Chapter 697: He Is Back.

The low rumble of the coach engine was the only steady sound after the match-day chaos.

Outside, the London night rolled past in streaks of yellow streetlights and deep shadow.

Declan Rice leaned back in his seat, one arm lazily draped over the armrest, the other rubbing his temple.

"Ugh... splitting headache," he muttered, eyes half-shut, voice thick with exhaustion.

Izan, sitting across the aisle, caught the words and allowed himself a quiet, knowing smile.

A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face, partly from the residual heat of the game, the guilt he was feeling, or partly from holding back laughter.

"What’s so funny?" Declan said, his head still tilted back, eyes opening just enough to see the smirk.

"Nothing," Izan replied, trying to keep a straight face.

From a few seats behind, Odegaard leaned forward, a half-empty bottle of water in his hand.

"I think I know," the captain said with a grin.

"You, my friend, used your brain to the absolute limit scoring that free kick. Might’ve burnt a few wires up there."

Declan exhaled a short laugh, then winced.

"Yeah, well... if we’re doing that again, someone else can take it. I don’t even know why you passed on the second one to me again."

"That could have been your second free-kick goal of the night and made you one of the few, myself included, to do so," Izan said lightly with a slight smug on his face.

The teasing drew a few chuckles from nearby seats, but the bus quickly began to settle.

Boots had been loosened, jackets pulled over shoulders, and the adrenaline of the match finally started to ebb away.

One by one, conversations faded.

Heads leaned against windows, and the gentle sway of the coach became a lullaby.

Izan rested his head back, glancing sideways to see Nwaneri dozing with his hoodie pulled up.

Across the aisle, Martinelli’s mouth hung slightly open in that blissful, unguarded way only deep tiredness could produce.

Odegaard was still awake, scrolling absently through his phone, but even he looked moments away from calling it a night.

The bus hummed on, descending into a stillness broken only by the occasional bump in the road.

Somewhere ahead, the driver guided them closer to London Colney, and with every passing mile, the noise of the stadium felt further away.

By the time the coach turned off the main road, the only signs of life were a few half-hearted murmurs and the faint glow of streetlights flickering through the tinted windows.

........

"You know, I’ve seen confidence before, I’ve seen audacity... but this lad might just be the most daring player to ever step on a pitch."

The voice of the studio pundit was warm with disbelief, still replaying the moment in his head.

The screen cut to a wide angle of Izan’s volley from the left flank, his body twisting in mid-air before the ball exploded off his boot.

"I mean, what even goes through your mind to attempt that?"

the co-pundit jumped in, leaning forward.

"You’re on the left, the ball’s bouncing awkward, defenders are in your peripheral... and instead of settling it, he thinks— ’Yeah, volley, top corner, let’s see what happens.’"

On social media, clips of the strike were already looping endlessly.

One fan had posted:

"Cissé vs Chelsea 2012 vibes. That’s all I’m saying"

— The reply thread underneath was a mix of agreement, GIFs of Cissé’s goal, and slow-motion edits of Izan’s strike with overdramatic orchestral music.

The voices on TV began to fade, the crisp studio sound dulling, like the channel was losing signal — except it wasn’t.

A hand was on the remote.

"Are you," Olivia asked from the arm of the sofa, her eyes narrowing in exaggerated suspicion, "a narcissist?"

Izan looked up mid-bite, a spoon halfway to his mouth, milk dripping back into the bowl.

"What?"

"You’re sitting here eating Weetabix while watching people praise you like you just invented football," she said, clicking the volume down another notch.

"It’s not like I put it on," Izan defended himself, chewing slowly. "It was already on, and you, your English is getting too good."

Olivia raised a brow. "Well, did you think you were the only smart one. And you just...

couldn’t

change the channel?"

"Would you?" he countered, smirking faintly.

She didn’t answer — but the way her lips twitched suggested she wouldn’t.

The two would have continued the exchange, but Olivia’s phone buzzed against the coffee table, screen lighting up with an unfamiliar number.

She hesitated for half a second before leaning forward to pick it up.

"Hello?" Her voice softened as she walked toward the hallway, free hand brushing her hair behind her ear.

Whoever was on the other end spoke quickly, prompting a faint crease in her brow.

"Yeah... no, that’s fine. I can talk." She glanced over her shoulder, gave Izan a quick little wave as if to say

I’ll be a minute

, then stepped into the kitchen.

The living room felt different without her in it, but the muffled sound of her voice drifted in faintly, just enough to know she was still there.

Izan reached over, snagged the remote, and tapped the volume button.

"...and if you watch his movement here—look at the way he drifts just out of the centre-back’s eyeline—by the time the ball’s struck, he’s already half a step ahead. That’s why the volley looks effortless,"

one of the pundits was saying, over slow-motion replays of his goal.

The other chuckled.

"Effortless? This is art. You either have that instinct or you don’t, and I think we all know which side of that line he’s on and ...if... fur—"

..........

[Colney]

Arteta was still mid-sentence, his tone warm as he stood at the front of the room.

"It’s been a while... but he’s back—"

Then the door banged open like someone had just scored a last-minute winner.

"—and your lives are about to improve dramatically," Bukayo Saka announced, stepping in with the swagger of a man returning from exile.

Several heads turned, a mix of grins and groans rippling through the room.

"I could see it in your eyes," Saka continued, striding in with his arms spread like a conquering hero.

"You were

suffering

without me. Struggling. Wondering, ’How do we go on? How do we survive without the great Bukayo?"

From his spot near the middle of the room, Izan slowly tilted his head, meeting Saka’s gaze with a deadpan expression.

"Truly. We wept every night."

Saka ignored the sarcasm and stopped right in front of him, leaning down slightly.

"You’ve done well, my protégé," he said solemnly, patting Izan’s shoulder like a proud father.

Izan squinted. "Protégé?"

"Don’t worry," Saka went on, placing a hand over his own heart in mock emotion.

"You won’t have to carry all the burden anymore. Your big brother’s back."

Then, with exaggerated theatrics, he sniffed loudly and wiped at an imaginary tear.

"It must’ve been so hard for you... all alone out there."

The room had already started chuckling, but it was Kai Havertz who lobbed the first boot.

It landed just short of Saka’s leg.

Saka glanced down.

"Was that... an offering? A tribute?"

The second boot, courtesy of Gabriel, smacked him squarely on the hip.

"Oh, so this is how you welcome heroes now?!" Saka yelped, ducking as two more boots came flying in quick succession.

The whole squad was in on it now.

Ben White, usually quiet, had taken to underarm throws for accuracy.

Jorginho also tried to bounce his off the wall to catch Saka by surprise, while Declan Rice, still nursing his headache from the evening before, didn’t even take off his boot — he just hurled a training bib with alarming precision.

Saka darted between benches, laughing and protesting, "This is assault! This is jealousy! History will judge you all for this!"

One of Raya’s boots whistled past his ear.

"History says duck, mate!" Raya shouted.

Arteta stood there, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Okay, okay, that’s enough—"

But nobody stopped.

By the time Saka made it out the door, still laughing, the floor was littered with half the team’s footwear, and the smell was... noticeable.

Izan leaned back on the bench, watching the chaos with a faint smirk.

"Welcome back, Captain Saka", and from the corridor came Saka’s muffled voice: "I HEARD THAT!"

The last bits of laughter from Saka’s getaway faded as Arteta clapped his hands.

"Alright, recovery session done. Go home before I change my mind."

No one argued. Recovery days were a gift.

"Which means tomorrow we suffer," Raya muttered.

"Scotland run?" Martinelli guessed.

"Only if you run back," Saliba said, deadpan.

Bags unzipped, boots thudded to the floor, and the smell of sweat and grass filled the room.

A few players headed straight for the showers, steam already spilling out. Someone shouted about stolen shampoo.

Izan loosened his laces, took one last glance at the now-empty benches, and shut his locker with a clean

click

.

A/N: Okay, first of the day. See you during the day with hopefully, the second of the day. Have fun reading and Bye for now.