Chapter 563: Mid-Season

It dropped at 10:17 AM, a day after the match against Ipswich.

A clip from Arsenal’s official account.

Simple caption: Another day. Another W.

No exclamation marks.

No emojis.

Just clean, confident dominance.

The first frame: Saka wheeling away to celebrate his early goal, the camera catching the moment he turned and pointed—not at the stands, not at the badge—but back toward midfield.

Back toward Izan.

The next clip? A razor-sharp cutback.

Izan gliding between two defenders, dragging the ball with the outside of his boot before guiding it past the keeper with the inside of the other.

Clinical.

His second goal came next—no angle, no space, and still, the net bulged.

The fourth was Ødegaard’s, threading through a collapsing Ipswich backline with a run that felt more like a slalom.

And yet, all the replies kept circling back to one player.

Beneath the clip was the scoreboard:

Arsenal 4 – 0 Ipswich

The post didn’t mention that it could’ve been more.

Didn’t mention that Izan was subbed off in stoppage time to a standing ovation from fans who didn’t want to sit down in the first place.

It didn’t need to.

The replies carried the weight.

@GunSh1neBoy: This team’s not fair. Izan is literally playing Score Hero on the pitch.

@_ChampagnePress: Real-life cheat code. Arsenal are the final boss, and Izan is the script.

@ProClubsMeta: We might have to make a rule: Izan gets one season per club. Then transfer him somewhere else just to give the rest of us hope for Player of the Month.

And then came the nominations.

Below the clip, Arsenal posted a second tweet—this one with a card-style graphic: Premier League Player of the Month – December Nominees

Top left corner? Izan.

Again.

September. October. November. And now December.

The only constant in the shortlist, his face just slightly maturing each month—but the numbers getting wilder.

This month only, he had played 5 games.

Scored 7 goals and made 4 assists.

Unbeaten. Unmatched.

On FC 25, his in-game card had started to trend.

A 90-rated in-form card, with a shadow of purple under the overall, indicating the form that was a bit too good to be real.

People weren’t just playing as him anymore.

They were building squads around him.

Arsenal fans, Madrid fans, Barca fans—everybody wanted a piece.

The joke wasn’t if he’d win Player of the Month again.

It was how long the Premier League would pretend the voting wasn’t a formality.

On Sky Sports later that afternoon, the panel chuckled as they queued up the highlights.

“He’s not just the best 17-year-old on the planet,” said Jamie Redknapp, half-laughing, half-exhausted.

“He’s the best player in England. Right now.”

“Best player in Europe,” chipped in Micah Richards, grinning wide.

“Maybe in the world. And I say that knowing exactly what I’m saying.”

“I’d say let’s see him in a Champions League knockout first,” Keane added, raising one brow.

“But yeah. He’s doing things even veterans can’t keep up with so let’s just pretend he isn’t currently.”

The studio agreed.

Not in unison, but with reluctant admiration.

Because it wasn’t just that Izan was breaking records.

It was that he was making the game look… inevitable.

There was no noise from Izan himself.

No tweets. No reposts.

Just that quiet routine—back to training. Back to Colney.

Back to sharpening the blade.

And while the world celebrated him, the boy at the center of it all kept walking forward like none of it had ever reached him.

But it had. Oh, it had.

It was in the way defenders fouled faster now.

In how opposing managers started planning their entire shape around stopping him.

In the way, fans screamed his name as early as the team warm-ups.

Another day. Another W.

Half the chapter, already completed.

……

Back at Colney, the sun was only just peeking through the mist as the Arsenal players jogged off the training pitch, their session cut shorter than usual.

The smell of wet grass lingered on their boots as they filed into the complex, laughing and shoving one another like kids just let out for summer.

They had just wrapped up a light recovery routine, loosened the muscles, and shaken out the stiffness.

The Ipswich match had taken a toll, but not enough to dent spirits.

Not when they’d won again.

Not when they were still unbeaten halfway through the season.

By the time they entered the cafeteria, the room buzzed with music and chatter.

The usual post-match nutrition spread—grilled salmon, quinoa, the kind of meals nutritionists dream about—was nowhere in sight.

In its place?

Steam billowed from trays of lasagna.

Burgers stacked like trophies.

Chicken wings crisped to perfection.

Even donuts.

Glorious, sugar-dusted donuts, still warm.

It was cheat day.

An honest earned one.

“You’re kidding,” Declan Rice muttered as he blinked at a plate piled with fries like it was a mirage.

“I’m not,” said one of the cooks, chuckling as he handed him a plate.

“Manager’s orders.”

Further down the table, Ødegaard, already sitting down, laughed as he poured syrup over pancakes while shaking his head.

“Mikel’s either celebrating or about to kill us with conditioning tomorrow.”

That’s when Arteta walked in a black turtleneck and blazer, looking like the host of a wine auction rather than a Premier League boss.

In one hand, he held a bottle of champagne as Carlos Cuesta wheeled in a few of them and then set them beside Arteta.

The players clapped as he stepped forward, but he raised a hand to settle them.

“I know what you’re all thinking,” he began, grinning.

“And yes. I do like champagne at 10:45 in the morning.”

Laughter rolled through the cafeteria.

Arteta held up the bottle like a prop.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said.

“I mean it. Unbeaten at this stage of the season? Top of the table? Still in every competition? If you’d told me that in August, I’d have smiled politely and told you to go watch Netflix.”

He glanced toward the back where Saka and Nketiah sat.

“But the world didn’t expect this either,” he continued.

“We were bottlers, right?”

“Bottle jobs!” Saka called out, raising a fist.

“That’s what they said!”

“Exactly,” Arteta replied with a nod.

“That’s what they said. But this—” he gestured around the room, at the players, the food, the ease between them—”this is what we’ve made of it. And not just the veterans.”

He turned to the side, eyes settling on Izan, Nwaneri, and a few others who had joined the main team in the summer.

“You lads walked in here in August,” Arteta said.

“New shirts. New league. No guarantees. But now?”

He paused.

“You’re part of this and some of you are literally leading the charge,” Arteta said the last part while staring at Izan.

A few players clapped while Saka knocked his elbow lightly against Izan’s arm and pointed at Arteta’s stare.

Izan smirked, but his eyes stayed fixed on the gaffer.

Arteta looked around once more and nodded.

“I’m proud of all of you,” he said.

“But this isn’t the end. It’s not even the middle.”

He tapped the champagne bottle against the table, just once.

“We keep going. We stay sharp. But for today…”

He raised the bottle as if to toast, then set it gently on the table.

“…we eat like we’ve earned it.”

Laughter roared louder this time as players dove back toward the buffet.

Plates stacked high.

Banter louder than the speakers humming afrobeats in the background.

Arteta waited until they’d quieted down again—mouths full and bellies halfway there—before making one last announcement.

“You’ve got two days off,” he said, voice almost drowned by the cheer that followed.

“Enjoy it. Sleep. Rest. Go out. But remember—”

He pointed around the room again.

“Keep this form… and you’ll be collecting more than bonuses by May. You’ll be collecting medals.”

The room didn’t explode like it usually did after a win.

It simmered.

Something was building and that something was only theirs to finish.

“Ah, he’s really going to work us to the bone after our two day break” Saka said as he stepped out with Izan, with a few of the players following behind.

“Well then start erasing the food from your system,” the latter said before turning towards his car after they reached the parking lot.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt to swap cars for the day,” Saka joked as Izan tossed his bag in the front storage.

“Try again, when you bring your Ferrari spider” Izan said before nestling inside the car as Saka shook his head, also turning towards his car.

Izan’s fingers curled around the Gemera’s steering wheel, a predator’s grin slicing across his face as the engine snarled to life.

The quad-turbo V8 roared, a thunderous growl that sent vibrations through the pavement, rattling windows and shaking the earth like the awakening of something primal.

Then, with a final, earth-shaking rev that sent bystanders, mostly his mates stumbling back, he dropped the hammer.

The Gemera launched forward, tires screaming as they clawed at the asphalt, spitting smoke and fury in its wake.

The world blurred.

The ground trembled.

And just like that—he was gone,

A/n: last of yesterday. Sorry guys, I will release the first of the day in a bit. Have fun reading and bye. Also don’t forget to check out my new novel below.

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