Chapter 641: Answers

The noise hadn’t stopped and murmurs overlapped like layers of static — journalists whispering not about PSV or Arsenal’s shape, but about the boy now seated beside him.

Izan, calm, leaned forward slightly to adjust the mic, fingers steady as ever.

That’s when the first voice finally broke through.

“Mikel—” A journalist from the Telegraph raised a hand.

“Given the… situation — the photo circulating this morning — are you confirming Izan will start tomorrow?”

The room fell still again, all ears waiting for anything that could get them clicks.

Like vultures waiting for the first hyena to die in a fight between two.

Arteta looked straight at the man.

“He’s here,” he said flatly.

“You’ve seen that. So yes—he’s available.”

“Even after—” another journalist jumped in, “—after what seems to be a medical facility? The rumours, the concerns—”

“Rumours,” Arteta cut him off, “are your domain. Mine is football. Izan trained this week. His medicals are clear. He’s fit, he’s focused, and if he weren’t, we wouldn’t be here. Not at this table.”

The words came off a little sharp but it was firm and not combative.

Arteta wasn’t angry but it was getting a bit repetitive.

Another hand shot up — a Dutch journalist, older with glasses perched halfway down his nose.

“Then can we speak to Izan directly?” he asked.

“Because the club hasn’t released a statement. And the internet’s built a dozen versions of events already.”

Arteta turned, glanced at Izan.

It wasn’t permission but more of a shared cue.

Izan leaned into the mic, posture relaxed, voice low but clear.

“I know the photo caught people off guard,” he began in English.

“I can’t control who follows me with a camera. But I can control what I say here. So—no. I wasn’t injured. I wasn’t rehabbing. There’s nothing wrong.”

A few pens paused mid-air.

He continued.

“If you’re here to ask about tomorrow’s match — I’m here for that. If it’s about football — ask. But I won’t explain things that don’t belong in the headlines.”

Another question came quickly, this time from a Sky reporter: “But do you understand the reaction? It’s not uncommon for someone your age, your profile, to be seen outside a haematology centre but that is what makes it alarming—”

Izan nodded once, evenly.

“I understand curiosity. I don’t agree with entitlement.”

That hung in the air for a beat.

A few reporters traded glances.

Then, one leaned forward, trying to lighten the mood: “So you’re saying you’ll let your feet do the talking tomorrow?”

Izan gave the slightest smile.

“They usually do.”

A chuckle rippled through the front row, not enough to ease the tension, but enough to loosen things up.

Another hand went up.

Then another.

Questions began to circle around football again — PSV’s press, Arsenal’s midfield configuration, the run of form in the Champions League group stages.

Finally, just as the moderator raised her hand to signal the final question, a younger Dutch journalist in the back called out in his native tongue:

“Dus—je speelt morgen alsof niets is gebeurd?” [Are you playing tomorrow like nothing happened?]

He said looking at the translator but Izan didn’t miss a beat.

He straightened slightly, looked directly at the reporter, and answered — in clean, accent-free Dutch:

“Wat er is gebeurd, was niet voetbal. Morgen wél.”

[What happened wasn’t football. Tomorrow is.]

That caused the room to fall silent.

The boy had just reclaimed the room in their language.

Arteta stood again smirk now on his face, pulling the mic closer for one final line before the moderator could cut in.

“We’re here to win a football match,” he said.

“And I think you’ve just seen why we believe we can.”

The moderator gave a polite nod.

“That concludes the press conference. Thank you for your time.”

As the room buzzed back into chatter, Izan pushed his chair back and stood, fixing the collar of his Arsenal jacket before walking off.

…

The door to the press room clicked shut behind them, and Arteta exhaled slowly.

“That was impressive,” he muttered, walking beside Izan through the corridor that wrapped around the interior of the Philips Stadion.

“You are young but it doesn’t show, physically or mentally!”

Izan’s response was calm, almost absent-minded.

“It’s not the first time people wanted answers I didn’t owe them.”

Arteta glanced sideways at him. “Still, it’s impressive”

Then Izan added, “They’ll still write what they want, though.”

“Yes,” Arteta said. “But they’ll also know you’re not someone they can bend.”

They turned a corner and stepped through the automatic glass exit, where the winter breeze from Eindhoven brushed over them gently.

The sky had dulled to a steely grey, and the Arsenal team bus waited just beyond the barriers — branded, sleek, with staff members already loading the last of the equipment bags into the lower compartment.

Most of the squad had gathered around the bus entrance, still in tracksuits and thick jackets, chatting casually, scrolling phones, or stretching their legs after the session.

“Oi!” came Saka’s voice as he spotted them.

“Look, at that Dutch boy!”

The others turned.

“You’re taking polyglot to a whole new level, mate,” Rice said, grinning. “How many is that now?”

“Six?” Ødegaard guessed. “No, wait… seven?”

Saka held up his fingers like a tally.

“Spanish, English—a bit posh, but alright—French, Japanese, German—because of Wirtz—and now Dutch. That’s six. Am I missing one?”

“You forgot Portuguese,” Gabriel chimed in with a smirk.

“He talked to my grandmother once and didn’t mess it up.”

Everyone groaned.

“With how things are moving, bro could be the mascot for Duolingo ?” Saka said.

“Duolingo could never take out Duo, but I can see a collaboration,” Ben White added, deadpan.

Izan finally reached the small group, pulling his hood down as he replied, “What can I say… I had good Wi-Fi growing up.”

Rice raised his brows.

“Mate, at this point you’re one stem cell away from becoming a UN ambassador.”

“I thought he said he was going to be a scientist during career day,” Saliba said, nudging him lightly.

Izan shrugged. “I might’ve been.”

“More like a model,” Rice added casually.

“You see his face? It’s disrespectful.”

Laughter rippled through the group, some exaggerated groans mixed in.

“Stop it,” Saka said. “You’re inflating his ego again.”

“I’m just saying,” Rice smirked.

“Imagine turning up to a lecture and the professor looks like that.”

Izan grinned faintly, brushing past him toward the bus door.

As they boarded the bus one by one, Arteta gave Cuesta a quick nod, signalling everything was back under control.

The players settled into their seats — a few pulling on headphones, others setting their phones on trays as the chatter eased.

The trip to the hotel would be short.

But in just over 24 hours, it’d be Eindhoven under lights.

[Mid-N: But for the readers, it’s just a scroll. ]

[Matchday – Philips Stadion, Eindhoven]

The tunnel at the Philips Stadion was narrower than the ones in England — low-ceilinged, fluorescent-lit, the walls echoing every thump of studs and quiet breathing.

It was matchday. First leg. Champions League Round of 16.

And the roar outside was climbing by the second.

Arsenal’s players stood in two lines, match-ready.

Izan stood near the centre of the line, his right hand resting gently on the shoulder of the small boy walking beside him.

The kid had gelled blonde hair, an oversized PSV jersey, and a nervous smile.

He kept looking up at Izan like he wanted to ask something — then would stop himself.

Just grinned and clutched the hand tighter.

Across from them, the PSV players mirrored the stance — red and white stripes pressed flat by anticipation.

You could feel it in the air:

Their fans hadn’t come here for a spectacle.

They came for a scalp.

The UEFA officials gave the signal and the match ball was raised by the child between them as the group began to walk.

First one row, then the other, emerging from the tunnel like two columns of chess pieces sliding into place beneath the light.

The noise hit instantly – overwhelming and electric.

More than thirty thousand packed the Philips Stadion.

It wasn’t the biggest arena in Europe.

But it felt close — like the stands were breathing right onto the pitch.

Phones lit up as flags waved.

A flurry of red and white in the home end.

And behind the away dugout, a sharp diagonal of travelling Arsenal fans — a loud and loyal block dressed in yellow and navy, singing despite the distance.

Then the music started.

That anthem.

The anthem.

The Champions League logo pulsed on the stadium screens as the anthem echoed across Eindhoven, swelling under the roof like a rising tide.

Cameras panned.

Ødegaard.

Rice.

Saka.

Izan.

As the final notes rang out and the lights dimmed ever so slightly, Izan just exhaled.

[Round of 16, coming up]

A/n: Sorry guys. I will make it up to you during the weekend. I promise. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit. Bye for now

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