God Of football

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 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."

Mikel ran a hand along his jawline, his mind already caught in the web of choices.

"He's already carrying this much. I don't want to break him before he even knows what his ceiling is, so let's go with your plan, but we have to also make sure that we do not shelter him too much, as it could hamper his development."

The physio nodded firmly.

"You're not holding him back, boss. You're safeguarding him. He's fit enough to play. But being fit doesn't always mean being ready. Not for the long haul."

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the quiet hum of the monitor.

Then the intercom crackled, and the receptionist's voice cut through.

"Boss? Just letting you know— Izán's arrived."

Arteta's lips twitched into something between a smile and a sigh.

He straightened from the desk, brushing the thoughts aside for now.

"Gracias. Send him through."

"For now, monitor things and get back to me with everything you see that needs attention", Arteta said, looking at the physio before, stepping out of the medical wing, and making his way to his office.

.......

Outside, Izan barely gave the receptionist a nod before pushing down the lane leading to Arteta's office, and when he got there, he pushed open the office door, his steps brisk, voice carrying before he even sat down.

"I'm fit to play," he declared, as if the matter had already been settled somewhere in his head.

Arteta didn't flinch.

He simply raised the sheets of paper in his hand, the physio's report clipped neatly on top, and gave a small motion with his wrist.

"I know," he said evenly, eyes flicking between the pages and his player.

"I've read your reports."

That should have been enough to quiet the teenager, but Izan's chin lifted slightly, the faintest tension still alive in his expression.

"Then since you know that," he pressed, "you won't have a problem with me playing."

Arteta's head dipped in a single nod. "Sure."

The swiftness of the response caught Izan by surprise as a crease formed between his brows, and he leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely.

"I thought you were going to fight me on it," he admitted, his voice shaded with something between suspicion and disappointment.

"No." Arteta shook his head slowly, then leaned forward, resting the papers against the desk as though closing the subject.

"I need you to be present for this game, Izan. What's written here—" he tapped the report once, lightly, "—isn't telling me you're broken. It's telling me you're almost fully healed. I'm not leaving my best player out because of an ankle that's ninety-five per cent ready."

The words carried no dramatics, no excessive flattery, but they hung in the air with a weight Izan couldn't shrug off.

For a second, his lips parted as if he wanted to argue, but instead, he nodded.

Arteta rose from his chair then, letting the seriousness soften into something warmer.

He reached out, looping an arm over Izan's shoulder, pulling the taller boy slightly into his stride as they headed for the door.

"Come on," he said, tone gentler now, "we've got things to prepare."

They moved into the corridor, their voices lowering as they walked side by side.

"You'll have to time your runs a bit smarter, though, less waste—"

"Smarter runs, fine, but if I see an opening, I'm taking it—"

"Of course, but listen, what I mean is—"

Their words trailed off into the hum of the hallway, the sharp edges of the conversation softening into something quieter, almost conspiratorial, just between manager and player.

......

Outside, just on the pitchside, Carlos Cuesta had his arms folded, his eyes never leaving the pitch as the drill unfolded.

The players rotated quickly, red bibs against grey, rhythm constant, every touch demanded sharpness.

"On him," Calafiori called as Izan picked up the ball near the left half-space, his first touch clean but inviting pressure.

Normally, in that pocket, he'd glide past the first man, break the shape, and drag the whole defence scrambling after him.

Instead, he checked his stride and slid the ball a yard inside before pivoting away from the duel that had been there for the taking.

Carlos exhaled through his nose, tilting his head just enough for Arteta to notice.

"He doesn't go. Why didn't he go?" Carlos said quietly, voice almost lost under the thud of boots and the sharp shouts echoing across the pitches.

"One v one, defender squared, that's him, always. But he doesn't take it. Again."

Arteta's gaze tracked Izan, not answering straight away.

The teenager had already drifted into the next movement, timing his press, snapping the trap shut alongside Havertz.

Nothing sloppy in his effort.

"I've seen it," Arteta murmured finally, his tone not carrying judgment but only acknowledgement as he kept his hands in his pockets, shoulders upright, watching.

The ball broke loose from the press, spinning into Odegaard's path, who was immediately pressured by two players in grey bibs.

And with a quick glance up, he threaded a diagonal ball weighted perfectly, rolling into Izan's stride on the edge of the box.

Izan took the ball into stride, flicking it to his right before rolling it into his left foot and then letting the ball linger loosely, right within shooting proximity, not that it ever mattered for him.

Neto, in the opposite goal, narrowed the angle, crouched, arms wide.

What followed was the smooth motion of Izan's left foot striking the ball cleanly with the white missile fizzing across goal and curling past the keeper's fingertips.

The net shook, the ball kissing the side-netting before rolling dead.

A grin flashed across Izan's face as he wheeled away while Saka, jogging from the opposite flank, veered across to meet him.

They collided shoulders, breaking into a rehearsed little gesture, a mirrored movement, quick and sharp, ending with both of them laughing as the rest of the squad clapped or smirked at the display.

Arteta didn't move.

His lips pressed together, neither a smile nor a frown, while Carlos leaned slightly closer, hoping to hear what Arteta had to say.

"He might be protecting himself since this is not a real match, and coming back from an injury, he will have some thoughts about getting injured again, so that might be the reason he didn't go head-on for the first take-on, but as you can see, he is still clinical."

Arteta finally glanced at him, eyes thoughtful.

"He's choosing. That's the difference. He could go, but he doesn't. Let's wait till he gets back in on the real action and see if he still has any reservations, and then we will talk about it then."

Carlos let out a soft hum, arms tightening across his chest.

"So that's the plan with the PSG game ?"

Arteta didn't reply straight away.

His eyes went back to Izan, who was jogging back into position, hand still raised to Saka in their private celebration.

"Nope, what will come out is purely just bait," Arteta said before patting Cuesta on the shoulder and then turning towards the other coaches behind.

A few hours later, in the evening, news broke with the kind of ripple Arsenal had not felt in weeks.

The club's official channels dropped the squad list for Paris, and within minutes, the air shifted on both sides of the fixture.

For Arsenal supporters, who had grown weary after a disheartening league result and a constant barrage of pundits questioning whether the team had already peaked, the inclusion of Izan's name lit a spark they hadn't felt in days.

A player supposedly limping, reportedly doubtful, was now officially in the matchday squad, and it wasn't just a boost to their confidence.

It was also a lifeline.

A beacon of hope that signified that come matchday, they had a player whom they could rely on to change the narrative of the game in just mere seconds.

Across the channel, 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.

A/N: Okay guys, this is the first of the previous day. I have been busy with my exams and I am sort of trying to catch up on sleep since I haven't fully slept in like 4 days. Have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit with the second of the previous day.