"Full time at the TQL Stadium,"
the commentatorâs voice carried over the fading roar of the crowd, steady and clear beneath the hum of the evening on the broadcast.
"Arsenal begin their Club World Cup campaign with a solid 2â0 victory over Pachuca."
The scoreboard glowed in the humid Cincinnati night,
Arsenal 2, Pachuca 0,
its red digits cutting through the haze like embers.
On the pitch, players slumped to the grass, shirts soaked and sticking to their backs.
A few Arsenal men lifted their hands to applaud the fans behind the dugout, while Pachucaâs players walked more slowly, disappointment written in the drag of their boots.
"Itâs a pretty convincing win,"
the co-commentator added, his tone a blend of relief and realism.
"But letâs be honest, it couldâve been a draw, at the very least, if Pachuca had their scoring boots on tonight. They had chances... big ones. Arsenal will know they got away with a few."
Down below, Martin Ădegaard and Ben White exchanged jerseys with their Mexican counterparts, the damp fabric clinging awkwardly in the sweltering air while Gabriel hugged a familiar opponent at midfield.
As the players began filing toward the tunnel, the main commentator rounded off the broadcast, his voice mellow but satisfied.
"Itâs been a long, hot evening here in Cincinnati, temperatures touching thirty degrees even at kickoff, but Arsenal wonât care one bit. Theyâve done the job. Three points in the bag, and in conditions that were anything but friendly."
The camera followed the last red shirt disappearing into the tunnelâs shadow.
"So, Arsenal start strong in Group H,"
the voice continued,
"and now theyâll be watching closely as Real Madrid take on Al Hilal next. That one could shape the group early. From the TQL Stadium... Arsenal 2, Pachuca 0. Good night."
And with that, the broadcast faded out, the last image, a wide shot of the pitch under lights, empty now except for groundsmen moving slowly across it, rakes in hand, as the hum of victory hung faintly in the humid air.
....
In the dimly lit living room in Hampstead, the afterglow of the match was still flickering across the wide TV screen.
The post-match analysis had long given way to replays and sponsor reels, yet the Hernandez family still lingered where they were, half-slouched, half-engaged, each in their own comfortable sprawl.
Hori, curled on the far end of the couch with a pillow hugged to her chest, turned toward Izan.
"Why did your team look so... mortal today?" she asked, brow creasing.
"I mean, Pachuca wasnât even supposed to be that much of a threat."
Izan, lounging in a loose tee and sweatpants, tilted his head toward her with a faint grin.
"Football is unpredictable. Also, youâre forgetting one thing," he began, stretching his legs out.
"Most of those guys have already played over fifty games this season. I think I clocked around sixty-four, and thatâs not even counting the ones during international breaks."
He paused, rubbing a hand over his face as if just mentioning it made him tired again.
"It was always going to take a toll," he said.
"Add that to the fact that theyâre playing under blazing heat, and youâve got to remember, most of them are used to freezing rain, not Cincinnati sun."
He gave a soft chuckle, summing it up simply, "In short, theyâre hot, theyâre tired, and theyâre human."
Olivia, sprawled beside him on the couch, gave a lazy hum of agreement, her eyes half-closed.
Izan reached for his phone on the coffee table and scrolled through the tournament app.
"Next gameâs on the twenty-second," he said after a beat.
"Against Al Hilal. Four days. Thatâs plenty of time for them to recover... and for me to keep lazing around before I fly out."
Miranda, who had been flipping through a stack of folders beside her, glanced up.
"You should probably go at least two days earlier," she said.
"You still have the brand deals to finish, Purina, â"
Izan groaned before she even finished the sentence, leaning back dramatically into the couch.
"No, no, no. Donât remind me. I still havenât recovered from the last one," he said, hand to his chest in mock agony.
"Fourteen hours, Miranda. Fourteen. Standing there while they strapped sensors all over me like I was some sci-fi experiment. If I knew that was what was going to happen, I would have flown to the shoot in the US and then come back again. Iâm still traumatised."
Mirandaâs lips twitched, fighting a smile.
"But you survived", she said dryly.
"I wonât," Izan replied flatly, already pushing himself up.
"And thatâs why Iâm staying right here till the last possible minute." He stretched, yawning as he began heading toward the stairs.
"Iâm off before anyone else gives me homework."
While Izan and Miranda continued bickering, Komi, without missing a beat, reached for the remote and switched the channel.
The bright colours of a rainforest documentary filled the room, birds shrieking, water dripping, and sunlight cutting through the green canopy.
"Ah," she sighed contentedly, leaning back.
"Now this... is real football."
Olivia snorted softly at that, and Hori rolled her eyes as the sounds of Izanâs footsteps faded upstairs, his mock complaints echoing faintly down the hallway, swallowed by the calm hum of nature on screen.
Upstairs, Izan pushed his door open before closing it with his feet.
He tossed his phone onto the bed, only to pick it up again a second later, grinning as he dropped a message into the team group chat.
Izan:
My little sister just said we looked mortal. Said we didnât even look like Arsenal out there.
The typing bubbles popped up instantly, first one, then two, then five, like the whole squad had something to say at once.
The notifications rolled in for a second, his phone vibrating in his palm... and then suddenly, everything stopped.
The typing bubbles vanished. Total silence.
Izan blinked, waiting.
Then he started laughing, shaking his head.
"Yeah," he muttered, "Arteta mustâve walked into the locker room."
A single message finally came through, from Nwaneri.
Nwaneri:
Bro, even though I didnât play much, Iâm too tired to argue. Tell your sister itâs easy to talk from the couch when youâre not running in that heat.
Izan chuckled again, dropping his phone on the pillow and stretching out, a grin still on his face.
The chat stayed quiet after that, proof enough that the boss really
had
shown up.
....
[5 DAYS LATER]
The hum of the terminal filled the air, distant chatter, rolling luggage wheels, a faint announcement echoing through Philadelphia International Airport.
Izan sat near the pick-up lane, his suitcase turned into a makeshift seat.
His hoodie was pulled up, the drawstrings cinched tight, a black mask covering most of his face.
It was the perfect disguise, or so he thought.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun glared off the glass panels as a black SUV rolled up to the curb.
One of Arsenalâs player liaisons stepped out, phone in hand, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on Izan.
"Welcome to Philly," the man said warmly, reaching for Izanâs bag.
Izan shook his head, pushing himself to his feet.
"Itâs okay, Iâve got it," he said, his voice muffled through the mask.
He wheeled the bag to the back of the car and lifted it in.
He was just about to pull open the passenger door when a voice came from behind him.
"Excuse me, but are you... Izan?"
The tone was uncertain, but hopeful.
Izan turned, his brow raising slightly.
The speaker was a young guy, maybe early twenties, clutching a hoodie and a marker with the kind of nervous energy only true fans carried.
Izan hesitated for a beat, then nodded.
The guyâs reaction was instant, a small, disbelieving laugh, half-cheer, half-gasp, before he stammered, "Could youâuhâcould you sign this? Please?"
Izanâs eyes softened.
He reached up, tugged his mask down, revealing a faint smile.
"Sure," he said, taking the marker. "Whatâs your name?"
"Gray," the fan replied quickly, his voice trembling a little.
"Gray," Izan repeated, testing the name, a faint smirk tugging his lips.
"Nice one."
He leaned the fabric against the car door and wrote carefully:
Thanks for supporting me, Gray.
â
Izan
Gray held up the signed cloth like it was a relic, eyes wide, grin wide enough to hurt.
Izan chuckled under his breath, sliding the marker back into the fanâs hand.
"Howâd you even know it was me?" Izan asked, curiosity flickering across his face, as he put one hand on the doorknob.
"I meanâhoodie, mask, airportâitâs not exactly obvious."
Gray grinned, pointing at Izanâs sneakers.
"Those," he said confidently.
"Those are part of the SPZL lineup, with Liam and Noel of Oasis. They are supposed to be released only in Japan. Theyâre not even out yet. I figured if anyone was wearing them this early, it had to be
you.
Youâve got that build, too, so I took a shot."
Izan blinked, then laughed quietly, shaking his head.
"Fair play," he said, a bit unconvinced but with a half-smile before tugging the mask back over his face.
He gave Gray a small nod before slipping into the SUV, the door shutting with a clean click.
Through the tinted glass, Gray was still standing there, holding the signed hoodie like something sacred.
Izan leaned back against the seat, eyes glinting faintly under the shadow of his hood, before the SUV rolled out of the airport and into the hot Philadelphia evening.