God Of football

The black SUV purred softly as it rolled up to the front of the school, its tinted windows catching the pale morning light.

It was the sort of car that blended into city streets without calling attention, very unlike the sleek, alien-looking Gemera that usually turned heads wherever Izan drove it.

Today, though, the Gemera was resting in the garage, and the reason sat right there in the passenger seat, arms crossed, lips curved into a smirk that was too proud, even for her usual personality.

"You know," Hori said, breaking the quiet as Izan slowed toward the drop-off lane, "this is actually your fault."

Izan turned his head just slightly, one hand draped lazily on the wheel.

"My fault?" He arched an eyebrow, already amused at the direction this was taking.

"Yes," she declared confidently while staring at Izan like he had done something he shouldn't have done.

"You saw the mistake. You spotted the stain. And you didn't tell Mama. Or even better, you could've taken it out of the machine yourself. But no, you just let it spin around in there, dyeing everything red. Which means, " she gave a triumphant tilt of her chin "—you're guilty too."

The corner of Izan's mouth tugged upward.

He didn't rush to defend himself.

He just let her words hang there, her little courtroom performance reaching its peak.

"Mm," he hummed finally, eyes forward as he eased the SUV into a slow stop at the curb.

"So what you're saying is, because you snuck your dress into the wrong load, and because your mom didn't notice it, somehow I'm the criminal here?"

"Exactly," Hori shot back, not missing a beat. "Accessories to crime are still guilty, you know."

Izan smirked fully now, glancing her way.

"You've been watching too many Law and Order and detective dramas."

"Maybe." She shrugged, her ponytail bouncing slightly with the motion, but the gleam in her eyes said she wasn't backing down.

For a moment, they just sat there, a playful silence filling the SUV.

Kids bustled on the pavement outside, the usual morning chaos of chatter and hurried footsteps.

Hori's hand hovered at the door handle, but instead of opening it, she narrowed her eyes at him like she was waiting for him to crack first.

Izan leaned back in his seat, smirk still firmly in place.

"If it makes you feel better," he said slowly, deliberately, "I'll accept partial responsibility."

"Partial?" she scoffed, shaking her head. "That's not enough."

"It's all you're getting."

That earned him a dramatic roll of her eyes.

She shoved open the car door, only to push it harder than necessary, the metal thumping against the side with a dull thud.

Izan's brows shot up.

"Seriously?" he muttered under his breath, watching her climb out with a touch too much satisfaction in her step.

But she didn't look back at him.

Instead, one of her friends spotted her near the entrance and called her name, waving.

Hori's whole demeanour shifted in an instant, the courtroom lawyer gone, replaced by the carefree student.

She fell into stride beside her friend, chattering as if the SUV, Izan, and their little sparring match didn't even exist anymore.

Izan stayed behind the wheel, lips twitching as he watched her disappear into the sea of uniforms.

He shook his head, muttering to himself with a soft chuckle.

"Accessories to crime, huh? She'd make a very good lawyer."

And with that, he tapped the wheel as the engine hummed louder, and the black SUV pulled away from the curb, slipping back into the flow of morning.

......

Traffic was light this morning, the city just starting to warm up with its usual rhythm, and Colney was a good thirty-minute drive out.

Usually, Izan would let silence be his companion on mornings like this, or let his thoughts drift to training patterns, finishing drills, or even Miranda's talks about visibility, with Izan being deemed a bit quiet recently by the Media.

But today, maybe because of the tension clawing at the edges of the city, he reached for the dial and flicked the radio on.

Static gave way to voices sharp, animated with a touch of the unmistakable cadence of football punditry.

"…and look, say what you want about Arsenal's fairytale run, but let's not forget who they're facing," one voice cut in, calm but firm.

"PSG have been quietly unstoppable. Nobody's talking about them because of that loss back in September at the Emirates, but since then? They've won, what, fifteen of their last sixteen across competitions?"

"Ligue 1 wrapped up with four games to spare, and that shows their dominance. Say what you will about Ligue 1 being a farmer's league, but everything plays with the same number of players on the pitch, and PSG have endured it."

Another pundit jumped in with more bite.

"Exactly. Everyone got blinded by Arsenal's rise and Liverpool's early-season form, as well as stunning displays from teams like Barca, but Luis Enrique has built a monster. Dembele and Doue are in frightening shape, Kvaratskhelia looks like he was born to wear that shirt after moving to Paris back in January, and the midfield balance with Vitinha and Neves — that's a machine and Arsenal will have their hands full."

Izan kept his eyes on the road, grinning slightly as he navigated a roundabout.

The first pundit spoke again, leaning into the drama.

"And let's not forget the context here. Arsenal aren't just juggling the Champions League semi-final. They've got Liverpool breathing down their necks in the league. Three games left, and the one that matters most is at Anfield. Beat Liverpool, and the title's theirs. Lose, and suddenly Liverpool are right back in it, desperate to salvage a season that looked like it was theirs until PSG knocked them out of the Champions League."

"That's the thing," the other cut in, almost gleeful. "This Arsenal side has history with pressure. They bottle it. It's not hate, it's reality. Semi-final in the FA Cup, league on the line, and now PSG, with all that firepower, standing in front of them. I don't see how they come through all of this unscathed. Especially…" He paused, the dramatic edge unmistakable.

"…especially without Izan, who has been a revelation of a player this season. We thought he was good and thought that the future was for him, but he's shown that the present isn't anyone's either. He and Lamine, although the latter has been somewhat overshadowed by his, have been a step up in football that we haven't seen in a long time, and I am here for everything but,"

The silence that followed seemed longer than it was, even though the host quickly filled it.

"There is only one truth. Without him, they don't have that cutting edge. They don't have the wildcard, the spark, and we saw that against Palace, because although they came back to draw, it isn't a good mood setter. I mean, let's be honest: Arsenal without Izan don't scare PSG that much. That's why, if you ask me, PSG go through because they are going to win the upcoming first leg and then find a way to outscore Arsenal should Izan be able to return for the second leg."

A faint, dry laugh left Izan's throat, a bit amused and resigned.

He let them talk for another minute, but the words started to grate.

His name was repeated too often, always tied to doubt, to absence, to the weight of an entire club balanced precariously on his presence.

He reached forward and lowered the volume, muting them to a distant murmur as the hum of the engine re-filled the space instead, steady and neutral.

He rolled his shoulders once, exhaled, and tightened his grip on the wheel.

"I still don't know how they just keep doubting," Izan muttered as he pulled into another lane.

Better to let the talking heads do what they did best.

His answers would have to come somewhere else, and what better place than the pitch?

.....

[Colney]

Arteta leaned against the edge of the desk in the physio's office, arms folded, his eyes flicking between the scan results on the monitor and the expression on the head physio's face.

"So… tell me where we stand," Mikel said, his voice low, measured.

The physio exhaled, as if weighing his words carefully.

"It's good news, mostly. Izan's ankle has responded brilliantly to treatment. The swelling has gone down, stability is back, and he's cleared all the range-of-motion drills."

Arteta's eyes softened for a second. "That sounds better than I expected."

"It is," the physio admitted.

"He can play. If you asked him to, he could put on his boots tomorrow night and he'd get through ninety minutes."

Mikel tilted his head. "But?"

The physio hesitated, then tapped on the scan.

"There's still a trace of irritation in the joint. It's minor, really barely there, really, but irritation is like smoke. If we ignore it, if it catches fire, you're looking at something far worse. A sprain. A tear. Months instead of weeks. Plus, we have to look at fitness and sharpness because he hasn't played in a minute."

Arteta sighed through his nose, thinking. "So we're not talking about weakness. We're talking about risk."

"Exactly. Physically, he's a monster. He heals much faster than any player I have ever seen that it is sort of ridiculous. His muscles are compensating perfectly, and honestly, it's impressive. He looks like he has evolved further every time we check him."

The physio allowed himself a small smile.

"But this is the margin we live in. Push him too soon, and luck decides the rest. Hold him back, and he's protected."

A/N: This is the last of the previous day. I am so sorry for the late release but I was grinding and cramming for my communication skills exam and it starts in like 5 hours but I haven't slept. Have fun reading and I'll see you with the remaining two of the day.