"Morning, Sandra," Izan said, not slowing as he passed the receptionist desk.
"Morning, love," she replied, handing a stack of envelopes to a passing intern.
Izan stopped for a bit, wondering where the kit bag he had come with was, but he had never come with it in the first place.
"I think I left my kitbag at home," he mumbled as he turned towards the entrance, but a voice came from behind.
"You left your kit bag here yesterday. It was very uncharacteristic of you, so we attributed it to the fact that you might have been tired out of your arse when you left due to yesterdayâs session."
He gave a sheepish glance over his shoulder but didnât stop.
Someone from logistics wouldâve taken care of it anyway.
Down the corridor, he heard someone laughing.
Martinelli, probably.
As he pushed open the side door toward the inner wing, Declan was just pulling a protein bar out of the vending machine.
"You eat that like itâs not made of rubber," Izan said.
Declan grinned, tearing the wrapper with his teeth.
"Itâs psychological. Makes me feel like Iâm early."
"Youâre not."
"Neither are you."
They walked the rest of the hallway together, not saying much.
Inside the locker room, a few of the lads were already booting up, chatting across benches.
Timber sat around with one sock worn and the other in his hand like he had forgotten where to put it next.
There wasnât much talk about their upcoming clash against Liverpool.
No, it was too close to name now.
After a while, Arteta stepped in with a pen tucked under his folded arm as he came to a halt.
"Five minutes. When youâre ready," and ten minutes later, they were gathered in the analysis room. No one took a chair. Not even Arteta.
He leaned against the far table, watching them like he was reading something behind their eyes.
"Weâre not rewriting anything. Same thing we did to win 3-1 against Fulham." he started.
"This team â us â weâve done enough rewriting this season."
"The others will change for us. Always. But we stay the same."
He walked a few steps forward, setting the tablet down untouched.
"Because when Izan plays, they stop playing. Not right away. Not obviously. But you can feel it. Full-backs donât overlap. Midfielders hesitate. Even their keeper starts second-guessing. Youâve seen it."
"I donât want you changing what already works. Donât over-accommodate. Donât over-adjust. Youâre not background players. Youâre the reason we have space to move."
He looked toward Izan briefly, then back at the room.
"Youâre the rhythm. Heâs the break."
They let that sit for a moment.
For an outsider (or a reader), it might have sounded like Arteta had an overconfidence problem in Izan, but it wasnât overconfidence.
It was just the cold, hard truth. The kid was truly out of the world.
"But," Arteta added, "if they somehow manage to close him down... if the rhythm stutters... donât panic. Iâll handle it."
Then, without a shift in tone, he said, "Get your boots. Weâre on the grass in five."
........
[The AXA Training centre]
"Man on! MAN ON!"
Voices rang across the pitch, clipped and sharp, boots cutting into the turf as bodies twisted, passed, pressed.
The training game was chaos â on purpose.
Six defenders versus three attackers, plus an extra midfielder drifting between lines like a ghost.
A tailored overload drill.
The defenders worked in tight triangles, moving as one to isolate whoever had the ball.
It was smothering at its best.
Arne Slot stood near the sideline with his arms crossed, squinting against the sun.
To his left, his assistant jotted something on a clipboard and behind them, the analyst was feeding touch-map data live into a tablet, though no one really needed numbers to see what was happening.
Another triangle snapped into place.
Diaz received a pass, shifted insideâand bang.
Two defenders squeezed his options while a third cut the line behind him.
The whistle didnât blow, nor did the drill stop.
Another attack reset instantly.
Mohamed Salah peeled off the next run early, chest heaving, sweat running down his temples.
He jogged over toward the sideline, eyes fixed on Slot.
"That thing youâre doing," he said, half-smiling through the breathlessness.
"Youâve made them too good, like they werenât already. We canât move."
Slotâs eyes crinkled at the corners but just barely.
"Thatâs the point."
The next wave came â Gakpo this time, joined by the spare midfielder.
They tried a one-two to cut through the triangle.
It almost worked as
Jota
slipped past two defenders, into a seamâ
âbut just as he took the touch to break free, two more red bibs closed in from the side and behind.
Another triangle. Another trap.
Slotâs smile thinned.
He didnât turn immediately, not until he heard the stud-slap of a stumble.
Then he pivoted.
Van Dijk had slipped.
Not fully down â just a mistimed shift that let the pass roll through his legs before the supporting midfielder swept it up.
Slot said nothing for a beat.
Then his voice cut through the wind.
"Virgil."
The defender already knew what was coming. He stood upright, adjusted his stance, but didnât make excuses.
"If you donât conduct them right, it breaks," Slot said calmly.
"Simple as that."
There was no sting in it, just the fact that everyone heard it.
Virgil didnât look rattled.
He turned, scanning the positions behind him â Robertson adjusting too far wide, Mac Allister reacting half a second late.
A breath passed before he answered, low and steady.
"Weâve been working on this since the Emirates coach, have some faith", he said.
Slot caught it â not just the words, but the layer underneath them.
The bruise of that defeat earlier in the season and the decision that followed.
Quietly rebuilding a shape designed for one specific threat.
A plan they hadnât abandoned since.
Slot held his gaze for a moment, then gave a short nod.
"I hope itâs enough."
He turned back toward the pitch, where Gakpo had just tried to turn in the middle but got met by three snapping defenders.
"Because if itâs not," Slot said, more to himself now, "weâre going to be very sorry once the final whistle blows."
...
"...Alright, welcome back," the host said, leaning back in his chair with that slight exhale TV presenters always do after an ad break.
"Weâre just a couple days out from the Carabao Cup Final at Wembley. Arsenal. Liverpool. And I think itâs fair to sayâitâs not just silverware on the line here, is it?"
He turned slightly, eyes darting across the panel.
To his left was
Alan Shearer
.
On the right sat Jamie Carragher, half-sleeve shirt, shoulders square.
And just beside him, a man who needed no introduction in red quarters: Robbie Fowler.
"Feels bigger, doesnât it?"
Alan
said, leaning in.
"I meanâweâre talking cup final, yeahâbut itâs also top-of-the-league versus second. Momentum. Message-sending. This is a title punch in disguise."
Carragher nodded slowly, but didnât immediately jump in.
Fowler did.
"You know whatâs mad?" he said.
"It shouldnât feel this important, but it does. Arsenal havenât won this thing sinceâwait. When did Arsenal win the Carabao Cup?"
"Actually, 1993," the host cut in with a slight chuckle.
"Back when it was still called the Coca-Cola Cup."
"Jesus," said
Alan
said with a grin.
"But Iâll tell you what," Fowler continued, unfazed, "thatâs what makes this spicy. This isnât just a cup final. This is a title warm-up. Itâs round one of a trilogy, maybe. Arsenal win this, and what does that do to Liverpoolâs headspace? Especially if they meet again come May for the league."
Carragher finally leaned forward, rubbing his hands once.
"Itâs not just headspace," he said.
"Like, letâs be honest, Arsenal beat them once already this season, twice if you count preseason, yeah? Outplayed âem. Now, if they go and lift a trophy at their expense before April, thatâs not just three wins or three pointsâthatâs psychological. That sticks."
"Agreed," said the host.
"But... Carraâlet me throw this your wayâdo you see Liverpool taking that underdog tag into Wembley?"
He paused for a second, shifting in his seat.
. "Look... I do," he said. "And actually, I like that. I think it suits them. I think it needs to suit them. Thereâs this narrative now that Arsenal are favourites, that Izanâs unstoppable, that Artetaâs figured out this Liverpool team... and Iâm not saying thatâs true, but if youâre in that Liverpool dressing room, you want Arsenal cocky."
"I donât think they are, though," Fowler cut in.
"Arsenal donât carry themselves like that. You see that teamâSaliba, Rice, Saka, whoâs still out injuredâtheyâre not loud, they just do their job when they can. And that kidâ"
"Izan," the host supplied.
"Yeah," Fowler nodded.
"That kidâs terrifying. Like, honestly, 42 Premier League goals at 17? He is setting a new record every day after breaking Haalandâs 36-goal season. Thatâs not even Messi regen territory. Thatâs like... thatâs game-breaker stuff. And Iâll be realâif he turns up, no defence on Earth stops him for 90 minutes. Not Van Dijk, not KonatĂ©, not even if you bring back Paolo Maldini from retirement."
A/N: Okay guys. This is the first of the day. I will see you in a bit with the last of the day and as yesterday, we will have to do the next of the day later tomorrow. I will try and add a few more Chapters to thank you for another good month. Also, I added a snippet of a new Idea for a football story in the previous novel so check it out and comment if you havenât already.