God Of football

"If taking the ball from midfield, dribbling through the entire Chelsea backline, and putting it in the top corner counts as getting into the right spaces, then I'm going to need those same spaces for my USMNT boys when they play next week."

The whole pitchside crew burst out laughing, and even Izan couldn't help but double over slightly, one hand covering his mouth as he laughed into the mic.

When he finally caught his breath, he looked back toward the camera with a grin.

"Then I think your boys might have to train a bit harder for those spaces," he said, smiling faintly.

"Touché," the pundit who had asked the earlier question replied, still laughing.

"But seriously, that was one of the most complete and most dominant performances we've seen from you in an Arsenal shirt. Not that you don't do it every time, but what clicked today?"

Izan took a moment before answering, his expression softening slightly.

"We were calm," he said.

"We trusted the game plan, we trusted each other. Once the first goal went in, everything just flowed. We wanted to make a statement, not just win, but show what we're capable of."

The reporter beside him gave a small nod, clearly impressed, before another pundit jumped in.

"And that statement was pretty loud, wasn't it? Six-nil against Chelsea in a cup semi-final. Did you expect it to be that dominant?"

Izan smiled, looking around a bit before looking at the camera.

"Not many people really expect games like that. But I can say I did, and my mates can attest to that because they can tell you how I was moving in training before the game," Izan said, causing the pundits and the reporter to falter a bit at his 180-degree switch from humble to sounding a bit cocky.

After seeing the face of the reporter, which would probably be the same one the pundits would have, Izan burst out into laughter, laughing before slowly stopping.

"I was just kidding. But we really worked hard towards the game, and when you feel the rhythm, when everyone's moving the same way, it's hard to stop. It's special, and it would have gotten more special if some of the players hadn't been pulled off."

"And by players, do you mean you?" the reporter questioned, causing Izan to chuckle and then nod.

The first pundit's voice came back, a little softer now.

"You've had a lot of pressure since joining Arsenal, Izan. People doubted if you'd live up to the hype. And then you've gone on to have one of the best seasons a team could have ever have in football with Arsenal, winning 4 trophies and on your way to a possible fifth after tonight, while also having the best season individually we have seen from a player in recent times, all while being 17, still yet to turn 18. Would you say this has silenced the critics?"

Izan exhaled, the question landing heavier than the others.

He thought for a second, then smiled quietly.

"I don't really play to silence people. I just play for the badge… for my teammates, for the fans. Nights like this are the reward for that."

There was a brief silence before one of the pundits murmured, "Beautifully said."

The female reporter smiled warmly, glancing between him and the camera.

"Well, that's all we have time for, guys. Izan, congratulations again. An incredible night for you, and for Arsenal. We'll let you go celebrate with your teammates."

He nodded once more, polite as ever.

"Thank you," he said, offering a quick handshake before removing the earpiece and handing it over to the staff nearby, doing the same with the mic.

"Well, there you have it, folks, a ver......."

....

By the time things had quieted and the adrenaline of the night had started to settle, Izan was already making his way up toward the VIP stands.

The corridors buzzed with soft conversation and the muffled echoes of celebration still trickling up from the pitch.

He'd showered, changed into something simple, just the bottom of his tracksuit pants, white sneakers, and a clean white tee that clung slightly to the warmth of his skin.

He stepped into the private area, and almost instantly, Komi spotted him.

"Muira," she called, her voice full of warmth and that motherly energy that would never quite go away, no matter how old he got.

Before he could even respond, she was already wrapping her arms around him, squeezing him tight enough to make him laugh.

"You did it again, didn't you?" she said, still hugging him, her voice muffled slightly against his chest.

Then she leaned back just far enough to pinch his cheeks with mock irritation.

"And look at you. Have you been eating at all? Don't tell me Miranda's put you on another one of her weird diets."

Izan laughed, shaking his head, though he couldn't quite stop smiling.

"No, that's just your imagination," he said, his voice gentle and amused.

From behind them, Miranda's voice rose, trying to defend herself.

"You know I do not put him on diets. That's for his club nutritionist since he won't let me hire one for him, claiming he won't pay someone to tell him what to eat and not to."

Before the talk could continue, Izan cut in, still chuckling.

"Please, don't start. I just scored five goals, remember?"

That earned him a look from both of them, a bit annoyed.

As the teasing subsided, Izan reached out, gently catching Olivia's hand from beside Miranda, pulling her closer to his side.

She smiled, a bit shyly under the attention, but didn't pull away.

Around them, people were passing by, executives, family members, a few familiar faces from the club, all throwing glances their way.

Some curious, some admiring.

But Izan didn't care too much about their gazes.

He was just himself, standing with his people.

He glanced down at his phone, checking a message before sliding it back into his pocket.

"I've got the night to myself," he said casually, his tone light but satisfied.

"Asked Arteta for permission. So… we should go find something to eat."

Komi raised an eyebrow.

"All of us?"

"Of course," Izan replied, his eyes scanning around for one more familiar face.

"Though we're missing one."

A voice answered from behind, dry and unimpressed. "In this?"

He turned to see Hori standing by the entrance, her eyebrows raised as she gestured toward him, toward the sporty fit, the casual look that clearly didn't meet her standards for a post-match outing.

Izan grinned.

"Good to see you, sis."

She crossed her arms, pretending not to be amused. "You look like you just rolled out of training."

Miranda, ever ready, stepped closer with that knowing smirk.

"Oh, come on, Hori. You don't need to worry about what he's wearing. Izan's face is enough of a distraction already."

She tilted her head toward Olivia, who immediately went a bit red, laughing slightly.

"Ask her if you don't believe me."

The group burst into laughter while Komi nearly choked on her own giggle.

Hori just scoffed, rolling her eyes, but a small smirk betrayed her.

"Please," she said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Izan smiled at that before he waved them.

"Come on," he said softly, nodding toward the exit. "Let's go eat."

And with that, he started down the corridor, Olivia's hand still resting gently in his, while the others followed.

On the other side of things, the team bus pulled up to the hotel entrance, its headlights cutting through the drizzle that had begun to fall.

The Arsenal crest on the side gleamed under the dim lights, the reflections of street lamps flickering across its polished surface as the door hissed open.

Inside, the players were half-awake, half-dazed from the ride but more so from the game.

They'd done their job and done more than that, really.

Six goals, a statement win, and a semifinal turned into a spectacle.

As the bus came to a stop, a few of them stirred.

Gabriel stretched with a grunt, pressing his palms to the roof before yawning while Saka rubbed his face, his hood up, earbuds still dangling loosely from his ears.

Arteta rose from his seat at the front, running a hand through his hair.

The faintest smile tugged at his lips.

"Alright, boys," he said, voice steady though a bit hoarse from shouting across ninety minutes and then some.

"Dinner's downstairs in an hour."

The response was a soft chorus of groans and mumbled acknowledgements.

"Boss, can't we just skip it?" someone asked from the back, but it earned a faint chuckle from the others.

Arteta exhaled through his nose, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.

"You can try," he muttered, half under his breath, as if he already knew most of them wouldn't.

The first few players shuffled off the bus, one after another.

Inside, the marble floors reflected their footsteps, the faint chatter from the reception blending with the rustle of tired players heading for elevators.

By the time Arteta stepped in last, the lobby was nearly empty.

He glanced around once, shaking his head with a tired smile as if amused by how quickly his squad had vanished.

"They'll be back," he murmured quietly, mostly to himself.

"Yeah, for dinner," Carlos Cuesta added, having overheard Arteta's ramblings, the duo chuckling a bit before making their way to the lift.