A soft knock ca at the dressing room door, just barely heard over the low hum of players unwinding, murmuring among themselves, untying boots, and tugging at soaked kits.
The door cracked open, and a staff mber leaned in, expression hesitant.
"Mikel," he said carefully, "they're asking if you'll attend the press conference."
Arteta didn't look up right away.
He was sitting on the edge of the bench near the far wall, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight.
His brows were still knit, jaw still locked with the sa frustration he'd worn at full-ti.
Without shifting, he replied flatly, "Not tonight."
The room went quiet for a mont.
"You sure?" the staff mber asked.
Before Arteta could double down, Carlos Cuesta stood from where he'd been leaning near the back of the room.
He crossed to Arteta slowly, lowering his voice so the others wouldn't hear.
"I know you're angry," Carlos said.
"We all are. But you don't have a problem with the dia, Mikel. It's the referee you're upset with. And not showing up? That gives them an entirely different story."
Arteta looked up at him then, his eyes searching.
He didn't respond, but the silence was enough of a crack for Carlos to press further.
"We can't control what happened out there. But you can control the ssage. We can control our narrative."
Arteta exhaled through his nose, sitting up slightly.
His gaze drifted across the dressing room. So players were still in full kit, others shirtless and toweling off.
Saka sat slouched beside Tomiyasu, both of them quietly sipping on recovery drinks.
The two Goalkeepers, Ramsdale and Raya were exchanging words at the back, animatedly mimicking so close calls from the match.
And in the corner, Izan sat silent—still watching the match replay on the small monitor.
Arteta stared at him for a mont, eyes softening just a little. Then he shook his head.
"No," he murmured. "Not Izan. Not tonight."
Carlos gave a small nod, agreeing without question.
Arteta stood, ran a hand through his hair, and looked across the room again.
"Martin."
Ødegaard turned imdiately at the sound of his na, alert and composed even in his exhaustion.
"You're coming with ," Arteta said.
The captain nodded once and stood without hesitation, slipping on a clean track jacket.
Arteta followed him toward the door, glancing back once at the room full of players—tired, bruised, but still together.
And then he stepped out, ready to speak not just for himself, but for all of them.
...…..
The conference room was packed.
Journalists hunched over laptops, wires crisscrossed the floor, and caras blinked red in readiness.
The air buzzed with anticipation—this wasn't just a standard post-match press conference.
Everyone knew it. The questions wouldn't be about tactics or form.
They wanted fire. They wanted to know what Mikel Arteta had to say.
He entered quietly with Martin Ødegaard by his side. No wave to the caras. No greeting.
He sat down with a straight back, eyes focused ahead. The captain followed, calm but watchful, prepared to speak if needed.
A loud pause rang through the room as the moderator gave a nod.
The questions ca fast.
"First of all, Mikel—your reaction to Izan's red card?" One female journalist asked.
Arteta didn't hesitate. "It was wrong. A mistake. A bad one."
He folded his arms, his jaw tightening slightly.
"The first yellow was already Bogus. We all saw it. But the second… you're booking a sixteen-year-old kid for celebrating a goal.
No taunting, no shirt off, no delay—he celebrated with his teammates. That's what football is. And instead, we're down to ten n."
Another reporter chid in, voice raised over murmurs: "Is Arsenal planning to appeal?"
Arteta exhaled, then glanced at Ødegaard beside him.
The captain gave a faint nod, knowing the question would co.
"Yes," Arteta said. "We'll submit a petition to the FA. It's not about winning an appeal—we know the rules. Two yellows can't be overturned even if it was as a result of wrong judgnt.
But it's about sending a ssage. That what happened tonight was wrong. That decisions like that affect players, teams, even the whole competition."
He leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with the dia.
"Izan's a young player. His first away match in the Premier League. And instead of talking about how well he played or the goal he scored, we're here talking about cards that should never have happened."
A journalist in the back asked, "What do you make of the referee's performance overall?"
Arteta hesitated—just for a mont.
"I expected a whole lot better. We all did. We were told that officiating would improve this season.
That the training would be better. That decisions would be clearer. But it's matchday two, and already we're dealing with inconsistencies."
He shook his head, the frustration leaking through now.
"You saw the foul on Izan before the goal—he gets chopped down and it's just a yellow. Then he scores.
And instead of praising a brilliant team goal, the story becos the celebration. Then there's the early whistle at the end. I don't understand it."
Ødegaard finally spoke, voice asured. "We're not saying the referee was against us. But we're asking for consistency. That's all."
Another hand shot up. "Do you think these decisions affected the ga?"
Arteta gave a sharp laugh, more a breath than a chuckle.
"We won 3–0. And yes, it still affected the ga. It forced us to adapt. Forced us to cover more ground with ten n.
It put our players at risk of injury and fatigue because we had to chase more. It changed our substitutions."
Then, softer: "But credit to the players. They stayed focused.
They played with control. We defended well, we stayed together, and we finished the ga properly. I'm proud of them."
One last question ca in, cautious, "Will Izan start the next match if available?"
Arteta's answer was swift.
"If we could appeal the second yellow, he'd be the first na on the sheet."
Ødegaard nodded beside him.
"He deserves to play," the captain said simply.
The moderator glanced at the ti and then wrapped things up.
The caras clicked off, and microphones lowered.
Arteta and Ødegaard stood together, and without another word, they walked out—heads high, unified in silence.
...….
The murmur of the post-match conference gave the space a low hum, but Izan sat off to the side, scrolling through his phone with one hand, the other nursing a sore spot on his ribs from one of the many tackles he'd taken.
His phone buzzed with Miranda's na flashing on the screen. He answered quickly, his voice low.
"Hey."
"You good?" she asked, not wasting ti with pleasantries. "That second yellow was a joke. You flopped like you'd been tackled, not like you were taunting anyone."
"I know," Izan said, jaw clenched. "But the ref didn't care. He just saw on the floor and thought I was mocking them."
"Which you weren't. Honestly, you were on the receiving end of those challenges all ga.
If anything, that celebration was ironic—flopping because you'd been hacked the whole match."
Izan let out a dry breath, half a laugh. "Doesn't matter now. I'm suspended for the next one."
"You sure Arteta isn't appealing it?"
"He's going to try, but it won't work. Two yellows. Can't be overturned." Izan paused. "The whole thing is funny."
There was silence on the other end for a mont, then Miranda's voice softened.
"You played well, Izan. That goal? You killed it. Don't let this ruin it for you."
Before he could respond, the door creaked open.
Arteta and Odegaard stepped inside, looking composed now, but visibly tired.
Odegaard had a hand on his hip, the other clutching a water bottle. Arteta gave Izan a nod.
"Let's pack up. We're heading out."
Izan gave Miranda a quiet "I'll call you later" and ended the call.
He rose from the bench, grabbing his bag just as his phone rang again—this ti, Olivia.
He hesitated for half a second, then answered. "Hey."
"You did so well," she said before he could say a word. Her voice was soft, and there was a smile in it. "That goal… you really made it count."
"I got sent off for celebrating," he said dryly.
"I know," Olivia replied. "I saw. Still doesn't take away the goal."
"I flopped to the ground. That's all. Wasn't trying to provoke anyone."
"And anyone who watched the match knows that. You were getting kicked all over the pitch and still ran it. You didn't deserve that red."
Izan exhaled slowly. "You shouldn't wait up. It's a long trip back to London."
"I will," she said simply. "I'll be awake when you get in. At least, I hope and no arguing it." And before he could push back, the call ended.
He stared at the phone for a second, then tucked it into his bag and zipped it shut. Across the room, Odegaard gave him a small nod.
"Let's go," the captain said, shouldering his own bag.
Izan fell into step behind him, the weight of the ga still on his shoulders, but steadied by the support around him.
They walked out together toward the tunnel, where the bus was waiting to take them back to London.
A/n: 2nd of the day. Have fun reading.
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