God Of football

Kroenke and Lewis turned their attention back to the training ground below, Wenger standing beside them in silent observation.

Just as they refocused, Izan received the ball at the edge of the box.

Odegaard, ever the orchestrator, had set him up with a precise layoff.

The pass rolled smoothly into Izan's stride, and without breaking momentum, he shifted his body weight—a subtle feint, a calculated angle.

Then, the shot.

A curler.

The ball left his boot with exquisite precision, bending with a controlled arc toward the far post.

Ramsdale reacted, stretching out, but the trajectory was untouchable.

The net rippled.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a collective murmur of admiration.

But Izan wasn't done.

Grinning, he took off toward the corner flag, his body shifting into a playful sprint.

Saka, already laughing, bolted after him, mock-chasing as if trying to stop him from celebrating.

Izan reached the flag and abruptly dropped to one knee, raising his hands like a trained marksman.

A U.S. Marine simulation.

Target in sight.

He steadied his imaginary rifle, miming a slow, controlled trigger pull. One shot. Two. Three. A precise takedown of an invisible enemy.

The watching players burst into laughter, the absurdity of the moment breaking the competitive tension of training.

Saka reached him and dramatically collapsed, hands over his heart, "hit" by the final shot.

Izan smirked, "Mission accomplished," before helping Saka up.

.....

Inside the Building

Wenger chuckled softly.

"He has confidence," Kroenke remarked, shaking his head.

Lewis smirked. "And flair. He knows exactly what he's doing."

Wenger's expression remained thoughtful.

"Yes," he murmured. "But confidence alone does not define greatness. It's what he does when the real war begins."

...

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows over the pitch as Arteta blew the final whistle.

"That's it for today!" he called out, stepping onto the field as the players gathered. "Good work, everyone. Rest."

His gaze swept across the squad, his voice steady but firm.

"We have tomorrow off. Use it wisely—recover, clear your minds. Because the day after, we go again.

One final session before our last pre-season match against Liverpool. I want sharpness. I want intensity."

Some players exchanged glances, knowing exactly what that meant. Arteta's last pre-match session was never light work.

He nodded toward them. "We've done well so far, but the real season is coming. And it won't wait for us to be ready."

Odegaard gave a small, knowing smile, already familiar with the manager's expectations.

Arteta turned, glancing at Izan for a brief moment before addressing the squad again.

"Now, go. Rest up."

With that, the session ended. The players began filtering out, some chatting, others already thinking about what to do tomorrow.

Izan turned to leave, wiping sweat from his forehead.

But just as he slung his training top over his shoulder, a hushed conversation caught his ear.

"Mate, it's just one night," Saka's voice, low but amused.

"Yeah, Arteta won't even know," Martinelli added, grinning.

Zinchenko chuckled. "We just have to be back before morning."

Izan glanced over without turning his head. They were planning something. Sneaking out? Maybe just a night out, or something a little riskier.

He didn't say a word. Just a small, knowing smile crossed his face as he stepped away, heading toward the exit.

Let them have their fun.

...…

Saka, Martinelli, and Zinchenko huddled together near the entrance of the hotel, their voices barely above a whisper.

"Alright, we take the service exit," Zinchenko said, his eyes darting around.

Martinelli smirked. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

Saka chuckled. "Man's been planning this since we landed."

Zinchenko just grinned. "Trust me, I know how to make it work."

With careful movements, they slipped out, avoiding security cameras, weaving through the back corridors of the hotel, and finally stepping into the warm night air of the city.

⸻

Izan stood in his hotel room, leaning against the window frame. Below, he could see the three figures moving carefully through the shadows, their plan unfolding perfectly.

A smirk crossed his face. He could easily stop them if he wanted to. But why would he?

He pulled the curtains shut. Whatever they were up to, it wasn't his concern or it was, Izan thought as a knowing smirk formed on his face.

Saka, Martinelli, and Zinchenko made their way into the heart of the city, the streets buzzing with life even at this hour.

They found a quiet lounge, tucked away from the usual tourist spots, where music hummed in the background and the lights were dim.

"Not bad," Martinelli nodded approvingly as they settled in, ordering drinks—non-alcoholic, of course. They weren't stupid.

"Cheers to a proper preseason," Zinchenko said, raising his glass.

"And to a title charge," Saka grinned, clinking his drink with theirs.

For the next couple of hours, they laughed, joked, and unwound—the tension of preseason fading into the background.

No Arteta, no tactics, just three teammates enjoying a rare free moment.

At 3 AM, they slipped back into the hotel, moving with the same stealth they had used to escape.

Saka almost tripped over a bag left in the hallway, and Martinelli had to stifle a laugh.

"Shh, bro!" Zinchenko hissed.

They crept through the corridors, past the sleeping staff, and into their rooms—undetected.

As Saka shut his door, he exhaled. "Flawless mission."

They'd gotten away with it. Or so they thought.

........

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The pounding on the door echoed through the hallway, jolting Saka, Martinelli, and Zinchenko awake.

Saka sat up in a panic, his heart still sluggish from lack of sleep.

"Who the hell—?" Martinelli groaned, rubbing his eyes.

Before anyone could react, a voice rang through the door. "Get up! Arteta's called a video room session. Now."

Zinchenko's drowsiness disappeared instantly. "What? It's—" He grabbed his phone. "It's 7:30! Bloody hell!"

Saka flopped back onto his pillow. "I'm finished."

"No, we're finished," Martinelli corrected, already stumbling out of bed.

They had barely gotten 3 hours of sleep, and now Arteta wanted them in a meeting? This couldn't be a coincidence.

The three shuffled toward the meeting room like condemned men.

Their eyes were red, their movements sluggish, and despite their best efforts, they probably still reeked of whatever place they had gone to.

As they stepped inside, they froze.

Everyone else was already seated—wide awake, fully dressed, fresh. Even Izan sat comfortably in his chair, arms crossed, watching them with an unreadable expression.

Arteta stood at the front, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the room. When his gaze landed on the trio, it lingered.

"Late night?" he asked casually.

Saka swallowed. "No, boss."

Arteta nodded slowly, his expression giving away nothing.

As the three shuffled into their seats, they immediately felt something was off.

The way the others sat—some amused, some trying to suppress laughter—felt unnatural.

Then, Arteta pressed play.

The screen flickered to life, and—

There they were.

Saka, Martinelli, and Zinchenko, sneaking out of the hotel.

Clear as day.

The room erupted. Laughter. Stifled chuckles. A few gasps.

Saka's stomach plummeted. Zinchenko froze, his eyes locked on the screen as if he could will it to disappear. Martinelli? Silent. Absolutely silent.

The footage continued—them laughing, hopping into a car, and leaving for the club or wherever they went.

Then, at 3:00 AM sharp, stumbling back in through the back entrance, barely able to keep their balance.

The camera cut off.

Silence.

Arteta folded his arms. "Do you have anything to say?"

No one spoke.

Then, Izan leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "Amateurs."

Arteta sighed, his expression unreadable as he looked at the three culprits.

"You know what to do."

Saka, Martinelli, and Zinchenko didn't argue. They just nodded, heads down, and turned toward the exit.

A few of their teammates winced as the door shut behind them. Running laps this early? Brutal.

Izan stood, stretched, and casually followed to the window. Sure enough, there they were.

Lap after lap.

Zinchenko already looked like he regretted every decision that led him here. Martinelli was gritting his teeth and Saka? Muttering curses under his breath with every step.

The trio finally slowed to a stop, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. Just as they bent over, hands on their knees, a few water bottles came flying toward them.

Izan stood nearby, tossing one bottle after the other. "Next time you three want to sneak out, just come to me. I'm well-versed in that art."

Saka squinted at him as he chugged down the water. "Wait…" His expression froze. "Hold on—you took the footage?"

Martinelli and Zinchenko snapped their heads toward Izan, realization hitting them like a truck.

Izan simply smirked.

"Oi!" Zinchenko shot up, suddenly re-energized. "Get back here!"

Before Izan could react, all three of them lunged at him.

"Ah, sh—" Izan turned on his heels, sprinting.

But they couldn't catch him. He was just too quick. Every time they got close, he slipped away with a grin, weaving between training cones like it was a game.

From the cafeteria, the rest of the squad watched with amusement.

Odegaard shook his head with a chuckle. "That boy's trouble."

Saliba leaned back, grinning. "Yeah, but I think I like it."