God Of football-Chapter 421: Draw In Monaco

Izan hung up, phone still in hand, and exhaled.

Olivia was grinning like she'd won something. "So… when's our first driving lesson?"

He smirked. "Not in your car."

"I have insurance."

"I don't have nerves."

She shoved him lightly, then tossed a cushion at his face. "You'll be fine."

He leaned back again, the screen now showing pundits arguing over which Pot 1 team Arsenal would want to avoid.

"November will be here before you know it." Miranda's words rang through his head. Well, if it was coming, he had to prepare.

"Max", he muttered.

.......

The next morning, the air around the Colney training complex felt just a little charged.

It wasn't the weather—North London was its usual mild grey—but something in the rhythm of the squad told you there was a buzz.

Izan stepped out of the gym area into the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, and spotted a small crowd already gathering in the locker area:

Saliba, Saka, Jorginho, and Martinelli were huddled in front of a phone.

"Oi, Hernandez!" Gabriel called out.

"Come settle this. Who do you want from Pot 1?"

Izan smirked, walking over as he ran a hand through his still-damp hair.

"You're talking about the Champions League already?"

"Obviously," Saka chimed in. "It's in four days. Feels like everyone's just waiting for the draw."

"Well, everyone except Arteta," Saka continued.

"Man's probably writing tactical plans for Brighton already."

Izan dropped onto the bench beside them, glancing at Gabriel's screen.

It was a chart of all the UCL pots, neatly color-coded and posted by some analytics page.

"Look at this," Gabriel said, zooming in. "We get Real Madrid from Pot 1, and then Atalanta from Pot 3, and then someone weird like Stuttgart or Club Brugge—suddenly you're looking at a bloodbath."

"Club Brugge's not weird," Jorginho corrected, ever the senior statesman.

"You try playing in Brussels on a cold Wednesday night."

Saka raised an eyebrow. "You're Italian. You lot complain about Stoke."

That got a few laughs.

"I just don't want PSG," Saliba muttered. "That's drama. Even if Mbappe has left, Dembele and the lot will be hell for players like me."

"Or Bayern," Jorginho added. "They're like cockroaches. Always find a way out."

Izan leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"You know the new format means we'll play eight different teams, right? It's not groups anymore."

Martinelli blinked. "Oh yeah. Forgot about that part?"

"Yeah," said Saka.

"It's like one big table now. You get drawn against eight teams from different pots, play four home and four away, and the top sixteen go through."

"Man," Martinelli sighed. "They just made it more chaotic."

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"Exactly," Izan nodded. "No easy games. No guaranteed rematch. You could get Madrid and Inter. Or Bayern and Juve."

"That's if Juve don't Juve themselves," Saliba said under his breath.

Just then, a voice cut across the chatter like a switch had flipped in the room.

"Chicos."

They all turned. Arteta stood at the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his padded training jacket, his face unreadable but his presence grounding.

"I know the draw's coming. I know the Champions League is exciting. But that's in four days."

The room went quiet.

"Two days after the draw," Arteta continued, voice steady but firm, "we play Brighton."

The weight of that reminder dropped fast.

The mention of Brighton alone was enough to sober up the energy.

"They've taken points off us before," the manager went on.

"And they're not a team that gives you anything for free. Do you want to enjoy those Champions League nights?

Do you want to walk out in February knowing we're seeded and safe? Then we have to take care of the league first."

He stepped further in now, eyes meeting each of theirs as he moved.

"I know the hype. I get it. But the focus doesn't shift. We're Arsenal. That means we do our job first and let everything else fall into place."

There were nods all around.

"Yes, míster," Jorginho said with quiet authority.

Arteta gave one more look around the room before turning back toward the hallway.

"We start on the pitch in fifteen. Keep your heads where they need to be."

And with that, he was gone.

Silence lingered for a beat before Saliba exhaled and said, "Alright. So we get Real Madrid after Brighton, then."

They all laughed again, but the tone had changed.

Izan stood, grabbing his boots. The banter might resume later, maybe after training.

But for now, the message had landed: Brighton first. The Champions League could wait.

And in the back of his mind, as he walked down the tunnel toward the pitch, he thought—not long now.

Four days. Then the lights, the anthem, the draw that could shape their whole season.

But they had to earn the right to enjoy it. Starting with Brighton.

........

3:45 PM

COLNEY

The hum of anticipation was unmistakable, even if the training ground had fallen quiet hours earlier.

It was the afternoon of August 29th.

The Champions League draw was set to begin in Monaco, the broadcast about to ripple across living rooms, hotel lounges, and locker rooms across Europe.

But at Arsenal's Colney base, the lights in the team meeting room were off, the projector screen untouched.

The players were gone, released earlier than usual after the final light session of the day.

Mikel Arteta sat in his office with a hand under his chin, watching the UEFA stream on his laptop in silence, the volume just loud enough to hear the presenters go through their scripted introductions.

The draw hadn't started yet. There was still time.

He exhaled, sitting back in his chair. He had planned for them to watch it together.

A quiet, intentional idea that had floated in his mind for weeks now.

He'd thought it might be the perfect way to shift their focus, to anchor the excitement properly before Brighton.

It wasn't that he didn't trust them—he did.

But there was something about sitting together, as a group, hearing their name drawn among Europe's elite, that mattered.

A reminder of where they were now. And what it would take to stay there?

But today had gotten away from him.

The final tweaks to the Brighton match plan had stretched longer than expected.

Jorginho had a physio appointment that ran late. Even peculiar things like Ramsdale handing in a transfer request were in the mix. The latter had claimed that he wanted to be the main man in the team, and from how Raya was playing, he was not going to get it at Arsenal.

The staff had pushed for an earlier wind-down, too, wanting the squad to get adequate rest with kickoff just 48 hours away.

Eventually, Arteta had just let it go, waving them off with a nod.

He had stood by the doorway as one by one they left—some in small groups, a few with headphones in, most talking about the draw anyway.

"We'll probably get Inter again," Odegaard had joked on his way out.

"Bet we get Madrid or Barca. Just for the drama," Saka had added.

And Izan—bright-eyed, still settling into his rhythm but already carrying a quiet confidence—had turned back just before stepping out the exit to ask, "Are we watching the draw together, míster?"

Arteta had hesitated, then simply said, "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Now, the camera feed panned across the stage in Monaco.

UEFA branding, the trophy gleaming under spotlights. Pot 1 ready. Then 2. Then 3. Then 4, each with 9 teams.

He could already imagine them watching from wherever they were—living rooms, phones, maybe together in groups.

And that was alright. Maybe that was better.

They deserved that freedom. Still, part of him wished they'd been there together. One screen. One room. One reaction.

The screen cut to the drawmaster walking up to the podium.

Arteta reached for his pen and notepad and clicked the ink down, steadying himself.

In thirty minutes, he'd know who they were facing across eight different games. No more groups.

Just eight matchups in a massive league. Eight mini-battles that would define their journey back into Europe's biggest stage.

He muttered under his breath, "Let's see what you've got for us."

As the first ball was drawn and the name Real Madrid CF appeared on the screen, Arteta's pen didn't move. Not yet.

He waited for Arsenal's name to flash. For the path to take shape.

Even if they weren't all in one room, he knew the squad was watching. He just hoped, by the end of it, they'd look at their draw and believe: We belong here.

A/N: Okay, Second chapter of the day. I just started writing, so the golden gachapon bonus chapters will start after this. Anyways, have fun reading, and I'll see you in a jiffy with the bonus chapters. Also, thanks for the support and all the gifts you send, as well as the GTs, and I hope you stick with me till the end. Alright Bye.