God Of football

Izan followed Arteta in, still in his kit, murmur halting as the reporters and journalists caught sight of him.

The UEFA Man of the Match award hae been passed to an aide and was now placed beside the microphone as he sat beside his manager.

Arteta gave him a calm glance and nodded once.

Behind them, the Arsenal crest glowed softly on the panel.

The moderator, seated just off-centre, tapped her mic.

“We’ll begin with a few questions. Please keep them relevant to tonight’s fixture. First question?”

A man in a grey wool coat stood, barely glancing at Izan before addressing Arteta.

“Mikel, congrats on the win. Were you satisfied with the defensive effort, particularly in the second half after the disallowed goal?”

Arteta nodded.

“It wasn’t perfect. But the boys responded well under pressure. It was a Champions League match against elite players. We managed the final minutes with the composure we needed.”

A few more questions followed. Tactical. Praise for Saka. Inquiries about Zinchenko’s fitness.

Izan leaned slightly forward, listening.

He could feel the rhythm of the room—polite, predictable.

Until it wasn’t.

A reporter further back, young, with rectangular glasses and a voice that carried, stood and shifted the tone.

“Izan,” he began, polite but pointed.

“There was a photo circulating before the match—yourself and a woman outside a venue in Soho late last night. Some fans speculated it was a club. Could you clarify what happened and whether it’s something Arteta was aware of?”

The room changed. Chairs shifted. Pens were raised.

Izan blinked once.

He didn’t panic—but the smile was gone now.

He leaned into the mic.

“Sure. I saw the photo,” he said, voice even. “It wasn’t a club. It was a dinner meeting. A private one. With Adidas. I was there to talk about a new deal, and… actually, my re-signing. That woman was with me, yeah—Olivia—but not in the way people think.”

He glanced toward Arteta, who remained still, composed.

“I didn’t go out last night,” Izan continued.

“Didn’t party. Didn’t celebrate anything early. I was in bed before midnight, reviewing PSG’s clips. My prep was the same as always.”

The reporter raised an eyebrow. “So it was a brand meeting?”

Izan nodded. “Yes. They wanted to meet before the game—timing-wise, it worked for them. I brought someone I trusted. We talked. We left. That was it.”

Another journalist jumped in, flipping her notepad.

“But still, some fans felt that was risky. You’re a young player—Barely two years in the professional scene. Don’t you think appearances matter?”

Izan gave a small laugh, leaning into the mic again. “Look, I’ve only just joined Arsenal. What would I even be celebrating this early? It’s not even been a season.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“Honestly,” he added, “if I wanted to go clubbing in London, I’d need my mum with me. She’s back in Spain. I’m not even 18. I don’t have my own debit card yet—it’s all through my agent or my mother. I couldn’t even buy a round of drinks if I wanted to.”

There was a pause.

Then, chuckles from the side of the room.

Arteta’s hand came to his mouth as he tried to hold back a laugh.

A real one. And then it slipped through—an audible, unmistakable chuckle that filled the room.

Izan turned slightly toward him. “I’m serious. Ask my teammates.”

Arteta wiped at his face. “You’ll get your card when you start scoring hat-tricks that stand,” he said under his breath, before clearing his throat and standing.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” he said to the moderator.

She nodded. “That concludes the session. Thank you to Mikel and Izan.”

As cameras shut off and reporters began to chatter among themselves, Izan pushed back from the table.

Arteta was already halfway toward the door.

“That went alright, no?” Izan muttered.

Arteta glanced back with a grin. “You should do press more often.”

One of the UEFA stewards stepped forward to hand Izan his award again, but he didn’t take it immediately.

His eyes scanned the media row.

They had come looking for cracks.

And he’d given them clarity.

No one could twist that.

As he turned for the hallway again, boots clunking softly against the floor, a few Arsenal staff members waiting nearby gave him a thumbs-up.

“You handled that,” one whispered, to which Izan gave a thumbs-up.

And he had.

With calm.

With honesty.

And with just enough humour to remind them all, he was still a kid.

A very, very good one at that.