God Of football-Chapter 460: Media Attention

CBS Sports Studio – Champions League Night, Tuesday

The lights inside the CBS studio gleamed off the desk as the Tuesday slate of Champions League matches came to a close.

The energy was electric, the kind only European nights could summon.

Kate Abdo sat poised as ever at the center of the desk, flanked by the sharp-witted Jamie Carragher, the ever-animated Micah Richards, and the composed icon Thierry Henry.

Kate glanced at the monitor before her and smiled at the camera.

"That's matchday one, Tuesday done and dusted. And folks, it's only just heating up. Let's take a look at some of the headlines from tonight."

Behind them, the screen flicked through graphics:

Juventus 3-1 PSV.

Young Boys 0-3 Aston Villa.

Bayern 9-2 Dinamo Zagreb.

Milan 1-3 Liverpool.

Real Madrid 3-1 Stuttgart.

Sporting CP 2-0 Lille.

Micah was the first to explode into laughter.

"I mean, come on—Bayern scoring nine? That's a message. That's not a win, that's a warning shot to the rest of Europe!"

Carragher raised an eyebrow. "Dinamo didn't even look like they were playing the same sport. Kompany's lot didn't just dominate—they humiliated them."

Thierry smirked slightly. "Efficiency. Bayern don't waste chances. But still—it's day one. Don't get carried away."

"Liverpool looked like contenders," Kate added, turning slightly toward Jamie.

"Milan away, that's not an easy result."

Carragher nodded.

"Well, the new manager's got them humming again. Szoboszlai—he's settled in quickly. And Darwin Nunez… he'd start to justify the price tag if he can keep this up all season and in the premier league too."

Thierry cut in calmly.

"But I liked what I saw from Real Madrid as well. Bellingham's influence grows every game. He's not just playing, he's leading already. Mbappe with a debut goal in the Champions League for Real Madrid" Henry said before pausing.

"And I have to say, that shot from Endrick to give Real Madrid the third goal just oozes out confidence. Lamine will have to take those comparisons seriously because Endrick is out for his throne."

"Okay but can we talk about Aston Villa?" Micah interjected, beaming.

"Three-nil away from home. I don't care if it's Young Boys or Old Boys—that's a strong European debut for them."

Kate laughed. "You've been waiting to say that one, haven't you?"

"Of course," Micah grinned.

"And Sporting," Thierry added, nodding toward the screen.

"Very composed against Lille. That's a statement win. That Portuguese side is technically sharp, and they could be a surprise this season."

Kate closed her tablet with a soft thud.

"Alright, gents—before we wrap it up, you know what time it is."

Jamie groaned mockingly. "Predictions time."

Kate grinned. "Micah, you first. Who's winning it all?"

Micah didn't hesitate. "City. Still the best squad in Europe. Pep's not done."

Carragher shook his head. "Real Madrid. Every time people count them out, they go and win it again. That midfield… it's disgusting."

Kate turned to Thierry with a raised brow. "Titi?"

"Bayern," Thierry said coolly.

"They've got depth. Experience. Goals. And if Kane keeps scoring like this, there's no stopping them."

"And what about you, Kate?"

She smiled slyly. "Arsenal. Just to annoy you lot."

Micah burst into laughter while Jamie rolled his eyes, and Thierry offered a mock salute.

The camera began to slowly zoom out as the Champions League anthem played softly beneath the banter.

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Kate leaned in one last time. "And tomorrow night will be good too but the day after that, we head to Italy—Atalanta host Arsenal. Izan Hernández's European debut. You won't want to miss that."

"My name is Kate Abdo and this was CBS Night Live."

.........

The morning sun cast a golden glaze over the tightly cut grass of Atalanta's training annex.

Arsenal had been granted limited access to the grounds for their pre-match session, and though the stadium itself stood quiet in the distance, this smaller training field buzzed with a different kind of noise.

Cameras clicked. Lenses glinted in the light.

Boom mics hovered like birds of prey.

A soft hum of different languages—English, Spanish, Italian—filled the air just beyond the fenced perimeter, where a dense gathering of media personnel pressed in.

It was Champions League matchday minus one, and all eyes, predictably, had turned to Arsenal's number 10.

Izan Hernández.

He jogged out with the rest of the squad in his training kit, hair tied back and face calm, but even his most neutral expressions couldn't hide him from the frenzy of photographers.

The clicks intensified the moment he stepped onto the grass.

His name whispered like a myth.

A teenage sensation in his first European campaign.

But he wasn't looking for any of that.

"Warm-up rondo, let's go!" came a call from assistant coach Carlos Cuesta, clapping his hands.

The players peeled off into small circles.

Izan joined one alongside Saka, Martinelli, Jorginho, and Ben White.

The ball pinged between them as coaches stood along the sidelines, quietly observing.

Mikel Arteta stood a little distance away, arms folded across his chest, eyes scanning not just the players but also the gathered media.

He tilted his head toward Cuesta, who had just returned from giving some instructions.

"Look at them," Arteta murmured, his tone dry. "Like wolves."

Cuesta followed his gaze to the clustered group behind the barriers, where some journalists were now being ushered through by UEFA staff for the pre-approved media session.

"They're here for Izan," Cuesta said.

"Everyone wants a quote, a photo, something to write about. It's all him."

Arteta frowned slightly. "I hate it."

Cuesta gave a slow nod. "I know."

Arteta let out a breath through his nose, rubbing his jaw with one hand.

The ball zipped across the pitch, and a burst of laughter erupted as Saka nutmegged Jorginho in the circle.

Izan was smiling—briefly, relaxed among teammates.

But not far off, a journalist pointed, whispering to her colleague, camera already lifted toward him.

A UEFA liaison stepped closer to Cuesta and murmured something. Cuesta turned back toward the group.

"They want to talk to a few players before we start tactical drills. You know who they're asking for."

Arteta didn't even blink. "Izan."

"Yep."

The manager took a few steps forward, calling toward the player.

"Izan!"

The teenager turned, chest still heaving slightly from the rondo, and jogged over. "Yeah, coach?"

"They're asking for you." Arteta tilted his head toward the line of reporters now being let through the gate.

Izan's face didn't shift much, but Arteta noticed the flicker of reluctance in his eyes.

"Can I skip it?" Izan asked quietly.

Arteta didn't answer right away. He looked over at Cuesta, then back to Izan.

"Give me a good excuse."

"I need more time on set pieces," Izan said smoothly.

"Still getting my angles right from the edge of the box."

Arteta allowed a faint smile.

"Alright. You've got fifteen minutes. Then back to the group."

Izan nodded, gave a grateful glance, and turned quickly toward the far corner of the pitch where one of the assistants was laying cones down for delivery patterns.

He picked up a ball and started working as the cameras tried to catch him in action from a distance—frustrated that they wouldn't get a direct quote or a soundbite.

Cuesta came to stand beside Arteta again. "You let him off the hook."

"I need his head in the game," Arteta said simply.

"Media will get their chance another time, just not today."

Cuesta chuckled. "You really don't like journalists, do you?"

Arteta shook his head, watching Izan strike the ball into the bottom corner.

"I understand them. That doesn't mean I have to like them."

The sun climbed higher, and the mood on the pitch began to shift toward intensity.

Tactical markers were laid out, and the rondos dissolved into passing channels, movement drills, and structured patterns.

The media, held back once again after their brief segment, continued to capture what they could—snippets of the team, of Arteta pointing, of Odegaard orchestrating play.

But for Izan, tucked at the edge of it all, it was about the ball, the movement, and the repetitions.

The rest of the world—the cameras, the headlines, the anticipation—could wait.

He had football to play.

A/n: Second of the day. I will try to swoop in with another bonus chapter of I can. Have fun reading.