Chapter 585: Greatest Thing In Football [GT ]

Chapter 585: Greatest Thing In Football [GT Chapter ]

The curtains were open.

Late morning rain filtered through the high windows of the meeting suite at Arsenal’s executive offices—white skies, grey roofs, and below, the muffled sound of life at Sobha realty building ticking along.

Josh Kroenke leaned back in his chair, fingers loosely steepled, the glow of the digital document still hovering on the oversized wall screen.

Miranda sat opposite him, tablet on her lap, stylus twirling slowly between her fingers.

And Izan—hood down, hair tied back, legs stretched out—watched it all from the side of the room, hands in his pockets.

The screen pulsed with line after line.

Bonuses.

Clauses.

Rights.

Jets.

Estates.

It read like a generational pivot disguised as a football contract.

“Four hundred and seventy million,” Josh said finally, like the number was a rock he was still rolling around in his mouth.

“That’s… somewhere between a football agreement and a shareholder merger.”

Miranda gave a nonchalant shrug.

“Well, to be fair—he’s not just a footballer anymore.”

Josh chuckled, exhaling hard through his nose.

“No, he’s not. He’s a brand and the heartbeat of the team and we can’t afford to lose him barely 6 months after signing him.”

He looked across to Izan, who hadn’t said much since walking in.

The kid’s expression was unreadable—not distant, not smug, just focused.

Like he was listening to every word and storing it somewhere behind his eyes.

“I’ll be honest,” Josh said, resting his elbows on the desk.

“When this Madrid thing first dropped, I thought you’d flinch.”

“I didn’t,” Izan replied simply.

“No, you didn’t. Which is why we’re here. And not in a press room giving a farewell speech.”

The silence that followed was calm.

“This deal,” Josh continued, gesturing vaguely to the glowing document, “changes the ceiling—not just for you, but for everyone. Our squad sees this? Every other club sees this? You know what happens next.”

“Inflation,” Miranda said flatly.

“Jealousy. Headlines.”

“Yep,” Josh nodded.

“Someone’s going to call it madness. Someone’s going to say we bent over backwards. That we broke the structure. And maybe they’re right.”

Then he leaned forward slightly, eyes on Izan.

“But you’ve made us believe you’re worth it. Just… know this comes with weight. If you go quiet for too long—if the pressure catches you off guard—the backlash won’t just be on you. It could cripple this club.”

Izan nodded slowly.

“I know,” he said.

“And I didn’t ask for all of this. But I’ll carry it.”

That was enough.

Josh nodded, half-smiled—wry, quiet, impressed.

“Well,” he said, standing.

“Welcome to a whole new tax bracket.”

Miranda rose beside him, adjusting her coat.

Izan followed, stretching a little as he stood.

Josh extended a hand across the table and Izan took it.

The grip was firm, but not performative.

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Josh said.

“But don’t be afraid to evolve while you do.”

“I won’t,” Izan answered before turning to look at Miranda who was already at the door.

They shook once, then let go.

As Miranda and Izan left the suite, the rain outside had now turned to thickened snow, falling a bit heavier now.

And inside, tucked away from the storm Madrid had tried to stir, Arsenal had made a decision:

They weren’t selling the dragon.

They were feeding him.

….

As Izan and Miranda stepped out of the room, Josh Kroenke didn’t sit back down.

He also, exited the room before entering the meeting room, some metres away from the room he had just met Miranda and Izan.

All attention turned to him after he entered, hoping he could talk but he stayed standing, one hand on the edge of the table, the other tucked into the pocket of his blazer, mind still fixed on the screen where Izan’s name glowed in clean, white text.

Behind him, his top advisors were still shifting in their seats, some glancing at each other, some watching him.

And finally, he began.

“Alright,” Josh said, turning toward them.

“We’ve gone this far—no turning back.”

He nodded once, firmly.

“Reject Madrid’s offer. Publicly. This afternoon.”

A few of the room’s heads twitched upward, surprised—not at the decision, but at the directness.

Josh didn’t stop.

“And I don’t want some sterile line about evaluating all avenues or long-term considerations. I want clarity. Full-throated. We’re not selling. Period.”

Someone at the end of the table—a finance exec—half-raised his hand, hesitated, then lowered it when Josh continued.

“Get comms on it now. I want the fanbase to feel it in their bones. Not just that we kept him—but that we chose to. That we’re not cashing in.”

There was a beat of silence before Josh added, quieter now but sharper:

“If we hesitate again—if even a whisper of doubt leaks through—we might lose the locker room, lose the supporters and even the global momentum we’ve built since Izan signed.”

One of the younger assistants to his left leaned forward.

“And the new deal?”

Josh’s jaw tightened slightly.

“We close it,” he said.

“Finalize everything we just laid out with Miranda. Legal reviews. Tax frameworks. All of it.”

He looked around the table, making sure none of them missed the urgency in his voice.

“Then we announce it.”

He pointed toward one of the marketing directors.

“I want the rollout ready by the time the ink dries. Graphics. Timeline. Testimonials. Maybe a call from Thierry or Cesc. Make it look like we locked down the crown jewel of football since its inception because, to be honest, we have.”

The director nodded, already scribbling notes.

Josh’s voice dropped a little, but his conviction didn’t waver.

“If Madrid wanted to cause chaos—they’ve done it. Fans are panicking. Rivals are circling. And every agent in the league smells blood in the water.”

He stepped back toward the window, snow still feathering down behind him and glanced back at the room, a faint edge of a smile curling at the side of his mouth.

“They assumed we didn’t have the stomach to say no.”

He tapped once on the table and added, “Make the call. Close the deal.”

And with that, the message was set to move.

….

The news broke like a thunderclap in the afternoon—loud, definitive, and impossible to ignore.

Arsenal, once again Reject £290M+£30M Add-Ons Bid for Izan Miura Hernandez.

“Izan is not for sale. We are in the final stages of negotiating a new deal. The club is committed to building around him.”

Those were the only words needed.

No fluff and no beating around the bush.

The fan reaction was instant.

Within minutes, Arsenal’s official post had crossed a million likes.

On social media, “HE STAYS” replaced “Stay in red,” trending wildly.

One fan account tweeted, “£320M? And we said no. That’s not just faith. That’s conviction.”

Another joked, “Arsenal really told Real Madrid to go touch grass.”

Opposition fans oscillated between disbelief and grudging respect.

Some blamed Financial Fair Play.

Others warned, “This just raised the bar. If Izan’s not for sale at £320M, how do you price anyone else?”

Madrid-based outlets questioned the logic.

“Florentino Perez rarely gets told no,” one headline read.

“Arsenal just did.” another lauded.

At Colney, training resumed like always.

But the mood?

Something else entirely.

As players filtered onto the pitch, Saka waited by the entrance.

Arms crossed.

Face stretched into a teasing grin.

The moment Izan stepped onto the turf, Saka opened his arms dramatically.

“Ayyyyy, welcome to Arsenal, big man! A pleasure to have you here—heard we just signed a superstar!”

Izan chuckled, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Saka didn’t stop. “Nah, but for real—we gonna get the announcement video? Smoke, spotlight, him turning to the camera all serious and whispering ‘I stayed’?”

“I’ll ask for your cameo,” Izan fired back.

Rice jogged past them both.

“Only if you film it at the bridge,” he said, referencing the now-viral image of Izan watching the Thames the night after the Brighton game.

Everyone laughed.

Even Ødegaard smirked from the warm-up zone.

But before the banter got too far, sharp, rhythmic claps echoed across the grass.

Arteta entered the fray, his jacket zipped up tight, eyes clear as he approached the huddle.

“Alright. Enough,” he said, raising a hand.

“Big week ahead. Big game. United. FA Cup. You already know what that means.”

The group nodded, shifting their focus.

“I want seriousness. No walking through drills. No half energy.”

His eyes passed over the group—landing briefly, inevitably, on Izan.

“We’re setting the tone today. Everything matters—especially when people are watching,” he added, pointing to the group of reporters as well as fans that camped behind the fences.

He raised the whistle.

Peep.

Like clockwork, the group broke into movement.

Boots hitting grass and the hum of ambition bleeding into rhythm.

Jogging in a straight line, they curved around the cones, side-by-side with Saka and Martinelli cracking jokes under his breath, Ødegaard whispering a reminder to Trossard about spacing, Izan dead silent, eyes forward.

The session had started.

But everyone knew this was more than prep.

This was momentum maintenance and they were doing a good job with it.

A/N: Gt Chapter have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the first of the day.

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