God Of football Chapter 796: On The Road

Chapter 796: On The Road.

Olivia blinked, surprise flickering across her face.

“Tomorrow? I thought you weren’t flying out until Friday.”

“That was the plan,” Izan admitted, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“But Barcelona arrived today. They’re not giving us the head start, so we’re not going to let them sit there waiting for us either.”

The silence stretched after Izan’s words, and though no one said much, he noticed it imdiately in Olivia’s face.

She had lowered her iPad, her gaze unfocused now, lips pressed together as if she was trying to keep sothing inside.

She wasn’t upset exactly, but there was a dip in her expression, a shadow that betrayed the way the news had landed.

Izan leaned slightly toward her, studying her profile until her eyes flicked toward him.

He gave a small smile, tilting his head just enough to catch her attention fully.

“Hey,” he said quietly, keeping his tone light, “want to give the haircut before I leave?”

For a second, Olivia blinked at him as if she hadn’t quite processed the question.

Then her lips parted, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in a grin that grew wider by the second.

“Sure. But my services aren’t free, though?”

“Yeah.”

He chuckled, the sound low and teasing.

“I know, madam. I know”.

Olivia’s mood lifted instantly as she straightened up, nodding a little too quickly.

Her enthusiasm drew a laugh from Hori, who imdiately leaned forward, waving a hand.

“Wait, wait, if there’s a haircut happening, I want in. I can be your assistant, Izan. I’ll hand her the scissors, or the comb, or—”

“No.” Izan cut her off with a sharp shake of his head, though his grin gave him away.

He pointed toward Olivia and then toward Komi, who had been quietly watching with a soft smile.

“Just these two. Olivia’s got the hands, and mamá… well, she’s been keeping looking presentable since forever.”

“Unfair,” Hori muttered, crossing her arms as she sank back into the sofa, though there was no real bite in her voice.

Komi chuckled gently, setting her glass back on the table.

“It’s not such a terrible arrangent, Hori. Two pairs of hands are more than enough. Your brother only has one head.”

That earned another grumble from Hori, who was most definitely looking to be mischievous.

Izan brushed his hand over Olivia’s knee, his thumb tracing idle patterns there, before looking around at the won in his life.

“Alright then,” he said, rising from his seat with a stretch.

“Tomorrow’s going to be long, so we’ll keep it quick. Just a little trim before I head off.”

Olivia stood up beside him, still grinning as if the task were so great honour.

……..

[Next Afternoon]

“I get his concerns, but I do not think we should already be following Barca’s pace,” Izan stated as Miranda’s black SUV slowed to a stop near the entrance of Arsenal’s training complex.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, already reaching for the door handle.

“Thanks for the ride, though,” he said, glancing sideways, “you really didn’t need to drive here.”

Miranda turned her head slowly, the corner of her lips tugging upward into sothing halfway between amusent and resolve.

“I did,” she said plainly as Izan got out of the car, grabbing his luggage from the boot, before coming over to Miranda’s side of the window.

“You have everything,” she inquired again, earning a nod from Izan.

Then she blinked, her voice softening. “Goodbye, Izan.”

He exhaled through his nose, shoulders loosening as he gave her a small grin.

“I’ll see you in Germany, then. You’ve already sorted the tickets, right? Mark, the player Liaison, said you didn’t take the free ones he offered for the family of the players.”

Miranda’s fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, a tell of her satisfaction.

“I already booked one at the start of the knockout round. So I had no reason to take the tickets they offered.”

“You believe in that much, huh?” Izan chuckled before giving a nod.

“Good. That’s good.”

“You know,” Miranda said casually as Izan turned to leave, “that long hair… it actually suits you.”

Izan froze for a half-second before breaking out into laughter, while his hand ran through the strands of the bun that Olivia had been supposed to trim the night before, but hadn’t.

“You’re just saying that,” he accused, rolling his eyes, though his grin betrayed him.

“Because the girls online go mad for it. And you know it’s good for marketing, for publicity. Don’t think I don’t see through you.”

Miranda’s smirk widened, but she didn’t deny it.

“Alright, now let be on my way. Fly safe, Miura”

And just like that, the car purred back into motion, gliding out of the lot as Izan finally turned toward the entrance of the Complex.

His footsteps carried him down the polished corridor, past the frad shirts and photos, until the sound of voices grew louder ahead.

When he pushed into the player lounge, the scene waiting for him was nothing like the usual matchday tension.

The room was scattered with luggage, duffel bags stacked by the wall, carry-ons leaning against chairs, passports and boarding passes poking out of small folders.

Players lounged in their travel clothes, hoodies, joggers, trainers, so scrolling through phones,others locked in pockets of conversation.

The atmosphere felt different from a normal day: lighter, almost restless, the energy of a group on the cusp of departure.

Izan’s entrance drew a few glances as he set his own backpack down near the others, then slid into an empty seat close to Bukayo Saka, who looked up from his phone.

The winger’s eyes flicked imdiately to Izan’s hair, longer now that Olivia hadn’t followed through with her deal to trim it.

“I thought your girl was gonna sort that out,” Saka said, raising a brow with that half-smile he wore whenever he was about to tease.

Izan leaned back into the sofa, running his hand through the strands as if to check.

“She was,” he admitted, lips tugging into a grin, “but she got a little lazy during the day.”

That earned a few laughs from the others nearby.

Ethan Nwaneri, perched on the armrest of a chair, tilted his head like he was studying him.

“You kinda look… refreshed, though. Different sohow.”

Before Izan could respond, Saka leaned forward, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness.

“Refreshed? Nah. It’s the Juice man. He went to that lab that built him for the juice.”

His words drew a ripple of laughter through the group, while Izan just shook his head, though a smile lingered on his face.

“Jealous much,” Izan said while Saka shalessly nodded as the banter rolled for a bit, light and easy.

It was only when the door to the lounge swung open that the mood shifted slightly.

The player liaison walked in first, a few papers in hand, followed closely by Mikel Arteta himself, his own suitcase rolling behind him.

The room seed to straighten a little, not in formality, but in recognition, as when the boss entered, the air naturally sharpened.

Arteta stopped in the centre of the lounge, scanning the players with a small nod.

“Alright,” he said, voice steady but warm.

“You’ve all done the work to get here. Now we just stay focused, stay together. We go as a team, we co back as a team. Simple as that.”

A murmur of agreent swept through the group.

“Now, let’s just take a few minutes to confirm our things because I do not want anyone talking about losing his passport,” Arteta continued while throwing a glance at Saka, who just looked away, refusing to et Arteta’s eyes.

A few players who saw this chuckled before proceeding to make the checks.

“Let’s go, then”, the liaison said after all the players were done, motioning toward the exit.

Bags were hoisted, zippers tugged shut, and straps adjusted as the players filed out of the lounge and through the corridor, rolling luggage trailing behind in little echoes.

The team coach was waiting outside, its doors open, the Arsenal crest gleaming faintly in the late morning light.

Staff were already loading equipnt underneath, while a couple of security n kept a loose watch nearby.

One by one, the players stepped aboard, greeting the driver before finding their spots.

So claid window seats quickly, headphones ready, while others paired up, sliding into conversation again.

Izan found a seat midway down the aisle, tossing his bag overhead before settling in by the window.

The hum of engines and the steady shuffle of boots and bags soon gave way to the bus’s gentle rumble as everyone finally settled.

By the ti the coach pulled away from Colney, the mood inside was sowhere between calm and restless.

So players leaned back with eyes closed, already slipping into their own pre-trip routines, while others just lingered, still in their pockets of discussion.

“Right,” Izan muttered, eyes on an ad board, which held the UCL final fixture on it as the bus zood into the middle of London.

This is the last of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the first of the day.