Chapter 570: Not Normal

Then came another moment.

Kiwior, tucked in behind the halfway line on the left, scanned the field and called Izan’s name.

The latter was already moving, shoulders low, body angled in anticipation.

Kiwior took the risk and launched a long, arcing pass, not clean or easy, rising too high, hanging in the air like it had been misjudged.

But Izan didn’t hesitate.

He sprinted into the channel, and just as the ball seemed to float past reachable height, he exploded off the ground.

For a second, time stretched.

His body lifted, legs tucked slightly, arms flaring for balance—not awkward, not forced, but effortless.

And then, with his right foot angled just enough, he met the ball mid-flight and brought it down in stride with the outside of his boot, killing its momentum like it had been waiting for him all along.

Rice, who had been tracking back to meet the ball as well, craned his neck and slowed his step, eyes widening as he watched Izan in the air.

It wasn’t just the height of the jump—it was the stillness in it.

Like gravity had made an exception, just this once.

Izan came down with the ball still under control and didn’t break stride.

But Timber, regaining his composure, gave chase, reached out, and grabbed a handful of Izan’s training bib.

He tugged—not gently—hoping to stall the run, maybe even break the rhythm.

Instead, his grip slipped.

Timber stumbled, briefly catching Izan’s momentum with his body.

It should have been enough to bring them both down.

But Izan didn’t budge.

He dropped his weight into a short squat mid-stride, tapped his left palm to the turf to stabilize, and then bounced back up as if nothing had happened.

One flick inside onto his right.

A single step of preparation.

Then the shot.

A low, brutal rifle across the face of the goal, aimed not at the corners but through Raya.

The keeper barely saw it before it was behind him.

The net snapped.

Harder than before.

This time, there was no silence.

Not because anyone spoke, but because the energy shifted again.

It wasn’t just a brilliant goal.

It wasn’t just quick feet or good balance.

It was something else.

On the sidelines, Arteta lowered the tactics board he hadn’t even realized he was gripping.

He had watched Izan long enough to know his talent wasn’t a fluke.

He had already accepted that the boy had poise and decision-making well beyond his age.

But this—this-this version of Izan—was something altogether different.

There was a refinement in the way he moved, in how he absorbed contact and redirected it, in how he rose into the air like the game was bending to accommodate his timing.

The instincts weren’t just sharp—they were honed.

Like someone who had already lived these moments before.

Arteta didn’t speak.

He just watched, eyes locked on the numberless bib moving back toward midfield.

And in that instant, for the first time since Izan had joined, he could see it.

Something had changed, something was different, and it was good for them.

Arteta let the next round of drills begin, but his focus wasn’t on the squad anymore.

After that second goal, after the way Izan moved—not just fast, but decisively, like someone whose game had skipped a developmental stage—it was clear to him that this needed more than standard observation.

He turned to Carlos Cuesta, gave him a quick signal, and with a nod, Cuesta stepped forward to take over the full session.

Arteta called Izan aside.

“Come with me,” he said simply.

No urgency in his tone—just quiet intent.

Two more coaches joined them: Dr. Langford from the performance team and Gines, one of the strength specialists.

They walked in silence to the far side of the pitch, where a few pieces of portable training tech had already been set up—cones, motion trackers, a vertical leap board, and sprint gates spaced along the touchline.

No one said much at first.

Then Arteta gestured to the markers.

“Speed first.”

Izan nodded and walked to the start line.

The light blinked green, and he was off.

His first sprint was clean—no wasted steps, posture fluid, transition smooth.

When he burst through the last gate, a soft tone registered the result.

36.57 km/h.

Langford raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Izan turned around, hands on his hips, and returned to the line.

“Again,” Arteta said, still calm.

This time, Izan exploded off the start with a slightly lower drive.

His acceleration kicked in earlier, and his stride snapped sharper with every step.

He crossed the final gate almost too fast for the sensors to register in sync.

37.9 km/h.

Langford looked down at the tablet and gave a low whistle.

Arteta stepped closer to confirm the number, then glanced at the coach beside him.

“He was clocking between thirty-five and thirty-five point nine before the break.”

He looked at Izan, who was catching his breath but didn’t look remotely drained.

“What did you do in those two days?”

Izan shrugged.

“Rested. Ate well. Went for a few light runs.”

Arteta didn’t press.

He simply nodded, then gestured to the next drill.

Agility.

A five-cone weave with a time sensor tracking entry and exit.

Izan finished it in 6.12 seconds—a full two seconds faster than his previous personal best.

The coaches exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Then came the vertical leap test.

The bar clicked twice as Izan jumped—first to set his marker, then again as he added six centimeters to his previous height.

By the time they reached the reactive passing and ball control circuit, he was cutting through stations without hesitation, releasing shots without error, completing the final movement four seconds ahead of his old timing.

When they checked his recovery vitals post-drill, Langford paused for the first time.

“Heart rate’s already dropped back into baseline zone,” he said.

“His post-sprint lactic markers are abnormally low.”

Gines folded his arms, glancing between the data and Izan.

“I’m just saying… if this were anyone else, we’d be pulling him for a blood test.”

Langford didn’t disagree.

“Performance this sharp, this suddenly? You’d usually think there’s… something.”

Arteta didn’t move.

He kept his eyes on Izan, who was now towel-drying the back of his neck, sweat light across his brow but nowhere near drenched.

“No,” Arteta said, firm. “We know him. He’s not juiced. He’s not shortcutting.”

The other two hesitated but eventually nodded.

Not out of full certainty, but out of respect.

Because the one thing they did know—deeply—was that Izan didn’t need to cheat.

He didn’t need to bend lines when he was already ahead of the pack previously.

Arteta gave one final look at the display readings, then turned back to the pitch where the main squad was finishing their final drills.

“You’re good,” he said.

Izan nodded, slinging his towel over his shoulder and beginning the walk back toward the group, quiet and focused, his pace unbothered.

Behind him, the three coaches stood in silence, watching the numbers on the tablet screens and reviewing the footage that would later be logged.

Not one of them spoke it out loud.

But the thought hovered between them anyway:

Whatever just happened… this wasn’t a natural improvement.

This was something else.

And Izan, a towel-draped, walking alone across the sun-soaked grass, didn’t turn around once.

By the time he made his way back inside, the noon sun had lifted the chill off the air.

The session had wrapped, players had broken off to cool down, and the cafeteria had slowly filled with chatter, steam from hot food, and the low thump of speakers playing a track no one could name but everyone somehow nodded along to.

He stepped in with the towel still hanging from his shoulders, sweat dried, shirt changed, gait steady as ever.

Declan was already seated with Ødegaard and Raya.

Izan walked in without a word, reached for a tray, and started moving down the line.

And then—

Arms wrapped suddenly around his neck, yanking his head sideways and tucking it under a raised armpit with exaggerated carelessness.

It was Saka, tiptoeing just enough to get the height advantage, grinning like a child with a prank no one had stopped.

“Oi, where’ve you been?” he asked, holding Izan in the lock a second longer than needed.

“Tibetan mountains? Some secret monastery?”

Izan let his head hang, deadpan.

“I was going to say Pilates,” he replied flatly, “but sure, let’s go with mystical high-altitude training.”

Saka released him with a laugh, stepping back and giving him a light shove toward the queue.

“Nah, but seriously—what’s the secret? You’re slotting those shots like it’s FIFA Career Mode with all sliders maxed. That second one? Bro, you rifled it so hard Raya forgot what position he played.”

A few of the others nearby chuckled, nodding.

Izan smirked as he picked up a plate, glancing toward the buffet trays.

“No secrets. Just slept well.”

“That’s definitely a lie,” Declan called from across the room.

“I slept ten hours and still hit the post twice.”

“You didn’t hit the post,” Ødegaard muttered, not looking up.

“You hit the fence.”

“Same area.”

Saka walked beside Izan now, elbowing him gently.

“So nothing? No ancient technique? No protein powder that whispers encouragement while you drink it?”

Izan gave a faint shrug.

Saka put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Wow. Gatekeeping in broad daylight.”

Izan finally laughed, quiet but real, before grabbing a seat near the others.

A/n: I’d like to say first of the day, but I’m tired, guys. Might have to hold off on releasing so much for a bit. Anyways, have fun reading, and we will get on schedule with the next chapter.

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