God Of football-Chapter 471: Laugh Now, Cry Later [GT ]

Chapter 471: Laugh Now, Cry Later [GT Chapter]

The lights dimmed as the projector screen flickered to life, painting tactical lines across the room’s stillness.

Mikel Arteta stood at the front, remote in hand, his presence cutting clean through the hum of chatter.

The first frame paused on Manchester City’s crest before it transitioned to a freeze-frame of their last Premier League match.

“They’re still the standard,” Arteta said.

“Even with a few players missing for the match and the departure of others like Alvarez, they’ll still be the team to beat.”

The screen shifted to footage of Phil Foden drifting inside from the left.

Arteta drew lines across the tactical board showing Foden, De Bruyne, and Bernardo Silva all rotating into half-spaces.

“They don’t need a pure striker to kill you. They drown you. Runners in waves. Gaps exploited. That third man movement still defines them.”

Declan Rice leaned forward.

“What’s the shape, boss? They still in that 3-2-4-1 when they’re building?”

Arteta nodded. “Yep. Ake inverting again. Kovacic or Nunes beside Rodri when they rest with five. Walker tucks or stretches depending on who’s on the pitch.”

The screen flicked to Erling Haaland, ghosting between center-backs, then bullying one aside with absurd ease.

“Haaland’s numbers speak for themselves,” Arteta continued.

“Don’t think we can win a duel. Win the moments. Anticipate the pass before it’s played.”

Ben White raised his hand, eyes squinting at a sequence.

“If Haaland pulls wide, what’s the trigger?”

“Partey presses. Saliba holds the zone. No chasing ghosts.” Arteta emphasized, gesturing to a freeze-frame of Arsenal’s backline from the previous season.

“We defend as one. They’ll try to unbalance us through rhythm. We respond with structure.”

Ødegaard sat with ice wrapped around his ankle and leaned in with quiet intensity.

“Their left side’s more narrow since Doku’s arrival. More inside runners.”

Arteta gave a sharp nod.

“Exactly. Doku stretches the pitch horizontally, but that opens a trap for the diagonal cutback. We set the bait. Let them think they have the lane—then snap.”

The video shifted again. This time, to Izan Hernández, pressing high against Atalanta.

Arteta paused the screen as Izan led the line, shadowing a center-back’s angle while cutting off the passing lane to midfield.

“This is what I want again. Izan pressing with precision. Not chasing, guiding. When we win it back, it’s four seconds. Decision. Execution.”

Izan’s eyes didn’t move from the screen, his jaw tight.

“We’ve got them Sunday,” Arteta said. “Everyone’s talking about how we’re too young. That we’ll fade come December. That we don’t have their bench, their muscle, their machine.”

He clicked off the projector. The room was dark for a breath. Then the lights returned.

“But we’ve got this. We’ve got us. Let’s ruin their weekend.”

A low ripple of murmured agreement filled the space, not loud, just conviction brewing.

“Now get recovered. We go again lighter tomorrow morning for the clash.”

………..

Etihad Campus, Tactical Briefing Room

Saturday, 3:42 PM – The Day Before Arsenal v Man City

The team had just finished a short, high-tempo rondo out on the training pitch and filtered into the theatre-style video room, most still toweling sweat off their necks or sipping on electrolyte drinks.

The mood was light — the kind of relaxed, banter-laced atmosphere you’d expect from a team that had lifted four of the last five Premier League titles.

Phil Foden walked in talking to Rico Lewis, while Kyle Walker chuckled about something with Rodri, who sat in the row behind him.

Bernardo Silva, legs crossed, hummed a Portuguese tune under his breath while Jeremy Doku and Matheus Nunes playfully shoved each other on the way in.

This wasn’t arrogance — it was a room full of winners. Champions. Settled and Certain.

And then came the screen.

The lights dimmed. The projector clicked.

On-screen, in stark, bold letters, two lines appeared:

“Tactical Prep – Arsenal”

“HOW TO STOP IZAN HERNÁNDEZ.”

It hung there in silence for half a second before Bernardo Silva burst into a laugh. “No way that’s the title,” he whispered.

“This kid is really something,” Doku smirked.

“He’s got Pep of all people joining in on the glaze and building presentations for him now.”

“He’s good, sure,” Foden added, arms folded, “but they’ll build a statue if we let him think he’s that guy.”

The laughter gained steam, rippling through the room.

A few clapped ironically.

Walker looked around, grinning. “Pep’s tryna make a movie.”

Then the quiet crack of a bottle cap snapped all their attention forward.

Pep Guardiola was still at the front — unmoved, arms crossed, watching them.

His lips curled into a faint smile, but his eyes weren’t smiling.

Not even a little.

He waited.

Laughter faded. The room hushed.

Pep clicked the remote again.

The next slide appeared — a freeze-frame from Arsenal’s match in Bergamo.

Izan Hernández, dragging Lookman across the pitch like a lost parachute, shirt clutched in his fist.

The ball in motion, a foot from his laces. And then—

Frame two: The strike.

The knuckleball, suspended mid-flight, on a line toward the top corner.

Frame three: The net rippling violently. The keeper a second too late. The crowd — some frozen in awe, others already screaming.

Pep turned back to them.

“I want you to remember that moment.”

Nobody spoke. A few leaned forward slightly in their seats.

He clicked again.

Now the slide was Izan’s heatmap from that game. Red lines everywhere.

Final third, middle third, even near his own box. He’d covered more ground than any other Arsenal player.

“As young as you call him,” Pep said finally, repeating their words back to them — but his voice was razor sharp, all pretense gone.

“And no one could take the ball off him.”

He pointed at the map. “You think he stays in one lane? Do you think he hugs the left or waits up front like some of you do? No. He floats. He presses. He runs. And he bites. Like a dog. Like a player who doesn’t know he should be afraid of us.”

Silence.

He stepped forward. His tone dropped low.

“Laugh now. Because tomorrow, when he drops into the pocket behind Rodri, when he pulls Akanji wide when he twists inside Lewis’s blind side, I want to see who’s still laughing.”

He let it hang in the air.

Then nodded once to his analyst, who queued up the first clip of Izan’s off-ball movement.

“Let’s begin.”

………..

Colney– Late Afternoon, Post-Video Session

The players trickled out of the video session, some still chatting about Pep’s ominous warnings, but there was a quiet tension in the air.

The energy had shifted — from relaxed banter to the understanding that Sunday’s clash with Manchester City wasn’t just another match.

It was a statement.

For Izan, it was more than just three points; it was his platform to prove his worth at the highest level.

Izan exited the building, his mind still humming with the tactical points discussed in the session.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He answered it without even looking — a habit he’d picked up.

“Yeah?” he said, voice steady but carrying a hint of anticipation.

“Hey, it’s Miranda,” came the smooth voice of his agent, crisp and efficient as always.

“Just wanted to check in before you head home. How’s everything? Prepping for Sunday?”

Izan adjusted his bag over his shoulder as he made his way toward the parking lot.

“It’s been intense. City’s gonna be a tough one, but I’m ready.”

“Good,” Miranda replied, “I’ll leave the negotiations for later, we’ve got a few weeks for that anyway.”

She paused for a beat before adding, “I just dropped off some papers for your driver’s license. Had to get that sorted. You know how these things go.”

He nodded. “I’ll look them over.”

“You’ve got a busy week ahead of you,” Miranda’s tone softened slightly.

“I know that. But don’t forget to ease in, alright? You’ve been putting in the work, but take some time for yourself, too. Focus on what you do best.”

Izan smiled faintly as he reached his car. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Miranda was quiet for a second, almost as if she was about to say more.

But then, in her usual no-nonsense tone, she concluded, “And don’t forget — you deserve the cuddles too, kid. Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll try,” Izan said with a slight chuckle before she hung up.

Izan arrived home shortly after, greeted by the familiar, cozy warmth of the flat he shared with Olivia.

She was in the kitchen, already whipping up something — probably pasta or another of her simple, delicious meals.

The scent hit him as soon as he stepped through the door.

He dropped his bag by the door, stripping off his jacket as he walked into the kitchen, where Olivia was humming along to a song on the radio.

She glanced up as he entered.

“Long day?” she asked, her smile soft and knowing.

“Yeah, but we’re in for a big one,” he replied, leaning against the counter.

She raised an eyebrow, half-pretending to be suspicious.

“Another Manchester City lecture?”

Izan shrugged with a grin. “You could say that.”

Olivia chuckled and then turned her attention back to what she was doing.

“You need anything? Or should we just focus on the cuddles?”

“I think I’ll take you up on that,” he said, pushing away from the counter, his tone shifting.

Just as he was about to walk over to her, his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen.

It was a text from Miranda: “Remember to chill tonight. Don’t overthink tomorrow.”

Izan smirked, pocketing the phone. “Guess Miranda really wants me to ease in.”

Olivia shot him a playful look. “Well, she’s not wrong. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Izan said, stepping closer, his hand finding hers.

“Time to do my best and let you distract me from all that.”

“Good luck with that,” she teased, her fingers interlacing with his as she stepped into his arms.

A/n; GT chapter. Have fun reading.

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