God Of football

The home dressing room was immaculate — Arsenal red from wall to wall, the club crest stitched into every surface that mattered.

Kits were already hung on the rails, socks and training tops were folded at each player's seat. Izan's name and number sat waiting for him like a calling card.

He changed into his warm-up gear in a jiffy, compression top, shorts, socks — then tied his laces tight before standing up and rolling his shoulders once.

"Ten minutes," one of the staff called clipboard in hand.

The Players began to filter out into the hallway toward the pitch access tunnel.

Izan followed behind Rice and Saliba, footsteps echoing softly off the concrete as the light at the end of the corridor grew wider and brighter.

...

The moment Izan stepped onto the pitch at the Emirates, the change in atmosphere was immediate.

The stillness of the stadium seemed to hang in the air just for a second, and then the murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd.

It wasn't the thunderous roar of a full stadium yet — it was a warm buzz, a mix of curiosity and anticipation.

The fans in the stands were already picking up on it.

A few sections, those near the halfway line, had caught sight of him as he jogged onto the field, and there were scattered cheers, some whistles, a few playful chants starting to bubble up.

"He's here, he's here!" one fan shouted, not entirely sure if the team had just scored or if the excitement was about something else entirely.

Izan glanced up, catching a glimpse of the crowd. His heart gave a small lurch. This was different from the training sessions, and the friendlies.

It was the Premier League — his debut. The stands weren't just filled with faces; they were filled with expectations.

He waved back, a small but genuine gesture. It was mostly a reflex, but the warmth in the response reminded him why he was here. Why he'd worked so hard to get here.

"Look at you, the darling of North London already," Declan Rice joked as he jogged up beside Izan. "Saka's gonna need to get used to playing second fiddle now, huh?"

Izan chuckled and rolled his eyes, a playful grin on his face. He could hear the good-natured teasing in Rice's tone.

"Better step it up today, then, huh?" Izan shot back, nudging him lightly as they fell into pace.

Rice raised an eyebrow, grinning wide. "Oh, don't worry. I've already got the midfield locked down. You, on the other hand… no pressure."

Izan laughed, the tension in his chest easing slightly as they continued their warm-up laps, but just as his focus was shifting to the ball, his attention was caught by a few figures standing at the far side of the field.

Wolves' players had started their warm-up as well, and from across the pitch, Izan could hear a few chuckles.

A group of them — the core of the starting XI — was gathered around the halfway line, catching sight of Izan on the far side.

One of them, the Wolves captain, hooted loudly. "Oh, look, the media's darling has arrived," he said, his voice carrying over to Izan's ears.

"Let's see how long that lasts when he can't even complete a pass in a real match."

The others laughed — a few snickers, a couple of head-shakes. It was playful, but there was an edge to it.

They were professionals, after all. And if there was one thing they knew, it was how quickly hype could turn into pressure.

"Yeah, all this fuss, and he's just a kid," another one said, cracking his knuckles.

"Wait until he feels the heat from the first tackle."

"Wouldn't even be surprised if the whole thing fizzled out by halftime," a third chimed in, lips curling in a knowing smirk.

Despite the teasing, there was something else in their voices. The undercurrent of challenge.

They were here to do a job, and if they were going to face the media spotlight themselves, they'd make sure that it wasn't going to be Izan's day today.

Not unless he could prove it.

Izan caught snippets of the conversation, but his focus shifted quickly back to the task at hand.

The noise of the Wolves players was a reminder of what he was up against. The stakes were real — and they had already made their first mark.

His teammates weren't oblivious to it either.

As Izan joined in the passing drills with Rice and the others, he caught glimpses of the Wolves squad's eyes still locked in his direction, and he felt the weight of their words hanging in the air.

The final stretches of the warm-up wrapped up under the growing swell of voices from the stands.

The Emirates was beginning to fill, a sea of red and white swelling with excitement.

Izan followed the rest of the squad off the pitch, jogging lightly down the tunnel with his training top half-zipped, sweat glistening on his brow.

Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere was more focused — music played low from a speaker in the corner, but it was mostly the rustle of kit bags and the thud of boots being laced up that filled the space.

Players moved around with sharp intent, some joking quietly, others completely zoned in.

Izan sat at his spot, a towel draped across his neck, reaching for his water bottle when a staff member tapped him on the shoulder.

"This came in just now — straight from Adidas," the man said, handing over a sleek, black box sealed with a silver crest. "Good luck out there."

Izan blinked in surprise. He took the box, setting it carefully on the bench in front of him as a few of the players around him took notice.

The lid lifted with a soft hiss — and inside, cradled in custom foam, were a pair of gleaming boots. His boots.

All white, with crimson detailing, his initials and his new number "10" stitched subtly near the heel.

On the insole, a short message in gold script: "Welcome to the big stage. All eyes on you."

"Oi, oi!" Saka called from a few spots over, grinning wide as he leaned forward to get a better look.

"Now that's delivery service. I might just call up my agent and tell him I'm done with New Balance. Send me back to Adidas — I want the VIP treatment too!"

Laughter rippled through the room. Even Saliba cracked a smile.

Izan laughed as well, holding one of the boots up to the light.

"I mean, I wouldn't blame you," he said, playing along. "They even smell like a clean sheet."

"Don't push it," Rice said with a smirk, taping up his wrists nearby.

Izan eased off his training boots and slowly slipped the new ones on.

The fit was perfect. Secure, light, almost like they were molded for his feet and no one else's.

He flexed his toes, stood, and bounced lightly on the balls of his feet.

But before the banter could continue, the door to the dressing room opened with a subtle click — and everything quieted down. Arteta stepped in.

Clad in all black, hands behind his back, he looked around the room with the same precise intensity he always carried.

No words yet — just presence. The room responded accordingly.

The music cut out. The chatter stopped. All eyes turned to the man in charge.

Arteta stood near the center of the dressing room, arms folded behind his back as his players took their seats one by one.

The tension in the room was a living thing now — not fear, but the kind of energy that sat heavy on the chest, pushing every breath a little deeper.

His gaze swept across the squad, landing briefly on the experienced heads — Gabriel, Ødegaard, Raya, Rice — but it lingered longer on the two starting newcomers seated near the far end.

Riccardo Calafiori, adjusting the tape on his wrists, and Izan, still in his training top, his matchday jersey folded in front of him like something sacred.

"I don't need to tell most of you what this club expects," Arteta began, voice calm, composed, but carrying weight.

"You know what it means to wear this badge. You know what it takes to win here. Today isn't about reminders."

He paused, taking a step toward the new additions.

"But for those of you who are wearing this shirt for the first time in the Premier League… I'll say this: you don't need to be perfect. You don't need to force anything. You just need to show us you're Arsenal."

His words fell heavily into the quiet.

"Riccardo," Arteta continued, his tone steady, "you've been through pressure. You've played in tough leagues. Bring us your grit. Your composure. Play like you've been here for years."

Calafiori nodded once, jaw tight, his nerves masked behind focus.

Then, Arteta turned his eyes to Izan.

"And you."

Izan looked up, attentive. Arteta walked slowly toward him, hands still behind his back.

"That number…," he said quietly, nodding toward the jersey on the bench. "Ten."

The room watched in stillness.

"That shirt has history. Dennis. Mesut. Others before them. You'll hear those names. Read them in articles. Hear them from fans, pundits, and even teammates. And that's fine. That's football."

Arteta stepped around the bench, now standing behind Izan.

"But don't let it own you. Don't wear it trying to imitate anyone. Don't carry their shadow."

"Mould it into your image." His voice was low, but every syllable was clear.

"Play your football. Let people see Arsenal's Number 10 and think of you. Let them say, 'That was the shirt Izan wore. That was his era.'"

Izan picked up the jersey, the fabric soft and cool in his hands. Slowly, he pulled it on. It fit like it was meant to be there.

Arteta gave a small nod.

"Now go earn it."

He stepped back, casting a glance across the room. "All of you — trust each other, play brave, and show them who we are."

As the squad rose from their benches, boots clacking against the tile floor, the buzz returned.

It was time.

A/n: Sorry for the late update. I had a paper this morning so I couldn't release. Anyways have fun reading and I know I've been slow with the premier league but trust me, when we hit ground running, we won't stop.