God Of football

Across various channels, the reaction was very different.

Paris fans, who had spent the past few days quietly convincing themselves that Izan might miss out, suddenly found their optimism undercut.

Threads that had been full of predictions about how a rejuvenated Dembele, together with his other attacking partners, would exploit an Arsenal weakened by the absence of their talisman, were now clogged with frustration.

And the tone across social media reflected the split:

Arsenal fans

:"That's it, I'm packing my bag. Paris is about to see something special, and I want to see the same thing at the Emirates and not on TV"

:"We've been in freefall, but if Izan's in there, I don't care what anyone says. We will win the game. It is just a matter of how many goals the jewel of Spanish football will score."

:"He wouldn't be named if he wasn't ready. Arteta doesn't play those games. PSG are in trouble."

:"You can write us off all you want, pundits. Wednesday night will write itself."

:"Feels like the whole mood's changed in an instant. I've been dreading this match, but now? I actually believe again."

The words of the Paris fans, on the other hand, were the polar opposite of Arsenal's.

:"How's this possible? Thought he was limping off two weeks ago, and now he's magically fit?"

":They're risking him, that's all. If he starts, we'll test that leg immediately."

:"We needed this guy out. With him, Arsenal's whole energy changes. This isn't good."

":Trust me, it's still Paris away. Izan or not, they can't live with us for 90 minutes."

:"Doesn't matter how fit he looks on paper. Once the whistle blows, we'll see if he can really handle us."

The reactions painted the same picture in different shades.

Where Arsenal supporters rediscovered their fight, Paris fans sensed a threat they had hoped would never come.

In pundit circles, too, the conversation quickly turned.

Clips from earlier in the week of analysts confidently saying, "Izan won't make it, Arsenal will have to adjust without him," and those soundbites were suddenly being replayed with ironic commentary from Arsenal fans, resurfaced.

What had been a quiet build-up, muted by doubt and low morale, suddenly roared into life.

The squad list wasn't just a piece of news—it had rewritten the mood ahead of the clash.

........

Away from all the opinions and buildup, the cabin of the Paris Saint-Germain jet hummed with the low, steady thrum of the engines as the muted luxury of leather seats and dimmed lights lent the place a strange sense of both comfort and restlessness.

Luis Enrique sat by the window, the glow of his tablet reflecting off the dark glass, the screen fixed on Arsenal's official squad announcement.

There it was, unmistakable—Izan Miura Hernández: included.

He leaned back, narrowing his eyes as though squinting harder would reveal the truth behind Arteta's decision.

The boy was supposed to be carrying an injury, perhaps even ruled out for the second leg too and yet, here he was, name sat there in black and white, waiting to upend everything.

His jaw tightened.

Was this really Arteta's plan?

To throw him off balance, to bait PSG into rewriting hours of tactical preparation just to deal with a player who might never leave the bench?

He'd known Arteta long enough to see the possibility of a clever, calculated mischief dressed as strategy.

But he also knew what came with being ill-prepared when your opponent has a player with the ranks of Izan.

Luis Enrique rubbed at his temple with his thumb, as though massaging clarity out of the fog.

If Izan plays, we'll need to compress the right side, shift Vitinha closer, double up early… if he doesn't, then we'll be leaving space where we don't need to. It's the kind of trap that only works if you believe in it.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a half-sigh, half-laugh.

"Reasoning at thirty thousand feet," he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for even himself to hear. "It never leads anywhere."

The juice on his tray table had been sitting there untouched, the condensation circling lazily down its glass like time refusing to pass.

He picked it up, took a long sip, then set it down again with a little more force than necessary.

His eyes betrayed a faint weariness, red-veined, ringed with shadows, heavy as though carrying the weight of days without real rest.

With another sigh, he loosened the tight turtleneck and leaned back into the seat before he thumbed the recline button until the leather cradled him.

His body begged for rest even if his mind was unwilling to grant it.

Finally, he reached for his sleeping mask, sliding it over his face.

The faint press of the fabric against his eyelids dulled the cabin lights and shut out the persistent glow of the tablet on the tray.

For a moment, silence settled.

His breathing slowed, the tension in his shoulders easing bit by bit.

Yet even behind the mask, behind the veneer of stillness, his thoughts continued to circle like planes awaiting clearance to land: Will Izan truly play? Or is Arteta's trick already working on me?

And then, as the hum of the engines filled the void, sleep began to drag him under, not deep, not peaceful, but enough.

......

[Matchday]

....

[Emirates- Home dressing room]

Mikel Arteta stood in the centre of the dressing room, sharp as ever, his voice calm but layered with the gravity of the night ahead.

The whiteboard behind him still bore yesterday's tactical sketches, crosses and arrows that had been rubbed out and redrawn until they matched the clarity in his mind.

"Okay," he began, his tone steady, drawing the eyes of every player in the room.

"Now, like I said yesterday, this will be the eleven who I deem good to start the game."

One by one, he read out the names.

Each carried its own weight, its own ripple through the room.

Raya in goal.

Timber, Saliba, Gabriel and Lewis-Skelly across the back with Rice anchoring just in front of them.

Ødegaard and Havertz stayed just up front of Rice, with the German returning to a role he hadn't had much chance to play because of Izan.

The front three consisted of the inconsistent but electric Martinelli with starboy Saka on the opposite flank, and finally finishing the list was Gabriel Jesus with his first Champions League start in a minute.

There was no drama or pause for suspense.

No!

It was just the list being spoken like a stone dropping into still water.

The squad had heard it already in fragments the day before, but hearing it aloud now, on matchday, carried finality.

To no one's surprise, or perhaps to some hoping for a shock, Izan's name wasn't called.

The person in question, on the other hand, didn't look shocked but rather nodded like he expected it.

He had known this was coming ever since he put it forward that he wanted to play.

Arteta's acceptance of his plea to be included had been too quick, too clean, and yesterday the truth had been given to him plainly: he wasn't starting.

It stung, of course.

A player like him wasn't built to sit on the bench.

But there were shades to disappointment, and this wasn't the darkest one.

Better here, in the squad, boots laced and heart racing in rhythm with the match, than left in the stands with a blazer on, or worse, at home in London watching through a screen while listening to Hori's rants.

The board clicked softly as Arteta set the clipboard aside, placing it neatly on the small stand in the corner.

He didn't need it anymore.

The message had been delivered.

Around him, chairs scraped back, studs clipped lightly against the tiled floor as players rose in unison.

Some spoke in low voices, others kept their focus internal, headphones slipping off as they began the quiet ritual before the tunnel.

"Okay, the staff are calling, so I want you all to go out there and warm up well. We can't afford another injury and certainly not due to a lack of preparation."

The players nodded at Arteta's words, with the manager looking around for a bit before sending them on their way as they turned towards the door of the dressing room.

Izan, who had been denied the chance to warm up intensively by the physio, had to make do with the massages they gave him, but he still followed his mates outside, and there the air thickened as the distant roar of the Emirates began to seep through the walls, carried down the hall in vibrations that even the floor seemed to hum with.

The door swung open and light spilt in, washing over Arsenal red and black training jackets as they funnelled through.

The warmth of the dressing room gave way to the cool, charged corridor, where stewards and cameras waited.

And then, as one, they stepped out toward the pitch, the noise of London swelling with every stride closer, a tide about to break.