As the coach stepped back, conversations picked up again. A few players slapped Izan's back in passing, acknowledging his impact on the ga.
Bukayo Saka gave him a grin as he walked by. "That basketball celebration, though? You been practicing?"
Izan smirked. "Sothing like that."
He settled onto the bench, untying his boots, as the room slowly transitioned from post-match analysis to preparation for departure.
So players headed for the showers, others packed their bags, the hum of casual chatter filling the space.
Preseason or not, it was another ga in the books. Another step forward.
....
The team gradually filed out of the locker room, so still discussing the match in hushed tones, others simply eager to get back to the hotel.
Staff mbers moved swiftly around them, collecting gear, ensuring nothing was left behind.
As Izan slung his bag over his shoulder, he followed the stream of players toward the exit.
Outside, the night air was crisp, a welco contrast to the humid heat of the stadium.
The parking area was quiet, save for a few scattered fans still lingering beyond the barriers, hoping for autographs.
So of the players obliged, stopping briefly to sign shirts or take quick selfies, but most headed straight for the bus.
Izan climbed on, finding a window seat near the middle.
As he sat back, he stretched out his legs, letting his body relax for the first ti since stepping onto the pitch.
The rhythmic hum of the bus engine filled the space as more players took their seats.
Gabriel and Jorginho chatted in Portuguese a few rows ahead, while Saka scrolled through his phone, likely checking reactions to the ga.
Izan pulled out his phone, expecting the usual flood of ssages. As soon as he unlocked it, a call ca through—Olivia.
A small smirk touched his lips as he answered. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," her voice ca through smoothly, laced with amusent. "Saw the ga. I liked the goal."
"Just the goal?" he teased.
She let out a soft laugh. "I an, the assist was nice too. And the whole 'pri Barcelona' passing sequence you pulled off. But that celebration?"
Izan leaned his head back against the seat. "You didn't like it?"
"No, it was cute," Olivia admitted. "It's just funny seeing you do a basketball move on a football pitch."
"You know ," he said, closing his eyes briefly. "Gotta keep it interesting."
There was a slight pause before Olivia's tone softened. "You looked good out there. Sharp. Focused."
Izan glanced out the window as the bus began to move, the stadium lights fading behind them. "It's preseason," he said, though he appreciated the words.
"Still," Olivia replied. "I can tell you're settling in."
Izan didn't say anything to that, just let her words linger for a mont.
The bus rolled on through the quiet streets, the soft murmur of his teammates filling the background.
"You back at the hotel soon?" she asked.
"Yeah, probably twenty minutes."
"Alright," Olivia said, her voice warm. "I'll let you go. Just wanted to say congrats."
"Thanks," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "Talk later?"
"Of course."
As the call ended, Izan tucked his phone away, resting his arm against the window. The night blurred past outside, but his mind was already on what was next.
...…..
[Miami – Liverpool Pre-Season Training Camp]
The afternoon sun beat down on the training ground, drenching the pitch in golden light.
The Florida heat was unrelenting, the humidity thick in the air, but Liverpool's players pushed through the final phase of their session.
Arne Slot stood at the edge of the field, his arms crossed, watching his squad with a careful eye.
Despite the conditions, the intensity remained high. Virgil van Dijk and Ibrahima Konaté drilled their defensive movents, shuffling their feet in perfect sync as they tracked the wingers darting past them.
Mohad Salah, Luis Díaz, and Darwin Núñez worked through finishing drills, sending powerful shots past the keepers, while Dominik Szoboszlai and Alexis Mac Allister played quick, tight combinations in midfield.
Slot nodded in approval but remained silent. He didn't need to bark orders—his players already knew what was expected.
Finally, he lifted a hand and blew his whistle.
"That's it!" he called out, stepping forward as the players jogged toward him, their jerseys soaked with sweat. "Good work today."
The players slowed to a stop, forming a semi-circle around him. So stretched, others caught their breath, but all listened attentively.
"Take the rest of the day off," Slot announced. "And tomorrow too."
There was a brief pause before murmurs of appreciation rippled through the group. Rest days in preseason weren't common, especially with matches looming.
"Use the ti wisely," Slot continued. "Recover, hydrate, and be ready. We'll break down our approach to Arsenal before we step onto the pitch. That's all. Dismissed."
The players clapped their hands together before dispersing toward the locker rooms.
So spoke in small groups, others simply walked in silence, exhausted from the session.
Slot watched them for a mont before turning on his heel. His work wasn't done.
He had a eting to get to.
⸻
The lights were dimd, the only illumination coming from the large projector screen at the front of the conference room.
The air-conditioning humd softly in the background, cutting through the Miami heat.
Arne Slot sat at the head of the long table, his coaching staff gathered around him, each with laptops open, ready to take notes.
"Alright," Slot said, glancing toward his analyst. "Let's get into it."
The screen flickered, and the footage began to play—Arsenal's 4-3 victory over Bayer Leverkusen.
The coaches leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the way Mikel Arteta's team moved across the pitch.
"A lot of similarities to last season," one of the analysts noted. "But you can already see subtle differences in their play. The midfield is quicker.
More vertical passes. They aren't just moving the ball side to side, they're looking to penetrate faster."
Slot rubbed his chin as he watched Arsenal's defensive line shift smoothly, adapting to Leverkusen's movent.
"They're still adjusting," he murmured. "But they already look sharp."
He let the footage roll, watching Arsenal's attack unfold. The ball moved with purpose, the structure disciplined but fluid.
Then the analyst clicked ahead.
"Here's when Izan ca on," he said, shifting the video to the mont the young Spaniard stepped onto the pitch.
Slot leaned forward slightly.
The footage showed Izan settling into the ga, his first touches were simple but effective.
He played quick passes, moved into space, constantly scanning the field.
Then ca the disallowed goal—his ability to read the ga, intercept a pass, and disguise a through ball to Saka. It was instinctive, effortless.
Slot's brow furrowed, his attention fully locked on the screen.
And then, the real mont of brilliance.
The ball zipped between Arsenal's players, a flurry of one-touch passes pulling Leverkusen's defense apart.
Izan, at the heart of it, played his part with surgical precision before curling an unstoppable shot into the top corner.
The conference room fell silent as the net rippled.
Slot exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "He makes it look easy."
A quiet chuckle ca from across the table. One of the assistants smirked. "He was available, boss."
Slot leaned back in his chair, his eyes still on the screen. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know."
It wasn't frustration in his voice, but there was sothing close to it. Liverpool had tried to sign him.
They had been in the race, the discussions had happened.
But Arsenal had moved dominantly, securing the young talenteen though other parties like themselves had inquired early.
A generational player. Just out of their reach.
He clicked his tongue, still watching as the footage rolled.
Izan's celebration played on the screen—nothing over the top, just a quiet confidence about him.
One of the analysts tapped on his laptop.
"He's going to be a problem," he said. "Especially with how Arsenal play. If Arteta builds the system right, he'll thrive."
Slot smiled faintly, shaking his head. "Wish that deal had gone through," he admitted. "Would've loved to see him in a Liverpool shirt."
The room fell silent for a mont.
Then, the analyst clicked ahead, shifting the footage to another segnt. "Alright," he said. "Let's move on."
Slot straightened in his chair, refocusing. There was work to do. Arsenal would be their next test, and he needed his team ready.
.....
The Arsenal players made their way into the conference room, the hum of quiet conversation filling the space as they settled into their seats.
The air slled faintly of sweat and recovery drinks, remnants of the previous day's match still lingering.
Arteta stood at the front, arms crossed, his expression composed yet sharp with intent.
The room fell silent as he surveyed his players, and then his gaze landed on Izan.
"You're starting against Liverpool," Arteta said.
A few heads turned toward Izan, but he didn't react much—just a small nod, his expression unreadable.
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