Izan lingered near the edge of the field, observing.
He recognized a few faces imdiately—players he’d watched before, so he’d even played against in La Liga. But they were all teammates now.
Mikel Arteta stood nearby, arms crossed, watching his players with a sharp gaze.
Every now and then, he called out instructions, correcting positioning, and reinforcing tactical ideas.
The intensity of his presence was unmistakable.
Izan stayed back for a mont, just taking it all in. He’d been a Valencia man his entire life.
The badge on his training kit had always been the bat. Now, it was a cannon.
A new battlefield indeed.
One of the assistant coaches leaned toward Arteta, speaking low but clear enough for Izan to catch.
"Boss, Miura just arrived."
Arteta’s brow lifted slightly, his arms still folded as he turned his head.
Sure enough, Izan stood a short distance away, hands in his pockets, taking in the training session.
That was unexpected.
Arteta knew the boy had asked for a few extra days before officially joining training—ti to settle in, to adjust after his move.
Yet here he was, standing at the edge of the pitch, watching.
The manager took a mont, studying Izan’s body language.
The teenager didn’t look like soone just checking out his new surroundings. There was sothing sharper in his gaze, sothing calculated.
"Not wasting ti, huh?" he uttered before turning towards Izan.
A few of the players noticed Arteta moving, their eyes flickering toward the figure he was approaching.
So recognized him imdiately—after all, he was their new teammate, the signing that had sent waves through the footballing world.
Others, those who hadn’t been glued to transfer news, took an extra second.
Izan saw Arteta coming and straightened slightly.
He had expected to just observe from the sidelines, maybe get a feel for the intensity of training.
Instead, it looked like he was about to have his first real interaction with his new coach.
Arteta stopped a few steps in front of him, hands still tucked behind his back.
He didn’t greet Izan imdiately, just gave him a once-over, as if assessing sothing.
"Didn’t think I’d be seeing you here today," he finally said. "You asked for ti off."
His tone wasn’t accusatory—just an observation.
But there was sothing in the way he said it, sothing that made it clear he was curious about the reasoning.
Izan t his gaze, then gave a small shrug.
"I did," he admitted. "But I figured I should get familiar with the place before I start."
Arteta studied him for a mont longer, then gave a small nod. "Good," he said simply, though his expression remained unreadable.
Behind them, a few players were still sneaking glances, curious about their new teammate’s first interaction with the boss.
So had expected Izan to be the type to stroll in on the first official day, not soone who showed up early just to take in the atmosphere.
Arteta gestured toward the training pitches. "Co on," he said. "Since you’re here, let’s take a walk."
Izan fell into step beside him as they moved toward the heart of the facility.
The air was sharp with the scent of freshly cut grass, the sound of boots striking the ball echoing across the grounds.
"You watched the session?" Arteta asked.
Izan nodded. "For a bit."
"And?"
"Fast," Izan said, his voice even. "Intense."
Arteta’s lips curved slightly, just for a second. "Good."
They walked a little further, passing so of the coaching staff, who acknowledged Arteta with brief nods.
"What do you think you’ll need to adjust?" Arteta asked, his tone still casual, but Izan could tell he was gauging sothing.
Izan exhaled lightly, glancing at the players still training. "I won’t know for sure until I step in," he admitted.
"But I’ve been thinking about it. The space, the speed, the pressing… I’ll have to adapt fast."
Arteta nodded, as if satisfied with the answer. "You will," he said. "And you’ll have help."
Izan didn’t reply imdiately, just kept watching the training. He knew that. He wasn’t alone in this.
But adaptation wasn’t sothing he wanted to rely on others for. He wanted to be ahead of it.
Arteta seed to pick up on his thoughts because he spoke again, a bit quieter this ti.
"You don’t have to prove everything at once," he said. "Just be ready when it’s ti."
Izan turned to look at him, searching his face for any deeper aning behind the words. But Arteta was already looking ahead again.
A mont later, he stopped walking.
"Co in properly when you’re ready," he said. "For now, take your ti."
With that, he turned and walked back toward the coaches, leaving Izan standing there, the distant sound of the ball being struck filling the air again.
Izan stood there for a mont, hands in his pockets, watching Arteta walk away.
Take your ti.
He understood what the coach ant, but ti wasn’t sothing he planned on wasting.
His gaze drifted back to the training session. So of the Arsenal players were still at it, working on small-sided drills under the sharp eyes of the assistants.
Quick combinations, constant movent, sharp pressing. The intensity didn’t drop, even in what looked like the latter stages of training.
A few players had taken notice of him now, so openly glancing in his direction, others more subtle about it. Not hostility. Just curiosity.
He could already guess what so of them were thinking.
Izan Miura. The LaLiga Pichichi. Spain’s golden boy. Wonder how he’ll handle England.
He smirked slightly. He’d answer that soon enough.
For now, he turned away and started walking along the periter of the pitch, getting a better feel for the facility.
The training grounds weren’t just high-end—they were structured, and ticulous. Everything had a purpose.
As he moved past one of the smaller pitches, he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure jogging toward the sideline. Martin Ødegaard.
The Arsenal captain slowed when he saw Izan, then gave a nod, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"You’re early," Ødegaard said as he reached him, sweat still visible on his brow from the session.
Izan shrugged. "Figured I should see things for myself."
Ødegaard gave a small chuckle. "Not a bad idea." He glanced back at the session before eting Izan’s gaze again. "How’s it feel?"
Izan looked around briefly, then exhaled. "Different," he admitted. "But I like it."
Ødegaard studied him for a mont, then nodded. "Good." He shifted slightly, glancing toward Arteta, who was deep in conversation with his assistants.
"You spoke to the boss?"
"Yeah."
"How was it?"
Izan smirked slightly. "He told to take my ti."
Ødegaard’s lips twitched as if amused. "That sounds like him."
Izan glanced at the training again. "You guys don’t slow down, do you?"
Ødegaard shook his head. "Nope."
There was no arrogance in the answer—just a simple fact. Arsenal under Arteta had an identity, a rhythm, and everyone was expected to move at that pace.
Izan liked that.
Ødegaard studied him again, then tilted his head toward the main building. "Want a proper tour?"
Izan considered it for a mont, then nodded. "Yeah. Let’s do it."
...
Ødegaard led the way, keeping a steady pace as they crossed the training ground toward the main building.
The closer they got, the clearer Izan could see the details—glass-paneled walls, modern architecture blending seamlessly with the surrounding greenery.
Everything about it scread efficiency. Precision.
As they entered, the temperature dropped slightly, the cool air a welco contrast to the sumr heat outside.
The walls were lined with photos—iconic Arsenal monts, club legends, and snapshots from last season’s campaign.
Ødegaard gestured ahead. "Locker rooms, gym, recovery center—that way."
Izan nodded, taking it all in as they moved through the corridors.
The gym was massive, fitted with everything a player could need, from specialized machines to free weights to high-tech monitoring stations.
So players were still inside, finishing their post-training routines.
"Most guys do their extra work here," Ødegaard explained. "So stay longer than others. Depends on what they’re working on."
Izan spotted a few familiar faces. Gabriel Jesus, headphones in, working through a resistance drill.
Ben White and Declan Rice, casually talking near the hydration station.
Rice caught sight of them first. He nudged White, who turned as well.
"Well, well," Rice said, grinning as he approached. "The new boy’s already scoping out the place."
Izan smirked. "Figured I’d get a head start."
White gave a slight nod. "Smart."
Rice crossed his arms. "You settling in alright?"
Izan shrugged. "Just getting a feel for things."
Rice chuckled. "Good. Just know, mate—Premier League’s a different beast."
Izan t his gaze, unbothered. "Seen and heard the hyped so I’m counting on that."
There was a brief pause, then Rice’s grin widened. "I like that."
Ødegaard shook his head, amused. "Co on, let’s finish the tour before he starts challenging people."
They moved on, passing through the recovery area—a state-of-the-art section with everything from cryotherapy chambers to hydrotherapy pools.
"We spend a lot of ti here during the season," Ødegaard said. "Especially with how intense the schedule gets."
Izan nodded. He’d expected that. England didn’t just have a tougher league—it had more matches, more competitions, more physical demand.
As they neared the end of the tour, Ødegaard gestured toward a hallway. "Your locker’s already set up. You’ll see it when you join training properly."
Izan took a ntal note, then glanced around once more. He’d been in top facilities before—Valencia’s training ground was no joke—but this? It was different.
More than just the resources. It was the atmosphere. The energy.
He could feel it already.
This was the start of sothing new.
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