God Of football

Chapter 953: Feining For More.

By the next morning, the scoreline had stopped feeling real and started feeling symbolic.

Six goals past Manchester United, even if they were coming off an unimpressive season, did that to a league.

It forced people to slow down and actually think.

Not in studio debates or shouting matches, but in quieter conversations.

In group chats.

Over breakfast.

On the commute.

The same thought kept resurfacing, framed a little differently each time.

Was this about United falling apart again, or had Arsenal moved somewhere the rest of the league had not caught up to yet?

The comparison came naturally.

Last season’s Invincible run was still fresh, still held up as the benchmark.

This team looked sharper, faster in decision-making, more ruthless when openings appeared.

But the fixture list did not care about statements.

The next few weeks would answer the question properly.

Hard grounds.

Different opponents.

Less space.

That was where it would become clear whether this was a one-game stint or the start of something heavier.

At London Colney, none of that mattered yet.

The training centre moved at a slower pace, following the previous day’s advents.

Players drifted through the recovery area with the lazy posture of men whose legs still felt borrowed.

Some lay flat on massage tables, eyes shut, hands folded on their stomachs.

Others sat in ice baths, teeth clenched, pretending the cold was not as brutal as it felt.

”Why do we do this to ourselves?” someone muttered, shoulders hunched, steam rising faintly from the water.

”Because next week you’ll say you feel amazing,” the physio replied without looking up. ”Stay still.”

Across the room, Izan eased himself onto a bike, pedalling slowly, testing the stiffness in his thighs.

A physio crouched beside him, watching his movement.

”How’s it feel?”

”Tight,” Izan said, turning towards the latter.

”But I am good.”

”You always are,” the Physio said with a smile.

”But loosen it up a bit more.”

Nearby, Saka lay back with his hands over his eyes while a therapist worked on his hamstring.

”Six-nil and I still feel like I’ve played three games,” he said.

Martinelli, half smiling from the next table, shook his head.

”You won’t feel it when we’re running again in two days.”

”That’s the problem,” Saka replied. ”We are running again in two days.”

Upstairs, though, it was thoughts collection for the Arsenal boss and his assistant.

Arteta stood with a coffee in hand, eyes fixed on the pitches beyond the glass.

The grass was untouched, perfect and. waiting for more of his machinations.

Gabriel Heinze joined him, a folder tucked under his arm, expression thoughtful.

”Good session from the medical team,” Heinze said. ”No issues.”

Arteta nodded. ”That’s important. We need everyone.”

Heinze hesitated, then added, ”Some of the boys have already been taking. Everyone thinks they should be starting, particularly the players from the previous season who were essential to our success last season.”

”They should,” Arteta replied calmly. ”That’s why we’re strong.”

He set the cup down and turned toward his assistant.

”But wanting to play and understanding the plan are different things.”

Heinze leaned against the desk. ”Some will need more minutes. Some will need patience.”

”And some conversations will not be comfortable,” Arteta said. ”That’s part of it.”

They stood in silence for a moment, thinking about the players below.

Talent everywhere.

Confidence was growing and the balance was getting more and more delicate.

Before they could continue, Arteta’s phone vibrated on the desk.

He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting just slightly before he picked it up.

”Hello,” he said, stepping away from the window as the call connected.

....

The days that followed did not soften.

If anything, Arteta pressed harder.

Training sessions stretched longer, sharper at the edges.

Possession drills bled into pressing patterns.

Short breaks, quick resets, again and again.

The tempo never dipped, even when legs did.

And the players didn’t hesitate to voice their thoughts out.

”I might die finally,” one of them muttered as they jogged back into position, sweat dripping from his chin.

”Feels like mid-season already,” another replied, hands on his hips.

But no one complained directly.

They all knew why.

Big wins bought belief, not comfort.

Arteta walked among them constantly, stopping play, adjusting angles, and demanding cleaner movement.

When the ball slowed, his voice cut through.

”Again and be quick. Think ahead and do not stop to admire the ball.”

By the end of the sessions, shirts clung heavily and breathing came loud.

After one of the sessions in the recovery room, someone laughed weakly and shook their head.

”Leeds haven’t even arrived yet,” he said. ”Feels like we’ve played them twice.”

Arteta who was passing heard it and smiled to himself.

”That is the whole point of it.”

And just like that, three days passed quickly.

Matchday arrived with clear skies and a full house.

Arsenal’s first home game of the season carried a different kind of noise.

Anticipation sat in the stands long before kickoff, stretched across red seats and banners.

The Emirates hummed, still feeding off the memory of Old Trafford and the commentary picked it up instantly.

”This place hasn’t forgotten last weekend,” one voice said as the camera panned across the crowd.

”Six goals away from home, a statement if there ever was one. The question today is simple. Was that about Manchester United, or are Arsenal ready to do it again?”

The other commentator laughed softly. ”Leeds might find out the hard way.”

And from the first whistle, Arsenal played like a team that expected space and took it anyway.

Leeds tried to press, tried to stay brave, but the ball moved quicker than their feet.

Izan drifted between lines, popping up where no one wanted him.

And the breakthrough came from a place no one expected.

A corner swung in with pace and it wasn’t Izan who took it this time.

Rather he was in the box with the rest of his mates in the box and ghosted toward the near post, the moment the ball got near and before anyone could react, he towered above most and got his head to the ball.

The header flew past the keeper before the crowd fully reacted.

”Wait,” the commentator said, voice rising.

”Izan’s in the box. That’s a header. That is not how Leeds planned for him.”

The Emirates erupted, surprised and delighted all at once.

Leeds barely reset before Arsenal struck again.

A loose ball fell kindly inside the area after a low cross flashed across the goal and Izan was already there again, calm as ever, side-footing it home from close range.

”Two already,” came the call. ”And he’s barely broken stride.”

The Arsenal players looked like men on a mission, turning towards their half after the goal without much celebration.

Leeds tried to respond, pushing numbers forward, but that only opened gaps.

One of those runs ended with Izan bursting into the box, nudged from behind as he cut across his marker.

The referee did not hesitate, pointing towards the spot under the celebrating roar of the Emirates faithful.

The noise dipped into a tense murmur as Izan placed the ball down.

He took one look at the keeper, then rolled it into the corner with ease to make it 3-0 for Arsenal.

”Three,” the commentator said quietly. ”And we’re not even halfway through the first half.”

The Leeds players looked downright ugly with the expression on their faces after the third.

They looked like kids who had gotten coal on a Christmas Eve.

And to add insult to injury, the fourth goal felt cruel.

Leeds committed bodies forward on a corner of their own, a rare chance in the game Arsenal were dominating.

But Arsenal cleared that too and suddenly it was just Izan, green space, and a retreating defence.

He carried the ball over halfway, touching it lightly, almost inviting pressure.

One defender went.

Then another before a third slid in and missed.

And so the keeper rushed out, arms wide but Izan shifted the ball, slipped past him, and rolled it into the empty net.

For a moment, the stadium did not know how to react.

Then the roar came, heavy and sustained.

”Oh my goodness,” the commentator breathed.

”That is outrageous. He’s walked through them. Four goals. By himself. And it’s not even halftime.”

The camera found Arteta on the touchline, arms folded, expression steady.

The latter just pumped his fists slightly before encouraging his players to get behind the ball.

As the whistle blew for the break, players drifted toward the tunnel, Leeds’ heads down and Arsenal, just their regular selves.

Izan jogged off last, the sound following him like a wave.

”This is starting to feel familiar,” the commentary concluded.

”Arsenal at home, ruthless. And Izan, once again, at the centre of everything. This kid is making this league look like child’s play.”

Even with the players gone, the noise didn’t really die down.

It felt rather, like the crowd, were feining for more.