God Of football

Chapter 990: Ball on One, World At The Other!

"Do you even remember how to kick a ball?"

"It’s just simple, actually," Saka, in his troll mood, said again as the players, now in their boots, made their way out of the foldable tunnels leading to the pitch.

"I’ve only been gone for a week. What would you have done had I been injured for more than 6 months, too?" Izan replied as he tossed a tissue into the garbage container by the end of the tunnel.

"The same, I guess," Saka said before finally speeding up to catch up with the players ahead just as they got to the tunnel exit.

Izan came through it last, and immediately he did, he couldn’t help but look at the sides where cameras were already angled toward him.

Over there, the media team had set up along the sideline, waiting to catch whatever gold they could get from the training.

One of them, who seemed to be in charge, peeled off and jogged up beside him before he stepped onto the pitch.

"We posted the cafeteria bit," she said, a bit breathless from her short sprint.

"Two million views and in just thirty minutes."

Izan paused for half a second before raising his brows and chuckling a bit.

"Already?"

She nodded, touching her forehead with her palm.

"Yeah. It hasn’t even... settled yet."

"That’s fast," he said, honestly.

Then he looked past her, toward the pitch, where Arteta was already walking out, sleeves rolled, hands clasped behind his back.

"Good for you, and us, I guess," he said before he stepped onto the grass.

"Any day now, Izan!" Arteta called a moment later, causing Izan to jog over with a laugh as the group closed around the gaffer.

Arteta stopped them with a raised hand.

"Most of us are back now," he said, mainly looking at Izan, which got a few chuckles even though it wasn’t really intended.

Izan shook his head at the remark before Arteta turned to the entire squad.

"Champions League," he said.

"That’s what we have on our cards next. We’ve performed well in the past two games, even in the absence of a few key players. And so now, we have Olympiacos at home."

I don’t care what anyone says; there are no easy games. But with what we have here—" his eyes flicked back to Izan "—I expect us to control the game and dominate in the end."

"Especially with our main guy around," Arteta finished.

Saliba nudged Izan again while Saka pulled a stupid face over his shoulder.

"Now break," Arteta said.

"Let’s start with warm-ups. Let’s go."

"Come on, boys, let’s move it," one of the coaches said with a resounding clap as the boys began to split.

Before Izan could move, a hand touched his arm.

"Hold on," Arteta said before nodding towards the same area where the media team were set up, but this set-up seemed a bit different.

"Doctor wants you," the manager said as he and Izan began walking towards the sides.

Once there, Izan met a man in a white tracksuit, and after a bit of talking, Izan finally realised what he was in for.

"Most of your mates have done it," the man said as they fitted the mask snug over his face.

After that, they pulled straps tight against his back, with wires trailing to a tablet that was also stacked on his back, like a backpack.

Izan just stood there while they made their arrangements, and it was only after the nod from the man in a white tracksuit that Izan began to run.

At first, it was normal, but then the doctor’s eyes narrowed.

He leaned closer to the screen, frowned, and tapped twice before shouting outward.

"Keep going."

A minute passed, then two as the sweat darkened Izan’s collar, but even so, his stride didn’t change.

The doctor lifted his head slowly and waved Arteta over.

"Mikel," he said, lowering his voice without actually needing to. "I don’t know how else to say this."

Arteta leaned in.

"His lungs," the doctor continued, eyes still on the data.

"They’re functioning like they’ve never been compromised. As in ever. No micro-scarring. No fatigue markers. It’s almost..." He hesitated. "...regenerative."

"This is remarkable. I mean if this is some....."

As the doctor began to ramble off, Arteta glanced at Izan, who was still running while the doctor still rambled off.

It was only after he heard the doctor let out a breath that he turned to ask.

"And his capacity?"

"Best I’ve seen. In years. Maybe ever. You’ve got a specimen."

While the doctor and Arteta spoke, the assistants signalled Izan to stop, but the moment he did, they all looked at him with almost glowing eyes.

"Get away from him. Can’t you guys be a bit professional?" the doctor said to his assistants after he saw them taking pictures with Izan on the side.

Arteta, on the other hand, smiled at him like a proud parent.

"Every day," Arteta said finally, "You find a new way to surprise."

The doctor, now turning to Arteta, chuckled.

"My colleagues would love to study him."

Arteta straightened after he heard that.

"On their time and only if he agrees."

He then clapped Izan on the shoulder after the latter came to his side.

"Go. Join the drills."

And in the history of all languages, what followed made the word training feel wrong or like it had a different meaning.

"Can’t hold onto him," Rice called out after Izan snapped free from his grasp after he tried to drag him back.

Izan moved through the pitch as if it were in the palm of his hand, and to him, it might not have been very far from the truth.

He was 5 touches ahead of everyone.

Two steps faster, and his turns looked sharper than ankles could allow.

In the scrimmage, he slipped balls between lines that shouldn’t have existed, beat markers without touching them, played the ball and arrived again to receive it like gravity bent for him.

Arteta and Heinze stood silent on the sideline like they were watching fire and the wheel being invented again.

"If he plays like this," Heinze muttered, "someone’s going to ask questions."

Back on the pitch, Saka chased Izan, only for Izan to lift the ball over him in a situation that hardly required that.

Then he went after him again, but on the third time, he stopped, bent over, hands on knees, then dropped to the grass, laughing and gasping.

"Nope, Nope, Nope," he said between breaths.

Izan stopped nearby, ball resting under his boot, not breathing heavily like Saka.

He wasn’t breathing at all, it seemed, while around him, bodies sagged.

Max Dowman, entering the fray, sat back on his pitch with his eyes fixed on Izan.

"I don’t think this is how he plays on the Tele, is it?"

A few nods.

"He’s better," Nwaneri said quietly.

"Than before."

Max swallowed, even though his mouth felt dry.

"He’s only a couple of years older than me. And he’s already... that guy."

He gestured vaguely.

"There are guys older than me in the academy who idolise him, and now that I am playing with him upclose, it’s not weird at all."

Nwaneri huffed a laugh.

"Yeah. That tracks. I did too after I played with him a couple of times."

He looked out at Izan again.

"There might not ever be another like him."

Before the players could rest further, a whistle cut through the air, followed by Arteta’s voice.

"Already tired? It hasn’t even been two hours."

Groans rolled across the pitch while Izan just stood there, ball at his feet.