God Of football

The wheels of the plane touched down with the usual jolt as the cabin filled with the chorus of seatbelts clicking open, overhead bins swinging, and voices stirring.

London again.

Grey skies filtering faintly through the windows, a world away from the desert glow they'd left behind.

Izan leaned back for a moment, phone already in his hand, before he typed out a quick message.

"Back in London. Will head to physio tomorrow morning for a check."

Send.

He slipped the phone into his pocket, and almost immediately, a buzz.

He took it out again, the screen lighting with Arteta's reply:

"Ok."

Short, simple, but good enough.

Izan gave a faint smile and slid the phone away for good this time.

Football had its way of pulling you back with no ceremony, no pause.

The ride from Heathrow blurred by in silence, the familiar black SUV gliding through the late-night London traffic.

Olivia dozed lightly against the window, while Hori leaned forward now and then to look at the streets rushing past.

Izan watched the city, its muted lights, the drizzle beading against the glass, the quiet hum of a place he knew all too well.

When the SUV finally pulled into the Hampstead driveway, the sight of the white and glassy modern home brought a strange mix of relief and inevitability.

A fortress, yet also a reminder of the life he'd chosen.

The driver, the same man who'd been with him since his first days in Arsenal, put the car into park by the garage.

Izan unbuckled, reached for the door, and stepped out into the cool air.

"Thanks, James," he said as the man rounded to open the boot.

"Anytime, Mr. Miura," the driver replied with a polite nod.

"I thought we were already past that phase," Izan said with a chuckle, but James just shrugged.

"I'm just doing my job," he said as he got out, but Izan moved ahead, lifting out the luggage himself before the man could insist.

He gathered the girls' bags into one hand and his own in the other, dragging them behind his legs and leaving the two with free arms as they lingered a moment by the car.

Olivia stretched with a quiet sigh, Hori tipping her head back to take in the house's glowing facade.

For a second, the two of them didn't move, almost like they wanted to hold onto and download the last bits of the fun they had had before stepping back inside the pace of his world.

"Come on," Izan called softly over his shoulder, leading the way up the short path.

The automatic lights flickered on at their presence, welcoming them in.

The door closed behind them, shutting out the drizzle and the road.

London. Football. The rhythm was starting again.

........

[Colney]

"Morning, champ. Back earlier than I thought."

The security guard at the Colney gate leaned forward from his booth, recognising Izan before the window was fully down.

His breath fogged against the cool glass of the booth.

There was a touch of familiarity and surrealness to the job he had come to love.

I mean, who wouldn't want to see football players close up, day in and day out, especially when it's the best player in current football, whom he'd seen pass through the gate more times than he could count.

"Morning," Izan said with a faint smile, lowering his window.

The guard's chuckle softened into something almost approving. "Well, welcome back. Heard LA was nice this time of year."

"It was," Izan admitted, though as he drove forward past the barrier and into Colney.

His eyes drifted to the passenger seat where the brace sat, buckled neatly against the leather like a companion waiting to be picked up.

For a beat, he just stared at it, the polished straps catching the pale morning light, and then he let out a long breath before reaching across the console.

He hadn't touched the thing in LA, but now that he was back, appearances mattered.

If the press saw him walking freely, questions would swirl, rumours would twist into headlines, and Arteta and his mates didn't need distractions on top of everything else.

He clipped the brace on, straightened his joggers above it, and killed the engine.

The car park was mostly empty as he trudged towards the entrance of the complex, his eyes glossing over the few cones which were scattered by the far pitch, the dew still glistening on the grass.

Izan pulled his hood up, hands slipping into his pockets as he crossed toward the main building.

Inside the reception, he nodded to a pair of academy lads rushing past with kit bags, their heads turning just enough to catch a glimpse of him before their hurried steps echoed down the corridor.

What would have happened if a more talented player or academy kid got the system instead of me, Izan thought as he turned from the direction the other kids were running to.

As he walked deeper, a voice called out.

"Back already? And early, too."

One of the training staff, clipboard in hand, stood by the junction of the hallway.

Izan returned the smile with something easy and brief, "Morning."

He didn't slow, just gave a polite wave before veering left toward the physio wing, where the door to the treatment room was half-shut with a soft sliver of light leaking into the corridor.

Izan pushed it open gently with the familiar antiseptic tang hitting first, followed by the sight of the physio, hunched over a desk with his back turned to him.

Without looking, the man spoke.

"LA atmosphere treat you well?"

The corner of Izan's mouth twitched as he crossed to the padded bench and sat, stretching his legs out.

"Yeah," he said after a pause.

"It was a good break… from everything, really."

The physio finally turned, a half-smile settling on his face.

"Good. You needed it. But breaks don't last forever, do they?"

Izan leaned back against the wall, exhaling softly.

"Not until you are done in this job."

The physio began pulling equipment from a nearby drawer: a resistance band, a small ankle weight, and even a balance board, and set them neatly on the floor.

"Alright. Let's see what that ankle can do now."

The next twenty minutes rolled into routine.

Izan flexed his foot against the resistance band without any visible pain as he pushed through.

He balanced one-footed on the board while the physio watched carefully, arms folded, offering the occasional "steady" or "hold it there."

Sweat prickled lightly at his temples, though he tried not to show strain.

When the set ended, the physio crouched down, hands firm and precise as he rotated Izan's ankle, pressing lightly against tendons, gauging his reactions.

"You didn't wear the brace much in LA, did you?"

The words were matter-of-fact, not scolding, but they landed heavy.

Izan blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Guess you can tell."

"Of course I can tell." The physio's tone softened, almost approving despite himself.

"But… it healed well. Better than I expected. Structurally, you're fine now. You can resume strenuous exercise." He raised a finger, sharp and pointed.

"But don't go mad with it. Ease into it. No long sessions, no marathons on the pitch. You push too hard, you'll set yourself back."

Izan nodded, listening carefully. "Got it."

The physio straightened, scribbling something on his chart.

"I'll send the report over to Carlos and he'll pass it along to Mikel."

He tapped the paper once, and then, "That's us done for today. You can go."

Izan rose, rolling his ankle once in the brace as though testing its reality again.

He gave a small smile, appreciative but tired and then a "Thanks," as the physio waved him off. "You're doing great, so keep your head up and rest and let everything take its course."

Izan lingered for a moment by the door before stepping out.

........

Thud, thud.

A gentle knock came at the door of Arteta's office.

"Come in," the Spaniard called, not looking up immediately from the notes scattered across his desk.

The door creaked open just enough for a familiar head of dark hair to poke through. "Morning, míster."

Arteta looked up, already smiling faintly. "Ah, Izan. Come."

Izan stepped inside, pushing the door shut with his shoulder.

He set the brace, resting it carefully against one of the chairs by the wall, before lowering himself into one of the seats opposite his manager.

Arteta's eyes flicked to the brace.

"So it's off now," he said, leaning back. "That must feel good."

"Yeah," Izan replied, stretching one leg out slightly before tucking it back under the chair.

"Not that I wore it that much, but still, it's good."

"Physio checked it this morning. He said I should take it easy for now, though. No long sessions yet. He'll send the report to Carlos for you."

Arteta nodded thoughtfully, his hand brushing along his jaw.

"Good. That's important. We're in no rush, but at the same time, we are. We need you strong, not just available." His gaze softened a little as he leaned forward.

"I imagine your mates have started to arrive by now. You were in the physio room for a while, no?"

Izan gave a small smile. "Yeah, probably."

"Then go," Arteta said, standing as well. "It's good for you to be with them again."

Izan rose from his chair, straightening his jacket as he headed for the door.

Arteta followed a few steps behind, his voice trailing just as the younger man reached for the handle.

"And Izan…"

He turned slightly, brow raised.

"I know you left that brace there on purpose."

A knowing look tugged at the corners of Arteta's mouth.

"Go back for it."

Izan's lips curved into a sheepish grin, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before he gave a small nod.

"Yeah, míster."

A/N: Okay, anothe chapter. I will see you with the GT chpater after this so have fun reading.