God Of football

Izan came down midway, hands in his hoodie pockets, a soft squint in his eyes as the cool wind met his face.

He joined the rest as they moved through the designated airport corridor for visiting clubs, escorted by two UEFA liaisons and several local security officers.

A modest welcome team waited at the end of the corridor, pressing badges into hands and guiding them toward the terminal exit.

That was when the phones started pinging.

Not just one.

Not two.

Almost all of them.

Havertz pulled his out and frowned while Rice glanced at his screen and raised an eyebrow.

Saka blinked twice, then turned the screen off immediately.

"I'll check when we reach the hotel", he added, but before they could continue, Izan's phone began pinging wildly.

"Is this Wi-Fi or roaming?" Jorginho asked aloud, scrolling through notifications.

No one answered.

But they didn't have time to ask either.

Because just ahead — faint at first, then suddenly sharp — a sound broke through the usual noise of arrivals.

A ruckus.

Raised voices with flashes going off.

Names being thrown around in Dutch and incoherent English.

"He's here. I told you he was—there, look!"

Arteta and Cuesta paused in step.

The players felt the shift too — not panic, not chaos — but a break in rhythm.

Carlos turned to Arteta, whose jaw tightened.

Whatever this was… it was already out and they had no idea of what it was.

"Mr. Arteta, they will get us through," the Player Liaison, who had flown with them, intoned, while signalling at the airport staff.

Arteta nodded and gestured for the players to follow as they made their way out of the private terminal.

The glass doors at the end of the private terminal soon hissed open as they revealed the city.

PSV's city of Eindhoven, which was quiet — at least, it was supposed to be.

But the moment Arsenal's travelling group emerged from the terminal, the atmosphere fractured.

The security team hadn't expected such a crowd.

Reporters — at least a dozen, maybe more — had gathered just beyond the designated press zone.

Camera flashes burst through the drizzle. Voices, mostly in Dutch, ricocheted through the air like sudden warning shots.

"Daar is hij!"

"Dat is hem, Hernandez! Kijk!"

"Wat deed hij bij het ziekenhuis?!"

The players barely had time to react before UEFA stewards and local airport staff moved into a defensive line, guiding the squad toward their private bus.

Most of the players stayed silent, brushing through the ruckus like veterans of a thousand away trips.

But Izan slowed slightly.

The words flew fast.

Too fast.

He caught fragments, but it wasn't familiar.

In his mind, the System stirred to life — a cold, efficient flicker across his mental interface.

[Foreign Language Detected: Dutch]

[Partial Recognition: 17%]

[Would you like to purchase Dutch Language Proficiency?]

[Cost: 10,000 Legend Points]

Izan blinked once.

"Purchase," he flexed mentally.

[Confirmed. Language Pack: Dutch — Installed.]

[Cognitive Sync: Active. Language flow will stabilise within 10 seconds.]

And it did.

As he walked, the once-foreign noise began to sharpen into sentences.

"He was at the haematology wing."

"Someone said they saw him come out of a stem cell unit."

"Was he donating? Is he sick? Why is no one saying anything?"

Izan exhaled quietly in resignation.

A picture had leaked.

Maybe more than one.

A few guards tried to clear the journalists further back, their Dutch rapid but ineffective.

Inside the bus, players were settling into their seats — confused, amused, some even annoyed.

"What was that about?" Martinelli asked as he dropped into the row behind Ødegaard.

"No clue," Rice muttered, checking his phone.

Saka, seated near the front, didn't speak.

He just turned his screen to Arteta.

A still image of Izan outside St. Bart's in a hoodie with the hospital signage behind him and family nearby.

Arteta took one look and sighed through his nose.

Recognition.

"What does that mean?" Rice asked, peering over someone's shoulder.

"Why's everyone losing their minds over that?" Gabriel followed up.

No answers came.

Izan, meanwhile, had taken his seat near the middle of the bus with his head leaned back and eyes staring through the tinted window.

A few players glanced his way with questioning gazes, but Arteta turned and stepped onto the bus at that moment.

"Enough," he said plainly. "We have a game tomorrow. Focus."

No one pushed it after that.

The doors closed.

The engines hummed, and the bus pulled into motion, leaving behind the flashes and the rain.

In the rear-view mirror, the security team was still holding the line, but what they wouldn't be able to hold, was the theories that had began stacking up.

........

"We are here," the player Liaison muttered towards Arteta, who was stirred from his thoughts.

The team bus slowed to a halt in front of the hotel, a sleek, understated five-star facility tucked between high-rises on a clean Eindhoven boulevard.

It was nothing over the top, but it was tranquil and efficient.

Outside, a light mist dusted the pavement, but the lobby was already aglow with warm lights as the Arsenal delegation stepped out one by one.

A few local fans had gathered behind velvet ropes across the street, but the buzz was quieter now.

Muted by the weather, or maybe by the weight of whatever had reached their phones.

As the players filed past the automatic doors, phones pinged again, one by one.

A few still dared glances at him.

Saka had shared the screen with Arteta earlier, and even though most of the squad still didn't fully understand what the image meant, they knew enough to know it mattered.

But Izan gave them nothing.

No explanation or shift in mood.

He didn't owe one.

Not for this.

They took their keycards in pairs at the front desk in silence.

Ødegaard got his with Rice while Saka and Jesus snatched theirs just before Izan could get the last key.

He was halfway to the elevator when his phone vibrated.

Miranda.

He answered on the third ring as her voice came crisp, calm as ever.

"Izan. We figured out who took the photo," she said, but Izan's expression didn't change.

"A local freelancer," she continued.

"Follows celebrity circuits around Hampstead. He's sold to clickbait tabloids before."

Izan leaned against the elevator wall, one hand on the rail. "Figured."

"I have a statement drafted. Legal's already reviewed it. If you want to pursue charges for privacy infringement, we can. Press angle too—we spin it, press them down. Say the word."

He was quiet for a beat.

"Won't help much now," he said.

"We've got a presser tonight after training. I'll talk then."

Miranda exhaled, a bit disappointed but accepting of Izan's wishes.

"Alright," she said. "I'll hold back the draft for now."

The elevator dinged at his floor, with Izan pulling his bag along as he stepped out.

"Thanks," he said.

"Just… pace yourself," her tone softened.

"I will," he added just before the line clicked.

He slipped the phone into his bag and walked the carpeted corridor alone, keycard in hand.

......

[4:44]

The training cones were already being gathered.

The sky above the Philips Stadion had dimmed, the floodlights humming to life, casting long shadows across the pitch as Arsenal wrapped up their evening session.

Most of the players were walking toward the tunnel, swapping boots for sliders, towelling down and joking quietly under their breath.

But not Izan.

He was still at the edge of the box, sleeves rolled up, eyes narrowed, striking ball after ball under the watchful eye of one of the assistants.

The sound of contact was clean as the shot slammed into the net.

It was only when the last ball rolled back to him that he paused and glanced up at the sidelines.

Arteta stood there, hands in his coat pockets, talking with Cuesta, both of them glancing at their tablets.

Izan jogged over, sweat clinging to his jawline, his breath visible in the cool Eindhoven air.

"Coach."

Arteta looked up.

"Can I join the presser?"

That gave Arteta pause.

He blinked.

For a second, there was a flicker of the same careful consideration he always wore when making big decisions on the touchline.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Alright," he said.

"Wash up. Fifteen minutes."

Izan gave a single nod before heading off.

Cuesta looked over. "You sure?" but Arteta didn't answer.

Fifteen minutes later, the room was already packed.

A thick line of reporters waited inside the PSV media suite — UEFA lanyards swaying, fingers hovering over record buttons, cameras already mounted and focused on the table at the front.

The low murmur of conversations filled the space.

Some Dutch, some English, a few Spanish and French whispers as well.

The door at the side opened.

Arteta stepped in first and greeted the room with a curt nod.

Murmurs turned into hushed silence.

Then, a beat later, another figure walked in behind him.

Izan.

And the silence vanished.

The click of shutters sounded like rain on rooftops.

A dozen camera flashes burst across the room in sync.

Some reporters stood mid-movement.

One even knocked over his recorder in a scramble to adjust his lens.

"He's here?"

"What's he doing—?"

"Is this allowed?"

"Look at him—no limp. Nothing."

The moderator at the side lifted a hand.

"Please," she said firmly.

"We will begin in order. Thank you."

The room quieted just enough, but they couldn't restrain themselves.

The questions hadn't even started, and already, the atmosphere had shifted.

A/N: Sorry guys. I had a load of work to do. I don't even know if I can release another tomorrow after this. I 'll try and find time to squeeze one through if I can but the quality is already down so i won't force it if I can't. Have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit.