God Of football-Chapter 450: Regular Day Job
The morning air at Colney was sharp, fresh-cut, carrying the scent of damp grass and the cold metallic bite of fall creeping in.
Izan walked through the gates without hurry, his duffel slung neatly over one shoulder, his hoodie up, his eyes steady under the low brim of his cap.
Every step was measured — part of him already syncing back into the rhythm he knew would soon demand every ounce of him.
Inside, the atmosphere was loose — teammates gathering in small groups, laughter bubbling up here and there, the familiar hum of camaraderie rebuilding itself after the international break.
It didn't take long.
A sharp wolf whistle cut through the corridor.
"Finally gracing us with his presence!"Declan Rice called from across the hall, tossing a towel over his shoulder.
A ripple of laughter followed — Saka, Gabriel, and Saliba flashing wide grins.
Even Odegaard, arms folded near the lockers, shook his head with a smirk.
"You sure you didn't get lost on the beaches, mate?" Saka chimed in, never missing the chance to troll Izan.
"Or maybe someone had to carry him off the sunbed," Gabriel teased, his grin wicked.
Izan offered no real reply — just the faintest ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth as he kept walking, calm, unbothered.
He let the jokes roll past him like waves against a rock.
A small, deliberate glance at his watch — as if checking if he'd even missed anything important — and a slight lift of his brow as he passed them was answer enough.
Cheek without a single word.
The laughter only grew louder behind him.
As he turned the corner toward the tunnel leading to the training pitches, two figures peeled away from another group and closed the distance.
Mikel Merino and David Raya.
They caught up easily, moving with the easy familiarity of men who shared more than just a flag.
Merino bumped his shoulder lightly.
"Qué cabrón," he muttered under his breath, grinning.
"All this time together with Spain, same calendar... and you still managed extra holidays. Must be nice being the golden boy, no?"
Raya shook his head, laughing under his breath.
"We're out here grinding with Arteta... and you're sipping horchata on the beach like a prince."
Izan's eyes glinted, but his expression stayed neutral, voice low and almost bored as he answered:
"Management knows," he said simply, "you have to protect what's valuable."
Both Spaniards broke into loud laughs — Merino actually doubling over briefly.
Even then, Izan didn't crack a full smile — just the barest tilt of his mouth, calculated and sharp.
He was about to say something else — maybe a quiet finishing blow — when another presence cut into their orbit.
Heavy steps. A sharpness in the air.
"Is that so?"
The voice came smooth, deceptively light. But the undercurrent was pure steel.
Arteta.
He was standing a few feet behind them, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, expression unreadable but eyes razor-focused on Izan.
The group straightened instinctively.
Arteta stepped closer, gaze never leaving him.
"You'll have to prove today that protecting you was worth it," he said, low enough that it carried weight without needing volume.
"Show me you're ready... before you even think about a place on the bench against Tottenham since I can't risk letting management property get injured."
Silence settled for half a second — thick, loaded.
Izan held the manager's eyes calmly, no shift in posture.
One curt nod.
"Understood, míster," he said — voice cool, composed.
Arteta studied him for a beat longer, then turned sharply and headed toward the pitch, the message left hanging behind him like a gauntlet.
The others exchanged small looks — Merino giving a low whistle under his breath — but Izan simply adjusted the strap of his duffel higher and kept walking, shoulders squared, pace steady.
Time to work.
......
The wind had picked up by the time the squad gathered on the pristine green of Colney's main training pitch, jackets, and cones already laid out with military precision.
Arteta stood in the center, hands behind his back, expression razor-sharp.
No warm greetings. No easing back into routine.
"Listen," he said, voice carrying clean across the circle of players, slicing through the morning haze.
"We have two days to skin off whatever fat you picked up during the break — mental, physical, tactical."
His gaze swept across them, sharp enough to cut.
Some players shifted their weight, heads lowering slightly.
A few cracked knuckles or rolled shoulders — instinctive preparations for the grind they knew was coming.
Arteta continued, his tone tightening.
"I don't want to see any jetlag. I don't want to hear about travel legs. I want intensity. I want focus. And I want it now."
He turned, almost in one fluid movement, and barked the first command to the coaching staff.
The drills began.
The first fifteen minutes were pure brutality — small-sided games with touch limits, rapid changes of direction, and heavy pressing drills.
Pass and move. Sprint and recover. Body and mind stretched to the edge before they could even think of catching a rhythm.
Izan dropped into the work without ceremony.
No showmanship. No early flashing moments trying to stand out.
Just clean touches, crisp passes, sharp shifts of weight — moving through the exercises like someone already tuned to a higher frequency.
Where others panted, shook out arms, and wiped the sweat from their brows, Izan stayed light-footed, breathing even, sharpness locked into every stride.
Focused, unhurried, unfazed — as if the demands of the session weren't a shock to his system at all.
Martin Ødegaard jogged past him at one point, casting a quick glance sideways — just a flicker of amusement in the look, as if thinking, The kid's not even breathing hard.
Even Arteta noticed.
From the sidelines, he watched carefully, arms folded, as Izan flicked a ball into space with a first-time pass, shifted into a supporting angle without missing a beat, then demanded it back with a subtle clap of his hands.
No shouting.
No wasted movement.
Just clean, precise intent — a rhythm that belonged to someone who looked far too comfortable in a world that should have been above his age bracket.
The drills rolled on — possession grids tightening, tackles getting heavier, voices rising — but Izan barely blinked.
He moved like someone who had never really left.
As if the international break, the travel, the chatter — none of it had touched him.
By the time Arteta blew the whistle for a short breather, players sagged into loose groups, hands on hips, chests heaving.
Izan stood among them, hands resting lightly on his thighs, chest rising and falling steadily, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead but nothing more.
Still ready. Still sharp. Still there.
And Arteta, watching from the edge, said nothing — but a small, sharp glint passed through his eyes.
Expectation.
Maybe even the first flicker of satisfaction.
As the players filtered toward the next phase of training, Arteta peeled away from the sideline and made his way toward a small group stationed just beyond the dugout — the performance analysts, physios, and conditioning coaches, tablets and monitors flickering with live data streams.
He didn't waste time.
"Give me Izan's numbers," he said quietly, arms folding across his chest as he stood over their screens.
One of the techs, a slim man with wire-frame glasses and a crew-cut, tapped a few keys and pulled up a profile glowing in sharp clarity: Izan Hernández — full metrics, real-time vitals, historical data from Valencia's academy days blended into Arsenal's updated records.
"He's grown," the tech said, almost immediately.
"Since arrival — just under two centimeters. Subtle, but noticeable on his frame."
Arteta's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And?"
The physio, a middle-aged man with a calm, practiced manner, leaned forward.
"We checked with Valencia's medical department after the deal," he said.
"At fifteen, he had a rapid growth phase — textbook adolescent spike — but it plateaued quickly. Bone density's strong, muscle balance excellent."
He tapped a highlighted note at the bottom of the chart.
"At most, he'll finish around 187, 188 centimeters, worst-case scenario. Natural growth. Nothing disruptive."
Arteta's gaze flicked back to the pitch, processing the information with clinical precision.
"And the risk?" he asked — voice low, almost rhetorical.
"He's quick. Changes direction suddenly. Tight spaces. High impact load on the ankles, hips, and knees. Are we looking at future problems?"
The physio shook his head.
"No red flags. His biomechanics are clean. Movement patterns haven't been altered by the growth so far. If anything—"
He paused, considering.
"He's already adapted to the slight shift in balance. Seamless. Like he barely noticed it himself."
Arteta exhaled through his nose — a quiet, almost imperceptible sound — then nodded once, sharply.
He turned back toward the pitch just in time to catch the end of a fluid sequence:
Izan, pulling into the right channel with a natural glide, shifted the ball onto his instep, glanced once into the box, and whipped a curling cross that peeled perfectly away from the defenders.
Kai Havertz, timing his run, rose between two markers and met it cleanly — a firm header that rattled into the back of the net.
He turned towards his goal like what he had done nothing special.
And from him — it was.
[Sorry the chapter repeated itself. Skip after you finish reading this.]
The morning air at Colney was sharp, fresh-cut, carrying the scent of damp grass and the cold metallic bite of fall creeping in.
Izan walked through the gates without hurry, his duffel slung neatly over one shoulder, his hoodie up, his eyes steady under the low brim of his cap.
Every step was measured — part of him already syncing back into the rhythm he knew would soon demand every ounce of him.
Inside, the atmosphere was loose — teammates gathering in small groups, laughter bubbling up here and there, the familiar hum of camaraderie rebuilding itself after the international break.
It didn't take long.
A sharp wolf whistle cut through the corridor.
"Finally gracing us with his presence!"Declan Rice called from across the hall, tossing a towel over his shoulder.
A ripple of laughter followed — Saka, Gabriel, and Saliba flashing wide grins.
Even Odegaard, arms folded near the lockers, shook his head with a smirk.
"You sure you didn't get lost on the beaches, mate?" Saka chimed in, never missing the chance to troll Izan.
"Or maybe someone had to carry him off the sunbed," Gabriel teased, his grin wicked.
Izan offered no real reply — just the faintest ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth as he kept walking, calm, unbothered.
He let the jokes roll past him like waves against a rock.
A small, deliberate glance at his watch — as if checking if he'd even missed anything important — and a slight lift of his brow as he passed them was answer enough.
Cheek without a single word.
The laughter only grew louder behind him.
As he turned the corner toward the tunnel leading to the training pitches, two figures peeled away from another group and closed the distance.
Mikel Merino and David Raya.
They caught up easily, moving with the easy familiarity of men who shared more than just a flag.
Merino bumped his shoulder lightly.
"Qué cabrón," he muttered under his breath, grinning.
"All this time together with Spain, same calendar... and you still managed extra holidays. Must be nice being the golden boy, no?"
Raya shook his head, laughing under his breath.
"We're out here grinding with Arteta... and you're sipping horchata on the beach like a prince."
Izan's eyes glinted, but his expression stayed neutral, voice low and almost bored as he answered:
"Management knows," he said simply, "you have to protect what's valuable."
Both Spaniards broke into loud laughs — Merino actually doubling over briefly.
Even then, Izan didn't crack a full smile — just the barest tilt of his mouth, calculated and sharp.
He was about to say something else — maybe a quiet finishing blow — when another presence cut into their orbit.
Heavy steps. A sharpness in the air.
"Is that so?"
The voice came smooth, deceptively light. But the undercurrent was pure steel.
Arteta.
He was standing a few feet behind them, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, expression unreadable but eyes razor-focused on Izan.
The group straightened instinctively.
Arteta stepped closer, gaze never leaving him.
"You'll have to prove today that protecting you was worth it," he said, low enough that it carried weight without needing volume.
"Show me you're ready... before you even think about a place on the bench against Tottenham, since I can't risk letting management property get injured."
Silence settled for half a second — thick, loaded.
Izan held the manager's eyes calmly, no shift in posture.
One curt nod.
"Understood, míster," he said — voice cool, composed.
This chapter is updated by freēwēbnovel.com.
Arteta studied him for a beat longer, then turned sharply and headed toward the pitch, the message left hanging behind him like a gauntlet.
The others exchanged small looks — Merino giving a low whistle under his breath — but Izan simply adjusted the strap of his duffel higher and kept walking, shoulders squared, pace steady.
Time to work.
......
The wind had picked up by the time the squad gathered on the pristine green of Colney's main training pitch, jackets, and cones already laid out with military precision.
Arteta stood in the center, hands behind his back, expression razor-sharp.
No warm greetings. No easing back into routine.
"Listen," he said, voice carrying clean across the circle of players, slicing through the morning haze.
"We have two days to skin off whatever fat you picked up during the break — mental, physical, tactical."
His gaze swept across them, sharp enough to cut.
Some players shifted their weight, heads lowering slightly.
A few cracked knuckles or rolled shoulders — instinctive preparations for the grind they knew was coming.
Arteta continued, his tone tightening.
"I don't want to see any jetlag. I don't want to hear about travel legs. I want intensity. I want focus. And I want it now."
He turned, almost in one fluid movement, and barked the first command to the coaching staff.
The drills began.
The first fifteen minutes were pure brutality — small-sided games with touch limits, rapid changes of direction, and heavy pressing drills.
Pass and move. Sprint and recover. Body and mind stretched to the edge before they could even think of catching a rhythm.
Izan dropped into the work without ceremony.
No showmanship. No early flashing moments trying to stand out.
Just clean touches, crisp passes, sharp shifts of weight — moving through the exercises like someone already tuned to a higher frequency.
Where others panted, shook out arms, and wiped the sweat from their brows, Izan stayed light-footed, breathing even, sharpness locked into every stride.
Focused, unhurried, unfazed — as if the demands of the session weren't a shock to his system at all.
Martin Ødegaard jogged past him at one point, casting a quick glance sideways — just a flicker of amusement in the look, as if thinking, The kid's not even breathing hard.
Even Arteta noticed.
From the sidelines, he watched carefully, arms folded, as Izan flicked a ball into space with a first-time pass, shifted into a supporting angle without missing a beat, then demanded it back with a subtle clap of his hands.
No shouting.
No wasted movement.
Just clean, precise intent — a rhythm that belonged to someone who looked far too comfortable in a world that should have been above his age bracket.
The drills rolled on — possession grids tightening, tackles getting heavier, voices rising — but Izan barely blinked.
He moved like someone who had never really left.
As if the international break, the travel, the chatter — none of it had touched him.
By the time Arteta blew the whistle for a short breather, players sagged into loose groups, hands on hips, chests heaving.
Izan stood among them, hands resting lightly on his thighs, chest rising and falling steadily, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead but nothing more.
Still ready. Still sharp. Still there.
And Arteta, watching from the edge, said nothing — but a small, sharp glint passed through his eyes.
Expectation.
Maybe even the first flicker of satisfaction.
As the players filtered toward the next phase of training, Arteta peeled away from the sideline and made his way toward a small group stationed just beyond the dugout — the performance analysts, physios, and conditioning coaches, tablets and monitors flickering with live data streams.
He didn't waste time.
"Give me Izan's numbers," he said quietly, arms folding across his chest as he stood over their screens.
One of the techs, a slim man with wire-frame glasses and a crew-cut, tapped a few keys and pulled up a profile glowing in sharp clarity: Izan Hernández — full metrics, real-time vitals, historical data from Valencia's academy days blended into Arsenal's updated records.
"He's grown," the tech said, almost immediately.
"Since arrival — just under two centimeters. Subtle, but noticeable at his frame."
Arteta's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And?"
The physio, a middle-aged man with a calm, practiced manner, leaned forward.
"We checked with Valencia's medical department after the deal," he said.
"At fifteen, he had a rapid growth phase — textbook adolescent spike — but it plateaued quickly. Bone density's strong, muscle balance excellent."
He tapped a highlighted note at the bottom of the chart.
"At most, he'll finish around 187, 188 centimeters, worst-case scenario. Natural growth. Nothing disruptive."
Arteta's gaze flicked back to the pitch, processing the information with clinical precision.
"And the risk?" he asked — voice low, almost rhetorical.
"He's quick. Changes direction suddenly. Tight spaces. High impact load on the ankles, hips, and knees. Are we looking at future problems?"
The physio shook his head.
"No red flags. His biomechanics are clean. Movement patterns haven't been altered by the growth so far. If anything—"
He paused, considering.
"He's already adapted to the slight shift in balance. Seamless. Like he barely noticed it himself."
Arteta exhaled through his nose — a quiet, almost imperceptible sound — then nodded once, sharply.
He turned back toward the pitch just in time to catch the end of a fluid sequence:
Izan, pulling into the right channel with a natural glide, shifted the ball onto his instep, glanced once into the box, and whipped a curling cross that peeled perfectly away from the defenders.
Kai Havertz, timing his run, rose between two markers and met it cleanly — a firm header that rattled into the back of the net.
He turned towards his goal like what he had done nothing special.
And from him — it was.
A/N; First chapter of the day. Have fun reading.
