"Morning, Sandra," Izan said, not slowing as he passed the receptionist desk.
"Morning, love," she replied, handing a stack of envelopes to a passing intern.
Izan stopped for a bit, wondering where the kit bag he had co with was, but he had never co with it in the first place.
"I think I left my kitbag at ho," he mumbled as he turned towards the entrance, but a voice ca from behind.
"You left your kit bag here yesterday. It was very uncharacteristic of you, so we attributed it to the fact that you might have been tired out of your arse when you left due to yesterday’s session."
He gave a sheepish glance over his shoulder but didn’t stop.
Soone from logistics would’ve taken care of it anyway.
Down the corridor, he heard soone laughing.
Martinelli, probably.
As he pushed open the side door toward the inner wing, Declan was just pulling a protein bar out of the vending machine.
"You eat that like it’s not made of rubber," Izan said.
Declan grinned, tearing the wrapper with his teeth.
"It’s psychological. Makes feel like I’m early."
"You’re not."
"Neither are you."
They walked the rest of the hallway together, not saying much.
Inside the locker room, a few of the lads were already booting up, chatting across benches.
Timber sat around with one sock worn and the other in his hand like he had forgotten where to put it next.
There wasn’t much talk about their upcoming clash against Liverpool.
No, it was too close to na now.
After a while, Arteta stepped in with a pen tucked under his folded arm as he ca to a halt.
"Five minutes. When you’re ready," and ten minutes later, they were gathered in the analysis room. No one took a chair. Not even Arteta.
He leaned against the far table, watching them like he was reading sothing behind their eyes.
"We’re not rewriting anything. Sa thing we did to win 3-1 against Fulham." he started.
"This team — us — we’ve done enough rewriting this season."
"The others will change for us. Always. But we stay the sa."
He walked a few steps forward, setting the tablet down untouched.
"Because when Izan plays, they stop playing. Not right away. Not obviously. But you can feel it. Full-backs don’t overlap. Midfielders hesitate. Even their keeper starts second-guessing. You’ve seen it."
"I don’t want you changing what already works. Don’t over-accommodate. Don’t over-adjust. You’re not background players. You’re the reason we have space to move."
He looked toward Izan briefly, then back at the room.
"You’re the rhythm. He’s the break."
They let that sit for a mont.
For an outsider (or a reader), it might have sounded like Arteta had an overconfidence problem in Izan, but it wasn’t overconfidence.
It was just the cold, hard truth. The kid was truly out of the world.
"But," Arteta added, "if they sohow manage to close him down... if the rhythm stutters... don’t panic. I’ll handle it."
Then, without a shift in tone, he said, "Get your boots. We’re on the grass in five."
........
[The AXA Training centre]
"Man on! MAN ON!"
Voices rang across the pitch, clipped and sharp, boots cutting into the turf as bodies twisted, passed, pressed.
The training ga was chaos — on purpose.
Six defenders versus three attackers, plus an extra midfielder drifting between lines like a ghost.
A tailored overload drill.
The defenders worked in tight triangles, moving as one to isolate whoever had the ball.
It was smothering at its best.
Arne Slot stood near the sideline with his arms crossed, squinting against the sun.
To his left, his assistant jotted sothing on a clipboard and behind them, the analyst was feeding touch-map data live into a tablet, though no one really needed numbers to see what was happening.
Another triangle snapped into place.
Diaz received a pass, shifted inside—and bang.
Two defenders squeezed his options while a third cut the line behind him.
The whistle didn’t blow, nor did the drill stop.
Another attack reset instantly.
Mohad Salah peeled off the next run early, chest heaving, sweat running down his temples.
He jogged over toward the sideline, eyes fixed on Slot.
"That thing you’re doing," he said, half-smiling through the breathlessness.
"You’ve made them too good, like they weren’t already. We can’t move."
Slot’s eyes crinkled at the corners but just barely.
"That’s the point."
The next wave ca — Gakpo this ti, joined by the spare midfielder.
They tried a one-two to cut through the triangle.
It almost worked as Jota slipped past two defenders, into a seam—
—but just as he took the touch to break free, two more red bibs closed in from the side and behind.
Another triangle. Another trap.
Slot’s smile thinned.
He didn’t turn imdiately, not until he heard the stud-slap of a stumble.
Then he pivoted.
Van Dijk had slipped.
Not fully down — just a mistid shift that let the pass roll through his legs before the supporting midfielder swept it up.
Slot said nothing for a beat.
Then his voice cut through the wind.
"Virgil."
The defender already knew what was coming. He stood upright, adjusted his stance, but didn’t make excuses.
"If you don’t conduct them right, it breaks," Slot said calmly.
"Simple as that."
There was no sting in it, just the fact that everyone heard it.
Virgil didn’t look rattled.
He turned, scanning the positions behind him — Robertson adjusting too far wide, Mac Allister reacting half a second late.
A breath passed before he answered, low and steady.
"We’ve been working on this since the Emirates coach, have so faith", he said.
Slot caught it — not just the words, but the layer underneath them.
The bruise of that defeat earlier in the season and the decision that followed.
Quietly rebuilding a shape designed for one specific threat.
A plan they hadn’t abandoned since.
Slot held his gaze for a mont, then gave a short nod.
"I hope it’s enough."
He turned back toward the pitch, where Gakpo had just tried to turn in the middle but got t by three snapping defenders.
"Because if it’s not," Slot said, more to himself now, "we’re going to be very sorry once the final whistle blows."
...
"...Alright, welco back," the host said, leaning back in his chair with that slight exhale TV presenters always do after an ad break.
"We’re just a couple days out from the Carabao Cup Final at Wembley. Arsenal. Liverpool. And I think it’s fair to say—it’s not just silverware on the line here, is it?"
He turned slightly, eyes darting across the panel.
To his left was Alan Shearer.
On the right sat Jamie Carragher, half-sleeve shirt, shoulders square.
And just beside him, a man who needed no introduction in red quarters: Robbie Fowler.
"Feels bigger, doesn’t it?" Alan said, leaning in.
"I an—we’re talking cup final, yeah—but it’s also top-of-the-league versus second. Montum. ssage-sending. This is a title punch in disguise."
Carragher nodded slowly, but didn’t imdiately jump in.
Fowler did.
"You know what’s mad?" he said.
"It shouldn’t feel this important, but it does. Arsenal haven’t won this thing since—wait. When did Arsenal win the Carabao Cup?"
"Actually, 1993," the host cut in with a slight chuckle.
"Back when it was still called the Coca-Cola Cup."
"Jesus," said Alan said with a grin.
"But I’ll tell you what," Fowler continued, unfazed, "that’s what makes this spicy. This isn’t just a cup final. This is a title warm-up. It’s round one of a trilogy, maybe. Arsenal win this, and what does that do to Liverpool’s headspace? Especially if they et again co May for the league."
Carragher finally leaned forward, rubbing his hands once.
"It’s not just headspace," he said.
"Like, let’s be honest, Arsenal beat them once already this season, twice if you count preseason, yeah? Outplayed ’em. Now, if they go and lift a trophy at their expense before April, that’s not just three wins or three points—that’s psychological. That sticks."
"Agreed," said the host.
"But... Carra—let throw this your way—do you see Liverpool taking that underdog tag into Wembley?"
He paused for a second, shifting in his seat.
. "Look... I do," he said. "And actually, I like that. I think it suits them. I think it needs to suit them. There’s this narrative now that Arsenal are favourites, that Izan’s unstoppable, that Arteta’s figured out this Liverpool team... and I’m not saying that’s true, but if you’re in that Liverpool dressing room, you want Arsenal cocky."
"I don’t think they are, though," Fowler cut in.
"Arsenal don’t carry themselves like that. You see that team—Saliba, Rice, Saka, who’s still out injured—they’re not loud, they just do their job when they can. And that kid—"
"Izan," the host supplied.
"Yeah," Fowler nodded.
"That kid’s terrifying. Like, honestly, 42 Premier League goals at 17? He is setting a new record every day after breaking Haaland’s 36-goal season. That’s not even ssi regen territory. That’s like... that’s ga-breaker stuff. And I’ll be real—if he turns up, no defence on Earth stops him for 90 minutes. Not Van Dijk, not Konaté, not even if you bring back Paolo Maldini from retirent."
A/N: Okay guys. This is the first of the day. I will see you in a bit with the last of the day and as yesterday, we will have to do the next of the day later tomorrow. I will try and add a few more Chapters to thank you for another good month. Also, I added a snippet of a new Idea for a football story in the previous novel so check it out and comnt if you haven’t already.
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