Chapter 511: Quick Break [GT ]

Chapter 511: Quick Break [GT chapter]

The sky over North London had turned the dull grey of early autumn, soft rain barely misting the windshields of parked cars outside the complex.

The buzz of international duty—stadiums, flags, flights—was behind them now.

The break was over, and now club football had resumed.

Izan stepped through the entrance of his apartment building, the buzz of the key fob unlocking the door.

Their last match against Serbia had taken its toll after a rough match that ended in a 3-0 win for Spain, with Izan scoring a goal and making it an assist, bringing his tally for the break to 3 goal contributions in 2 games.

One from the bench and starting the other.

His bag was slung over one shoulder, training gear still damp with sweat from the afternoon session at Colney.

The familiar ache in his legs returned—not the electric tension of international matches, but the slow grind of league preparation.

He welcomed it.

He kicked his shoes off by the door and dropped the bag with a thud near the wall.

The place was quiet.

Olivia hadn’t returned yet—still at school.

A couple of mugs sat on the kitchen counter from the morning rush, and the living room lights hummed softly.

He wandered into the kitchen, switched the faucet on, and splashed cold water onto his face before drinking straight from the stream.

It woke him up a little, enough to notice the drying cereal bowl on the coffee table and the tea stain near the sink.

He grabbed a cloth from under the counter and wiped it down without thinking.

He peeled off his Arsenal hoodie and left it hanging on the back of a chair before pulling open the fridge.

A leftover tub of pasta.

Half a lemon.

A bottle of water.

He took the bottle and a bite of whatever was left from yesterday, cold but still edible, before eyeing the dishes piling up beside the sink.

Sighing, he rolled up his sleeves and turned on the tap again.

The sponge smelled faintly of soap and garlic.

He scrubbed down plates, mugs, Olivia’s lunchbox, and a lone fork sitting in the sink like it had been waiting for him all day.

Rinsed everything twice and set it on the rack, wiping the counter again just because the movement felt necessary.

From the living room, the muted TV buzzed on low volume.

A ticker scrolled across the bottom: “Arsenal return to action against Newcastle this Saturday. Will Izan pick up where he left off with Spain?”

He turned it off.

Stillness settled around him.

Not the uncomfortable kind, but the kind that reminded him he was home.

The flat was clean now.

A little too clean, maybe.

No more dishes.

No shoes were scattered.

He glanced at the time—she’d be back in a bit.

He walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

There were texts from Lamine and Nico—group chat stuff.

Memes, a blurry photo of their dinner in Madrid the night before everyone flew out.

One from Miranda, asking if he’d seen the finalized sponsor list.

He hadn’t. He’d reply later.

For now, he just lay back, eyes on the ceiling.

Outside, the wind picked up. A quiet Wednesday afternoon.

The scent of turf and boot polish still clung to his skin.

Training had been sharp—Arteta didn’t waste time shaking the fitness out of them or, as he liked to call it, the ‘International rust’.

Izan hadn’t spoken much, just got to work.

That was the mood across the squad: no distractions, no lag.

He stood again, walked over to the window, and watched the clouds drift over the skyline.

The door clicked open with the softest nudge, and that alone was enough to stir Izan from his stillness.

He blinked once, then again, as footsteps echoed faintly on the floorboards.

“You’re back,” he said, pushing himself from the counter.

His voice carried that calm, softness reserved for moments that didn’t need energy, only presence.

Olivia stepped in, bag sliding off her shoulder and landing on the couch with a thud.

She didn’t say anything at first—just walked into him, arms looping lazily around his waist, face pressing into his chest like she could hide there for a few hours.

“I’m really tired today,” she mumbled, her voice muffled, as if even speaking was a chore.

“I know,” Izan said simply, resting his hand gently on the back of her head.

They stayed like that, unmoving, for longer than a moment.

Just the ambient hum of a quiet flat and the rain still drizzling beyond the windowpane.

Eventually, Izan gave her a gentle squeeze.

“Go lie down,” he said, pulling away just enough to look at her.

“I’ve sorted everything. The only thing left is cooking. And let’s be honest—neither of us is doing that.”

Olivia’s eyes barely opened as she let out a tired laugh, leaning into the couch and toeing off her shoes without much effort.

“Cereal for dinner?” she muttered.

“Elite athlete diet,” Izan replied, already making his way to the cupboard with a grin.

She dropped onto the couch, curling into the cushions, eyes already closing.

Izan moved about the kitchen with quiet ease, pulling down two bowls, grabbing the milk and cereal with the same practiced hands he used to dissect midfields.

The clink of the spoon in the ceramic was the only noise now, soft and domestic.

And outside, the rain that had started carried on, indifferent and unbothered, just like them.

……..

“A few years back,” the first commentator began as the camera panned over the roaring St. James’ Park.

“You wouldn’t have been blamed for thinking Arsenal would stroll into Newcastle and come away with all three points like it was a training session. But times have changed.”

The broadcast cut to a sweeping overhead shot of the packed stands, black-and-white shirts blending into a tidal wave of noise.

Banners flew high, and chants rang through the early evening sky.

“Newcastle are a different animal these days,” his partner chipped in.

“Champions League nights under the lights, a defensive unit drilled to the second, and forwards who won’t stop running. This isn’t a checkpoint for Arsenal anymore—it’s a battlefield.”

As the players began to file out from the tunnel, the camera followed the Arsenal squad walking out in their deep red kits, trimmed with white.

Declan Rice led the midfield line while Gabriel stood at the center of the defense like a sentinel, and Saka jogged in place, already wearing that quiet, deadly focus.

And then came the shot of Izan that lingered a bit longer.

“There he is,” the first voice said. “Izan, just 16 years of age, still and yet somehow the one everyone’s watching like he’s been here for a decade.”

“You can’t blame them. Fresh off a stellar international break—goal against Serbia, another against Denmark, an assist as well—it’s no longer a question of if Izan will make an impact, it’s when.”

The camera zoomed in on Izan walking beside Merino, his expression calm, lips slightly parted as he murmured something to his countryman.

His boots gleamed under the floodlights, white with that deep red trim that matched his kit.

“And he’s not just flair either,” continued the second commentator.

“The kid’s got vision, discipline, and that rare ability to slow a game down when everyone else is scrambling. He makes grown men hesitate, makes defenders second-guess themselves. It’s like he’s got cheat codes.”

“But this Newcastle team—” the other interrupted, “they won’t roll out the red carpet. They press hard, they fight for second balls, and you can bet Bruno Guimarães will have a close eye on Izan all night.”

The teams lined up for the traditional handshakes.

Eddie Howe and Mikel Arteta exchanged polite nods on the sidelines.

The players took their places as St. James’ Park vibrated with anticipation.

“Two clubs with different paths, same ambition. Arsenal, trying to keep up the pace at the top. Newcastle, trying to stay in the race. And in between it all—” There was a pause as the camera caught Izan glancing once toward the stands, “a teenager who somehow became one of the most important pieces on the board.”

The referee glanced at his watch.

“Buckle in. This one’s going to be good.”

The match had barely settled into its rhythm.

Arsenal, dressed in their classic red and white, were stroking the ball around confidently, shifting possession from flank to flank, inviting Newcastle to press.

The home crowd buzzed, but the Gunners weren’t in a rush.

Their movements were measured. Precise.

Ben White passed into Merino, who checked back under pressure and quickly laid it off to William Saliba.

The Frenchman glanced once to his right before playing it into Declan Rice, stationed at the edge of the D—not Newcastle’s, but Arsenal’s.

Arsenal had pushed numbers forward, a calculated risk, and Rice found himself in open grass.

He took one touch to steady, head up.

And then, Rice launched it.

A sweeping, diagonal missile of a pass, cutting through the air like a blade.

It flew, high and true, bypassing the midfield melee entirely and dropping just outside Newcastle’s box.

“What a ball from Rice—he’s spotted something!” one commentator burst out as the crowd collectively inhaled.

Havertz rose, perfectly timed, just ahead of Schär.

He didn’t try to control it or flick it on wildly—he cushioned it down with the side of his head, the ball dropping into space just ahead of Izan, who was already gliding onto the scene like he’d read the script.

“Oh my word, he’s in again!” came the cry.

Izan took the ball on his laces, fluidly, with no wasted motion.

His first touch brought it under control, his second took it forward, and now he had two black-and-white shirts collapsing in on him—Burn to the left, Lascelles closing in from the right.

There was no pause in his movement.

Izan dipped his shoulder just once, a feint so subtle it almost didn’t exist—but Burn bit.

The Newcastle defender’s weight shifted ever so slightly to the outside, and that was enough.

Izan dragged the ball through with the inside of his boot, ghosting by him in a blur.

Lascelles was the last line, and he stepped in with intent, cleats angled to pinch the space, but Izan chopped the ball, left to right, disguised in a blink.

A blur of ankles and a body that never broke stride.

Lascelles stumbled, spun slightly, and was gone from the picture.

“Oh, stop it. That’s just cruel!” the commentator yelled, voice high with disbelief.

“He sent two Premier League defenders to the shops without even looking, wait and–!”

A/N: Okay guys, have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the first chapter of the day.

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