It was barely 9 a.m. and the skies over London were already the usual shade of unbothered grey.
Izan stood by the drop-off curb with his hands in his pockets, hood up, waiting alongside Lamine, who was scrolling through his phone and sipping sothing suspiciously sweet from a takeaway cup.
"You dressed for the Arctic or what?" Izan asked, eyeing Lamine’s oversized hoodie, scarf, and the puffy black coat that looked like it had been borrowed from a mountaineering brand.
Lamine frowned as he tugged his suitcase forward.
"It’s cold."
"It’s London cold, not Greenland cold," Izan said, half-laughing as they walked through the polished floors of the private Heathrow terminal.
"You’re not gonna survive Manchester if City ever sign you. I heard Pep’s been moving around you."
Lamine rolled his eyes.
"I’d rather lt in Sevilla than freeze in that place."
They approached the glass doors that led to the VIP security wing, where a staff mber offered a polite nod, motioning Lamine forward, but he slowed down, shifting his bag onto his shoulder.
"Flick called earlier," he said casually, adjusting his hoodie.
Izan looked over. "You?"
Lamine nodded.
"Yeah. Asked when I’d be flying back in. Then told to say hi to you."
There was a pause.
"To ?" Izan said, raising a brow.
"Exactly," Lamine smirked, amused but clearly a little weirded out.
"Like bro...why?"
Izan gave a short laugh. "He’s laying bait."
"That’s what I said. Barca is doing early PR for a 2027 transfer window."
"Tell him if he wants , he should call Laporta and start a GoFund."
Lamine laughed, pulling the strap of his bag tighter across his chest.
"Imagine the Barca fans starting a petition: Free Izan from Premier League ball rchants."
Izan grinned.
"Let them try. I’d still need a ten-minute voice note from ssi before I even blink."
"By then you’ll be in your fourth Ballon d’Or campaign," Lamine replied as the security guard gestured for him again.
He paused, turned, and offered a fist bump.
"See you in the Quarters," he said.
"Pray we’re not on the sa side."
Izan smirked.
"Pray you make it past the opponents you draw."
Lamine chuckled, backing toward the corridor.
"Keep talking. You’ll see."
Then he turned, disappearing down the private hall while Izan adjusted his cap and headed back toward the exit.
That evening at Colney, the lights on the pitch had already dimd with the day’s late training winding down.
Mikel Arteta had delayed the final session just enough so the entire team could finish, eat, and watch the Champions League quarterfinal draw together.
The cafeteria had been cleared out, a large screen pulled down against the far wall.
Players filed in gradually—so still in base layers, others fresh from showers, plates of protein-heavy food in hand.
Izan settled in beside Declan and Odegaard, folding his arms as the program began.
The screen lit up as the ceremony began, and a quick recap ran through the surprises of the round.
Atlético knocked out, Manchester City collapsing, Juventus being edged out on a single goal, as well as others like AC Milan going out to Feyenoord and a shock Atalanta exit.
The lights in the cafeteria dimd just slightly as the ceremony’s stage brightened on the screen.
Players dug into their plates, drinks halfway lifted to their lips, conversations trailing off.
No matter how cool anyone tried to act, everyone was locked in now.
This was it.
The path to Munich
The host adjusted his tie, smiled at the cara, and reached into the first pot.
Paris Saint-Germain vs Aston Villa
A few raised brows with so murmuring being done, here and there.
"Villa again?" Rice said, leaning back in his chair.
"This man Ery is going to start asking for the Champions League trophy in Basque."
"PSG better not sleep on them," added Timber.
"Watkins on the break is evil."
The next draw ca: Barcelona vs Borussia Dortmund, and that one drew more noise.
A couple of players turned to glance toward Izan, who smirked as the yellow and red clashed on screen.
"Guess Flick’s prayers didn’t work," he murmured, half to himself.
"My money’s on Barcelona. Rapha is goated this season," Gabriel said as he brought a glass of juice to his mouth.
"You’re just saying that because he’s Brazilian," Havertz countered as the draw continued.
The host stepped right back in front of the pots and then took out the next matchup.
"Bayern Munich vs.....," Rice reiterated after the host brought Bayern’s na out.
And then, "Inter Milan" Calafiori called out as the na of the Italian team showed on the screen.
Suddenly, a chorus of groans rang out.
Because now, there were only two nas left.
Only two clubs were left in the pots, and Arsenal were not going to draw themselves.
Arsenal. Real Madrid.
The noise tapered off as the players looked around at each other.
So leaned forward while others sighed.
No quarter-final draw was easy, but eting the Champions League animals in Real Madrid wasn’t a fun challenge for any team, not even Arsenal, who were on a roll.
"So that’s how it’s gonna be," Gabriel said as he scratched the side of his neck. "We’ve been set up."
Declan offered a tight smile, clapping his hands once.
"Well. It was either now or later."
Then the final cards were turned on the screen — formality now.
Arsenal vs Real Madrid
Kai stood, stretching his arms, jaw clenched.
"They’re really trying to make this a Netflix docuntary, huh?"
"Madrid in April..."
Ben White let out a small scoff, eyes still on the screen.
"Not even gonna pretend to act surprised."
........
CBS Sports live.
The broadcast cut in with a swoop of light and motion.
Four pundits on a sleek studio set, screens behind them still glowing with the draw results.
For a second, they all sat still—almost stunned by what they’d just seen.
Then Micah Richards leaned forward, eyes wide, grin spreading like a kid on Christmas morning.
"The scriptwriters or UEFA are at it again!"
Carragher laughed, hands in the air.
"Mate, Bayern vs Inter and Arsenal vs Madrid?! That’s a Champions League Royal Rumble."
"Whoever’s drawing those balls needs arresting," Micah said, pointing at the cara.
"You don’t get matchups like that without soone slipping a na under the table."
Thierry Henry chuckled, calm but deadly serious.
"Bellingham’s going back to London," he said. "And he’s not coming for tea."
"I an, let’s be honest," Carragher added, "this is a test for Arsenal. You want to be the kings of Europe? You gotta go through the kingdom first."
"And what better way to do so than to play against history. To play against Real Madrid?"
The screen split briefly to show a collage of JMbappe and Jude Bellingham’s goals this season.
Micah whistled low.
"The latter hasn’t been that prolific this season compared to the previous, but his output has still been great for the role he’s been in this season. The Frenchman, on the other hand, who didn’t have the best of starts this season, had been outrageous lately, but Arsenal have Izan."
"Yeah," Jamie nodded, "and this tie might just be his stage."
Back in the cafeteria, the players were still watching.
So had finished eating while others were still poking at their food without looking down.
It wasn’t matchday yet, but the focus was already settling in.
Izan sat still, arms crossed, gaze locked on the screen.
Rice nudged him gently. "You hear Henry?"
Izan gave the faintest nod. "Yeah. I heard."
"And Saka had to be injured around this ti of all days in the season."
Izan smiled at Rice’s words, but the buzz across the table made him reach for his phone under the table, screen lighting up as he unlocked it.
It was Lamine.
The first thing Izan saw was a GIF — so animated cartoon tipping its hat with a glittering caption that read "Lucky you."
A second later, Lamine’s ssage followed:
"You’re lucky you didn’t et us. Complete opposite paths, so we only get to et if Arsenal can join in the finals. The football gods must like you today."
Izan smirked as he typed back,
"How’d you ever convince yourself you’d win between the two of us anyway?"
He didn’t get a response imdiately.
The three dots flickered on and off.
Typing. Paused and then, typing again.
Then another ssage slid in — but this one wasn’t from Lamine.
It was Jude Bellingham.
"London’s weather still as nice this ti of year?" it read. "Asking for a friend."
Izan scoffed under his breath.
Like, Birmingham was a different country.
He locked the phone and leaned back, eyes still on the screen ahead.
"Depends on what your business is here. If you are coming to take sothing from London, then the weather might not be favourable for you."
A/N: Sorry, guys. I don’t have a really viable excuse, except I have one. I downloaded the Beta 4 version of the IOS 26 on my main phone to see what it was like after the previous versions didn’t hit, and nearly got brain damage from trying to restore it back to 18.
I didn’t have my laptop with , so I had to use the plot points I had on my phone, which had to go into surgery, and that is the reason for my not being able to release the 5 Chapters, but don’t worry. I have all day tomorrow and will catch up. Have fun reading, and Good night after the next Chapter.
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