God Of football-Chapter 353: First Session

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The car glided through the gates of London Colney, Arsenal’s fortress of footballing excellence.

Izan sat back, staring through the tinted windows as the facility came into view.

Pristine pitches stretched into the distance. Buildings sleek, modern, and intimidating.

A new club. A new country. A new reality.

As the car came to a stop, Izan exhaled slowly. He’d done this before. But not like this.

The door opened, and he stepped out, instantly greeted by a crisp morning breeze.

A man was waiting for him—well-dressed, professional, with a practiced smile on his face.

"Izan, welcome. I’m Mark, player liaison. I’ll be helping you settle in."

Izan gave a slight nod. "Appreciate it."

He didn’t need a guide. He understood the process. But there was something about today—about Arsenal—that made everything feel heavier.

As they walked, the weight of his transfer followed him like a shadow. €125 million.

The most expensive signing in Arsenal’s history. The Premier League’s summer headline.

And nobody had forgotten.

Eyes flickered toward him as staff members passed by. Some offered polite nods, others lingered a second too long.

He was the story today. The pressure wasn’t spoken, but it was there, thick in the air.

Inside, the walls were lined with history. Arsenal legends. Trophies. The past loomed over him. He was here to shape the future.

"First stop, medical," Mark said, leading him through a corridor. "Standard checks. Won’t take long."

Izan nodded thinking about the medicals he had done the day he signed the contract but he quickly shook his head and followed.

The medical room was sterile, silent except for the hum of machinery.

The club’s top physiologists worked efficiently, their eyes sharp, their movements meticulous.

Blood work. Flexibility tests. Strength analysis. Every number mattered. Every detail scrutinized.

"You’re in incredible shape," one of them remarked. "No surprise, but still…"

Still.

Still not enough to silence the doubts? Still not enough to justify the fee?

Izan didn’t react, simply nodding. He wasn’t here to impress with words.

Once cleared, Mark led him deeper into the facility.

"Next up—the squad."

The moment Izan stepped in, conversations dipped. Eyes turned. Recognition. Curiosity. Expectation.

He walked forward, expression unreadable. This wasn’t new. But the weight here was different.

Then—

"Well, look who finally decided to show up," Martin Ødegaard called out, a grin cutting through the tension.

Izan met his gaze, smirking slightly. "Wanted to make an entrance."

Laughter, though brief. It was a test. The first of many.

Ødegaard stepped forward, shaking his hand firmly. "Good to have you here, man. Excited to see what you bring."

Declan Rice leaned forward, smirking. "No pressure, yeah? Just the most expensive signing in club history. No big deal."

The comment was casual.

Izan shook hands with him next, then with Saka, Jesus, Ben White, Gabriel, Ramsdale—one by one, taking in the small details.

The looks exchanged. Some welcoming. Some reserved. Some waiting to see if he was truly worth it.

The Premier League was different. Arsenal was different. And they needed him to be different too.

A sharp clap soon followed

Everyone turned as Mikel Arteta entered, his presence cutting through the noise like a blade. His gaze landed on Izan, assessing, reading.

And then—he nodded.

"Alright, now that he’s here, let’s make it official."

The players gathered closer. No speech.

"You all know who he is. We know why he’s here. Let’s make sure he feels at home."

A few nods. Some murmurs. But the real acceptance wouldn’t come today. It would come on the pitch.

Arteta’s voice sharpened. "Now—training in ten."

The team nodded and broke off, some heading toward their lockers, others toward the tunnel. Izan stood for a moment, breathing in the moment.

He looked around and found his locker where the number 10 showed. He walked towards it and took out his training kit that had "HIM. 10" pattern on it.

He put it on after a moment and proceeded to pick up his duffle bag.

He sat at his locker, unzipping his bag with the same quiet focus he had carried throughout the morning. No nerves. No hesitation. Just a process.

Then he pulled them out.

Adidas boots—a fresh, white pair with bold red stripes, mirroring the Arsenal colors with the same "HIM" on the side but this time, with a number 10 attached.

The moment they left the bag, they caught the light—and just as quickly, they caught attention.

It took seconds for people to notice.

"Oh, Adidas really laced him up for this one," Gabriel Jesus muttered, glancing over.

Declan Rice, tying up his own boots, smirked. "Straight into the custom colorways? Haven’t even kicked a ball yet."

Izan didn’t react immediately, sliding his foot into the boot with practiced ease.

"Something like that."

The reactions were mixed—some amused, some nodding in approval, some just watching.

Bukayo Saka, already lacing up his own Adidas pair, nudged Martin Ødegaard with a grin.

"Bro, they really gave him Arsenal-themed boots before he’s even played. We need to have words."

Ødegaard chuckled but kept his eyes on Izan. He had seen plenty of big names before.

Some forced their confidence, tried too hard to belong. But Izan? He just was.

Saka wasn’t done.

"Nah, let me hold them real quick." He reached over, lifting one of the boots to inspect it like a sneakerhead eyeing a rare release.

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"Yeah, these are clean. What’s the tech saying?"

Izan finally looked up, a small smirk breaking his calm demeanor. "Touch them on the pitch, not in the locker room."

Saka chuckled before tossing them to Izan.

"Guess will see" he muttered before leaving.

....

The Arsenal squad gathered in front of Mikel Arteta, who stood in the middle of the training ground with his usual focused expression.

His hands were clasped behind his back as he scanned the players, eyes briefly resting on Izan before moving on.

"Alright," he began, voice carrying across the pitch. "First session, first impressions. For some of you, it’s about maintaining your standards. For others, it’s about setting new ones."

His gaze flickered back to Izan for the briefest moment before he continued.

"We start with sharpness. Speed. Agility. You know the drill."

The coaching staff signaled toward the far side of the pitch, where cones, poles, and sprint markers were laid out.

The air shifted. There was an unspoken understanding—this was where physical levels were exposed.

Some players thrived in these drills. Saka’s acceleration was explosive. Martinelli had a deadly first step. Even Rice, despite his size, moved with deceptive quickness.

Then there was Izan.

The first drill? 20-meter sprints.

They lined up in pairs, and Izan found himself next to none other than Saka.

A whistle blew.

Izan exploded forward.

His reaction time was razor-sharp, his body immediately in sync with the motion. His white-and-red Adidas boots barely touched the ground before launching him into the next stride.

Saka was fast. But Izan? Different.

By the 15-meter mark, he was already a step ahead, and by the time they crossed the finish, the gap was undeniable. Not massive, but there.

The coaches exchanged subtle glances.

"Man’s got rockets in his boots," someone muttered.

Next, agility drills.

A slalom course of cones and poles. Close control, balance, rapid changes in direction.

Izan barely slowed down. Every turn was razor-sharp. Every movement was precise. Where others had to adjust their steps, he cut through the course like a blade.

A few of the players watching couldn’t help but raise their brows.

"Nah, that’s ridiculous," Martinelli murmured.

Rice folded his arms, observing quietly. "He moves like he’s already mid-season."

Arteta said nothing. But his expression?

Noted.

Izan wasn’t just fitting in. He was setting the pace.

Afterward, the players formed a large circle. Rondo time.

Two in the middle. Quick passing. Lose the ball, you go in.

Arteta clapped his hands. "Let’s see the tempo."

The ball zipped around at high speed.

Ødegaard, Jorginho, and Rice orchestrated from the center, dictating play.

Then Izan got involved.

The ball came to him at a tricky height, but his touch? Perfect. He cushioned it, flicked it past a lunging defender, and threaded a no-look pass through the tightest of gaps.

Gasps.

Martinelli smirked. "He’s showing off already."

Izan wasn’t. That was just how he played.

After a few more drills, Arteta clapped his hands. "Good. Now, into the small-sided game."

The players were split into five-a-team and soon a whistle followed. Game on.

The ball rolled toward Jorginho, and instantly, Izan sprinted into space.

Jorginho saw the movement and clipped a pass over. A tight angle, a bouncing ball—but Izan adjusted perfectly.

A single touch with his left foot—then a quick outside boot pass into Ødegaard’s path.

Ødegaard met the ball and sent a first-time shot.

Goal.

1-0.

Izan barely reacted. Just a nod, already moving.

Saka and Rice shared a look. Alright, then.

Declan Rice stepped after the restart higher, trying to cut off Izan’s rhythm.

Rice was elite in duels. Aggressive, sharp, and always in the right position. But Izan? He welcomed it.

A quick one-two with Martinelli— and he was gone.

Rice lunged, yet Izan shifted his body just out of reach.

A burst of speed and suddenly he was through.

Saka chased.

Izan felt the pressure, slowed slightly—and then cut inside sharply before sending a low, driven shot.

2-0.

Silence for a second. Then murmurs.

Trossard shook his head with a half-smile.

Saka, irritated, pressed harder.

At one point, he nicked the ball from Izan’s blindside and burst forward.

Izan didn’t complain—he chased.

A full sprint back, shoulder to shoulder.

Saka tried to shield it, but Izan angled his body perfectly, hooked a foot around the ball, and stole it back.

Arteta’s eyes flickered with an unrecognizable emotion. This was why Arsenal fought for him.

Ødegaard received the ball near the center after the Izan tackle but the latter gestured. Give it.

A pass zipped toward him.

Timber closed in fast.

But Izan let the ball roll past his body, a subtle feint that sent Timber lunging the wrong way.

One touch. Two. Space opened.

From distance, he struck.

The ball zipped across the ground—perfectly placed, bottom corner.

3-0. Game.

As they walked off, Martinelli nudged Ødegaard. "Yeah… he’s HIM."