and had settled into light chatter and the thud of a few loose balls being passed around.

Heinze let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck.

”How do you even manage this?”

His tone wasn’t frustrated, just amused in a tired way.

”I mean, I expected quality. But this?”

He gestured toward the far end of the pitch, where Izan was still juggling a ball absently while talking to Rice.

Arteta kept his eyes on the scene. ”What are you asking?”

Heinze tilted his head, still wearing that wry smile.

”Come on. The level he plays at. The way everything bends to him. Every club has a star. But this... this feels different. The others must react to it. Even if they respect him, surely they feel something about it. Pressure. Ego. Something. Right?”

”I mean, he’s a 17-year-old kid at the helm of a football club. Surely there’s some resistance.”

Arteta shook his head, not with denial, but with certainty.

”Have you seen a 17-year-old kid like that. When someone overwhelms you, you only have two choices. You adapt, or you fall short. There’s no space for ego in that. Not here.”

He paused for a moment, thinking back to how last season started.

”From the first week he arrived, he made one thing clear. He wasn’t here to fit in. He was here to elevate everything around him. And when a player does that every day, without exception, it becomes impossible to deny what he is to the team.”

Heinze nodded slowly. ”Indispensable.”

”Exactly. And once the players felt the difference he made in their own football, the rest followed. No one argues with someone who improves them, and definitely not someone who, I would say, singlehandedly won trophies, like the Champions League and the Premier League for you.”

Heinze looked back toward Izan again, then gave a short laugh. ”Makes my job easier, at least.”

”Or harder,” Arteta replied with a small smile. ”Depends on how you see it.”

Arteta then leaned a bit towards Heinze, who pulled closer.

”You know, sometimes,” he began, ”I do not even have a game plan. I just tell the players their positions and then tell Izan to do what he does.”

When Heinze pulled away, a hint of shock and amusement showed on his face before he broke out into a fit of laughter, with Arteta also laughing before he turned and cupped his hands, calling out to the squad.

”That’s it for today. Good work. We’re done.”

A few cheers went up as the players on the pitch halted the game and began walking.

The pitch slowly emptied until only the two coaches were left standing at the touchline, watching the group disappear into the building.