The host paused, then tapped the desk once with his pen, as if to re-centre the room.
"And yet, there’s no ti to dwell. Because Arsenal’s next match?" He looked directly into the cara.
"Isn’t against a team from rseyside. It’s against Real Madrid. At the Emirates. Quarter-final. Champions League first leg with everything on the line because if they don’t get sothing at the Emirates, it will be very hard for them to go and take sothing from the Bernabeu."
Valdebebas – Real Madrid Training Complex
The quiet hum of the air conditioning was the only sound inside the video analysis room at Valdebebas.
The chairs were filled, white polos and grey tracksuits scattered across the rows like soldiers awaiting a war briefing.
A few players whispered among themselves, the soft shuffling of trainers and slides against the floor hinting at nerves, or worse — boredom.
Then the door opened.
Carlo Ancelotti walked in, slower than usual.
Not tired — no, Carlo never showed that — but deliberate.
His hands were behind his back, posture straight, but sothing in his eyes was different.
A man who had seen everything in football, and yet, right now, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
He stood in silence for a second at the front of the room, letting the projector screen glow behind him, a blank canvas waiting for blood and numbers.
The players fell silent too, sensing the weight in the air.
Nobody wanted to be the subject of attention for the Don, who was going through a bit of a rough patch in his illustrious career.
"It’s been..." he began, voice low, almost casual, "a long season."
He gave a small, humourless smile.
"Not the one I imagined and not one you guys thought would happen"
No one laughed.
They knew what he ant.
A distant second in La Liga, the title already slipping into Catalan hands with two Clásico defeats, one in the league, the other in the SuperCopa final that still burned like acid.
An unconvincing league phase performance in the Champions League, scraping through gas they were supposed to dominate.
The dia whispering, then shouting.
Questions about hunger, about age, about transition.
Carlo didn’t dwell on any of that, but he let the silence acknowledge it.
"And now," he said, glancing at the screen behind him, "we face a teenager."
He paused, looking at each player.
"A teenager who’s made the world sit up. Who’s made us sit up before! Who We’ve faced three tis before — back when he was just so new na at Valencia, still wet behind the ears."
"But even then, we were not let off."
He turned and gestured toward one of his assistants after he finished his words.
The Assistant picked up a remote and then pressed a few keys as the projector blinked to life, and a stat-packed slide filled the screen:
Izan Miura Hernández – Performance vs Real Madrid (2023/24).
3 gas.
2 wins.
1 draw.
4 goals.
2 assists.
1 hat-trick in the Bernabéu.
"Not once," Carlo said, voice calm but clear, "did we beat him."
More slides flicked by.
Heat maps.
Sprint charts.
Passing webs.
Expected chances trics.
So of the players squinted, so nodded while others just stared blankly at the data — the way Carlo himself did sotis.
"I won’t pretend I understand half of these numbers," he muttered.
"But I understand one thing — that kid’s a storm. And if we don’t build a roof before he hits, we’re going to drown, again," he stretched the last part a little bit longer than the rest of his words.
He took a step to the side and let the footage roll: Izan, in a Valencia kit, weaving past Modrić and Kroos, back when he was still at the club, like a ghost through a crowd before slipping past Camavinga next.
Izan curling a left-footer past Courtois.
Izan screaming toward the away fans at stalla, the world was only just starting to whisper his na back then.
That was the past.
Now the kid was at Arsenal.
Now he was one of the best in Europe.
The best to so.
Now he ca with a spotlight so bright it could lt silverware.
"And yet..." Carlo said, looking back at them, "We’re Real Madrid."
The way he said it — slow, grounded, firm — made a few backs straighten, not with arrogance but with mory.
"We’ve pulled the impossible out of fire. We’ve done it too many tis to count. Ronaldinho. Rivaldo, our own Ronaldo, back when he was at Barca, and that stubborn Argentine. They’ve all been dealt with before. And if ever there was a ti to do it again... It’s this."
The video froze on a fra — Izan, fists clenched, celebrating his third goal at the Bernabéu.
Carlo turned fully to his players, the fire now lit in his voice.
"No fear. No idols. Let’s start."
On the other side of the coin, in the stillness of London Colney, the post had beco a drum.
Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
It rang out every ten, maybe fifteen seconds,
The sound of a clean strike of ball eting tal with the sound skimming through the cool afternoon air like a trono.
Out on the far pitch, alone at the edge of the box, Izan stood with a small rack of balls behind him and a net that hadn’t rippled once in fifteen minutes.
Because he wasn’t aiming for the net.
Another free kick ca through, this ti, with his right foot and,
Clang was the sound that ca next.
Off the bar this ti.
From just outside the gym doors, Martinelli squinted, arms folded over his chest, watching as Izan calmly walked back to the rack and rolled another ball into place.
Beside him, Ødegaard leaned in, sipping from a water bottle, his forehead slightly creased in sothing between awe and confusion.
"How long’s he been doing this?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the routine.
Martinelli shrugged. "Longer than I’ve been out here."
MartinØ degaard gave a low whistle after another shot hit the left post.
"That’s... obsession."
"Or that might just be him," Martinelli replied.
Another strike ca.
This one clipped the inside of the post so sharply that it rebounded straight back toward Izan, who stopped it with his heel, didn’t even look down, and just repositioned before firing away back at the crossbar.
A few feet behind them, soone joined in with a light laugh.
"He does this before all the big ones," said a voice in Spanish-accented English.
Mikel rino.
Still in his trainers, fresh from rehab exercises inside, the Spanish international leaned against the doorfra, following their gaze.
"Even with Spain, last year, before the France semi-final. He went out and hit the post like ten tis in a row. Never shot once at goal. Just the post."
Martinelli turned. "Why the post?"
rino smirked. "Lamine joked, saying Izan said if he can hit the thin margins when it doesn’t count, he’ll find the gaps when it does."
Declan Rice, with a protein shake in hand, now joined the lineup of onlookers.
He gave a short nod of acknowledgent toward rino, then looked back out to the pitch where Izan had adjusted again — this ti lining it up just a little wider, making the angle sharper.
Thunk.
Off the far post
The four of them stood there for a mont, just watching.
Out on the pitch, Izan took one last free kick — not to the bar or post this ti.
This one curled into the top corner like it belonged there, tugging the net into silence.
Then he stepped back, wiped his hands down his shorts, and finally turned toward the building with a faint smile on his face.
....
April 8th – London, 24 Hours to Kickoff
Evening drizzle. Heathrow Airport.
The doors of the white jet hissed open, and one by one, the players of Real Madrid stepped onto the grey tarmac like fallen angels in branded tracksuits — regal, cold, and composed.
The sky over London was darkening, that damp spring sort of grey, and the drizzle clung to their jackets as the team made its way to the waiting convoy of luxury buses.
There were no cheers or fanfare because Arteta had made the team travel discreetly.
Still, there were a few photographers lurking behind barriers, and the flashing bulbs painted brief strobe lights on boots and faces.
Carlo Ancelotti was the last to step off.
Hands in coat pockets, collar turned up as his eyes scanned the overcast horizon.
London. Arsenal. Izan.
The dia had gotten hold of the narrative already.
"The White Angels Have Landed — Real Madrid to Slay the Devil of North London."
– Marca headline, bold on every sports stand by morning.
It wasn’t hard to guess who the devil was.
The Spanish press had already adopted the myth.
Izan Miura Hernández — Arsenal’s prodigy and, inarguably, Europe’s current best and at just 17 at that.
Real Madrid knew it too well and they were prepared to put their pride aside to battle it out, at th Emirates.
A/N: First of the day. Damn, I’m tired. Use so Golden Tickets and Gifts to power back up. Alright, have fun reading and I’ll see you all in a bit with the last of the day.
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