The last echoes of laughter and the shuffle of boots faded as the players filed toward the recovery room — ice baths, massages, muscle flushing before the next day's tactical grind.
Outside, under the muted fluorescent lights of the coaching offices, Arteta sat with his core staff — a few tablets spread out on the table, clips paused mid-fra, lineup boards wiped clean, ready for nas to be written in.
They didn't rush.
The real work always started in these monts, when the noise thinned, and only the hard questions remained.
Carlos Cuesta, ever ticulous, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely.
"Izan looks fine," he said first. "Sharp. Maybe sharper than before the break, sohow. But—"
He paused, choosing his words.
"We still need to manage it. He's still growing. A knock could be detrintal, and you know how things get between us and those white chickens. He's just co back. Maybe we save him for Atalanta — fresh legs, fresh mind."
Nico Jover, the set-piece specialist, nodded thoughtfully.
"Against Tottenham, we can solve with what we have. Experience. Structure. No need to rush it."
There was a low murmur of agreent around the table.
Conservative. Logical. The kind of caution big clubs often fell into — when every match was a risk calculated in months, not minutes.
Arteta listened, face unreadable.
Fingers steepled lightly under his chin.
Silent until the room naturally quieted itself, waiting for his call.
Then he smiled.
A small, knowing thing — almost amused, but not warm.
"That's exactly what everyone else thinks," he said, voice quiet but cutting through the room like a thread pulled taut.
"They look at him, and they see so kid even though he's proved ti and ti again that he is not just that."
He let that hang for half a beat, long enough for it to settle.
"And that's how he punishes them."
"When he's on the pitch, he isn't just so kid," Arteta continued, tapping his fingers once against the tabletop for emphasis.
"He doesn't play like it. He doesn't move like it. He doesn't think like it. Forget the number."
The coaches exchanged glances — so nodding, so simply absorbing it, the tone set now without room for argunt.
Arteta stood slowly, pacing toward the lineup board with the dry-erase marker in hand.
When he spoke next, it was with the sa calm precision he demanded from his players.
"Raya."
A tap of the pen.
"Saliba. Gabriel. White. Zinchenko."
Another tap after each. No discussion — just the nas that picked themselves.
He paused.
"Partey, Declan and Ødegaard."
Another pause. Longer now, the midfield needing careful shaping.
Options shifting quietly in the air between them.
The room leaned in as he continued, nas and shapes slowly taking form.
The hum of the projector grew softer.
The markers squeaked once against the board, then stopped.
Outside, the London sky had darkened into a heavy gray, the promise of rain folding over the city.
Inside the room, everything hung in a delicate balance — preparation sharpening into inevitability.
..........
The evening of the day before the match, Arsenal's PR team posted across their socials — a clean, sharp graphic of Izan:
IZAN HERNÁNDEZ
FIRST NORTH LONDON DERBY LOADING...
#Soon #NorthLondonDerby | #AFC | #COYG
The photo showed him during training — sleeves pushed up, ball tucked under his arm, the looming Emirates arches blurred out behind him.
The caption underneath was simple:
"The first of many. What do you think will happen tomorrow? "
Within minutes, the comnt sections ignited.
—
@GoonerJakey:
"He's gonna cook Van de Ven so bad, man, I can sll it already."
@COYG_gs:
"16 in age, 26 in soul. Tottenham ain't ready."
@RivalTearsDaily:
"Bro's composure is ILLEGAL. Spurs fans are shaking."
But the Tottenham lot fired back just as fast:
@HotspurHearts:
"All this hype for a kid who's gonna get sent to row Z by VDV."
@SpursNation7:
Enjoy the s when Izan gets pocketed tomorrow. Bookmarking this."
@RealMaddersMagic:
"When Van de Ven straps him up and throws away the key, don't cry about it."
It could have been it, but then the Gooners responded in kind, digging deeper into the trenches:
@AFCJules:
"They laughed at Saka once, too. Look at them now."
@Izan'swife: Tottenham fans talking about us hyping Izan when that's all they do with Brennan Johnson is really funny to
@ParteyTi:
"Bro, they're coping hard already, and the ball hasn't even been kicked yet."
@YoungGunnersClub:
"Imagine needing two defenders to stop a not-yet 17-year-old.
By the ti evening rolled around, Izan's na was trending across London —half the city waiting to crown him,
half the city waiting to tear him down.
Either way, they'd all know the results once the match began.
............
The morning of the match buzzed with a strange kind of quiet energy — the calm before a war drum.
Izan moved through his apartnt with his usual efficiency: bag packed, boots checked twice, headphones around his neck.
His Arsenal travel kit — black and sleek with the gold accents — fit sharp against his fra, the club crest almost glowing under the morning light seeping through the windows.
At the door, Olivia hovered, still in her university hoodie, half-asleep but smiling.
She reached up without hesitation and kissed his cheek — a quick, warm touch, a small ritual that had beco automatic between them.
"Kill it today," she said softly.
"I'll co straight after class. I'll be at the stadium. Supporting, screaming, everything."
Izan couldn't help the low laugh that escaped him, deep and genuine — the rare kind that softened the sharpness he usually carried.
He kissed her forehead in return, a quick, sure press.
"Don't get kicked out," he murmured, voice teasing but almost tender.
Olivia rolled her eyes, shoving him lightly in the chest.
"Go. Before you're late and they bla ."
Izan chuckled again under his breath, stepping back and pulling on his cap.
When he exited onto the curb, the air was cool and brisk — London sharpening its edges for Derby Day.
Waiting by the car was the sa driver from the airport pickup, dressed in black again, a quiet sentinel against the rising noise of the city.
The door swung open smoothly, and without another glance behind, Izan climbed in.
The door shut with a firm click, sealing him into the quiet space of the ride —his world narrowing, focusing, sharpening into the long, tense hours that lay ahead.
Colney first.
Then the war at Tottenham's ground.
............
The sky over North London looked fractured — bruised clouds shifting restlessly above the sweeping curve of the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium.
Below, the air crackled — thousands of Spurs fans already crowding the plazas and walkways, the buzz of conversation edged with sothing darker.
A desperation not to lose.
Outside the main entrance, reporters prowled with their crews, weaving through the dense crowds, microphones thrust into the faces of fans already two or three pints deep.
"Predictions for today?" one of the broadcasters asked, angling toward a group of Tottenham supporters draped in scarves and flags.
"Three-one to the good guys," one of them barked imdiately, grinning wide.
"We'll expose that little Spanish wonderkid today, just you watch," another added, laughter rippling around him.
"You lot are in for a reality check!" a third shouted directly into the cara, voice rising above the background roar.
Their confidence wasn't quiet.
It was loud, brash, and threaded with the kind of spite that could only exist between these two clubs.
The reporter smiled, already shifting to move on to the next huddle —
— when the air changed.
It started as a murmur at the far edge of the crowd, a movent like animals sensing sothing unseen.
Then ca the sound — low engines humming under the afternoon sky — growing louder, closer.
All eyes turned.
Phones shot up like a sea of arms.
The Arsenal team bus rounded the corner in a tight convoy, police motorcycles flanking its sides, sirens flashing but silent.
For half a second, there was a stunned stillness.
Then — chaos.
A knot of Tottenham fans broke loose from the barriers, slipping past stewards too slow to react.
They charged the side of the bus, fists slamming against the heavy tal panels with sharp, hollow thuds.
The noise was a mix of rage and triumph, as if just touching the bus might throw the Arsenal players off balance before the battle even began.
Inside the bus, the impact made the floor tremble lightly beneath their feet.
Izan sat by the window, headphones resting around his neck, watching it all through the tinted glass — the twisted faces, the fists pounding, the security scrambling to regain control.
Beside him, Saka leaned over slightly, elbow nudging against Izan's arm — a rare crack in Bukayo's usually easygoing exterior.
"Welco to the North London Derby," Saka said, the words low and almost fond — the way an older brother might warn a younger one of a storm already rolling in.
Izan's mouth tilted into a small, knowing grin.
He turned his head just enough for Saka to catch the look in his eyes — not fear, not nerves —
but sothing deeper.
Readiness.
He pulled his headphones up, sealing himself into a world where the noise couldn't touch him.
A/N: Okay so we won the Copa del rey and I couldnt sleep so i decided to be productive. Anyways, have fun reading and I'll see you in a few, sleep hours.
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