God Of football

The squad made their way back to the hotel, the mood now quieter as the players mentally prepared themselves for the evening ahead.

After a light lunch and some downtime, the team boarded the bus once again, this time heading toward the Gewiss Stadium, the home of Atalanta.

The streets of Bergamo felt alive.

As the Arsenal team bus rumbled toward Gewiss Stadium, the noise from the thousands of Atalanta fans lining the route was almost deafening.

The black-and-blue banners waved fiercely in the breeze, the air thick with the unmistakable passion of Italian football.

The chants of the home supporters were rhythmic, echoing off the buildings, setting the scene for what felt like a monumental occasion.

There was no mistaking it—the Italians took their football seriously.

Inside the bus, Izan sat quietly by the window, observing the fans outside.

He had seen and heard about the passion of Italian crowds, but this? This was something else.

You could feel the history in the air. You could feel that the weight of the city was behind this match.

Saka leaned over and nudged him, a grin on his face.

"You ready for this?"

Izan turned to him, a half-smile crossing his lips.

"Wouldn't be in the bus if I weren't," he said, watching the wave of fans outside.

It was hard not to feel the excitement bubble in his chest, but he kept it under wraps.

"It's pretty intense."

Martinelli smirked.

"Just wait until we walk into that stadium."

As the bus turned the corner toward the stadium, the noise grew exponentially.

The sight of the fans in their black-and-blue stripes, jumping, chanting, and waving scarves, sent a shiver down Izan's spine.

The passion here was unmatched.

Even with all the glamour of the Premier League, nothing had quite prepared him for this.

Not yet.

The bus finally pulled up to the entrance of Gewiss, and the players were immediately met with a sea of fans on the other side of the barriers.

The roar was deafening.

Every single one of Atalanta's supporters seemed to be at their peak, waving flags, shouting, chanting, and singing the club's anthem like it was a hymn.

The air itself felt alive with anticipation.

Izan felt the weight of their roar, their stomping, and war shouts, causing their surroundings to shake.

He exchanged a glance with Ødegaard, who stood nearby.

The Norwegian offered a small nod—silent reassurance that it was all just part of the experience.

"Let's go, boys," Arteta's voice cut through the moment, rallying his team.

The players made their way off the bus, quickly walking into the stadium, flanked by security.

The press was everywhere—cameras flashing, microphones held high in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the players.

As they entered the locker room, the excitement from the fans outside was muffled.

The team had become a unit again, focused on the task at hand.

"Alright, listen up," Arteta said, his voice cutting through the quiet as the players settled into the locker room.

"You know what we're here for. Play our game, play with discipline, and make sure we control the tempo. We've trained for this. Trust yourselves."

He paused, his eyes scanning the room, landing on Izan last.

"You know your role. This is your first Champions league match sure, but this isn't your first rodeo. Think Euros Knockout stage. That's how even the least of clashes in the Champions League is going to be" Arteta said simply.

Izan nodded, absorbing the weight of the moment.

"Okay. If you're done, head onto the field and warm up. Bench included. I need you guys sharp and ready to come on and do the job whenever I ask you to."

The players nodded some filing out onto the pitch for their pre-match warm-up.

The tunnel opened into a wall of noise.

The moment the Arsenal players stepped onto the grass at Gewiss Stadium, they were hit by an electric wave of sound.

Atalanta's supporters were in full voice—black-and-blue flags whipped the air, scarves were raised skyward, and the club anthem rang out like a battle cry.

Flares flared in distant pockets, casting brief crimson glows against the ultras' section.

It was the kind of atmosphere only Europe could conjure—loud, tribal, relentless.

Izan blinked at the brightness of it all, his boots clicking onto the turf, his heart steady.

But then he spotted it—across to the left, behind one of the corner flags, a compact block of red-and-white shirts rising to their feet.

Arsenal's travelling fans. There weren't many, but they were loud, voices lifted in a chant that cut through the noise with defiant clarity.

"Come on, you Gunners!"

One man waved a North London flag.

Another held a handmade banner that read, Izan: Born Ready.Even from a distance, he could see the familiar red shirts, the clenched fists, the bouncing bodies.

They had made the journey. And now they were here, just as much a part of this night as anyone.

He gave a subtle nod in their direction, but the 'boom' of the fans in response surprised even him.

Just then, the stadium's pitch-side host took the mic for a final match build-up segment.

His voice echoed crisply over the PA system, in both Italian and English, as the cameras zoomed in on the players entering for warm-ups.

"Signore e signori, the moment is here. Arsenal. Atalanta. Two sides—one goal. Champions League nights are back in Bergamo!" the host boomed with practiced flair.

"The players are on the pitch. Take your seats, get loud—and let the world know: tonight, history writes another page!"

The crowd erupted again, and the camera panned across the Arsenal squad starting their pre-match drills.

Izan jogged alongside Saka and Martinelli, passing cones as they exchanged light touches and subtle grins.

The ball moved quickly between them—short passes, sharp movements, a rhythm forming already.

Martin Ødegaard joined in soon after, barking a quick word to keep the tempo up while Arteta stood a few yards back with Carlos Cuesta and Nicolas Jover, arms folded, his gaze sweeping over the session with surgical intensity.

Across the pitch, the Atalanta players had begun their own drills, but the home crowd was locked in on the visitors.

Every touch by an Arsenal player was whistled. Every pass was booed. The tension was alive.

Izan hardly noticed.

It was loud, yes. But his focus had tunneled in.

There was only the pitch. Only the ball. Only the game.

A final round of sprints followed, then a quick hydration break.

As they jogged toward the tunnel entrance to change into their match kits, the red block of away fans rose to their feet again, clapping them off with full voice.

"Arsenal! Arsenal! Arsenal!"

Izan allowed himself a small smirk, his eyes briefly meeting one young fan's who held up a phone, capturing the moment.

........

Back in the locker room, the players changed into their matchday kits with a quiet kind of urgency.

No shouting. No drama. Just zippers, studs on tiles, and the soft rustle of kit being pulled over skin.

Izan sat on the bench beside Martinelli, pulling his socks up with steady hands.

His jersey hung freshly ironed, the Champions League patch gleaming just below the right shoulder.

The number 10 looked cleaner than usual beneath his name like even the kit man had sensed the weight of tonight.

Ødegaard was already dressed, tying the laces of his boots with his usual clinical precision.

To his left, Saliba joked softly with Gabriel, their smiles short but honest.

Then the door eased open.

Arteta walked in—not with a speech, but with silence. He didn't pace.

His eyes scanned the room slowly, meeting each player's gaze in turn.

He'd said all that needed saying back in London, and again this morning.

He wasn't going to repeat it now.

He stood still for a beat longer.

Then just one sentence, soft but sure:

"You know what to do."

And he left.

The room was quiet for a second, like even the walls were absorbing those words.

Odegaard was the first to move, standing and sliding on his captain's armband for the night.

Then the rest followed, pulling on jerseys, doing last-minute stretches, and checking studs.

Izan stood up, rolling his shoulders, before exhaling all the pent-up tension in his chest.

[Host has Activated FOCUS Lv 3], the system sounded as Izan followed the rest of his teammates out of the locker room.

.......

Arsenal's eleven stood on the right side, fully kitted, expressionless, like soldiers lined up for inspection.

Izan was somewhere in the middle, wedged between Saka and Jorginho, gloves tucked under his arm.

His focus narrowed to the hum of the lights, the occasional cough, and the sounds of boots shifting restlessly on concrete.

He took the rubber band he had asked for from the kitman earlier and tied his hair back, Saka and Martinelli, joking about him being a diva in the process.

Then the Atalanta players entered.

Black and blue kits. Hard stares. Confident strides.

Fresh off lifting the Europa League months ago, their swagger hadn't faded.

But this wasn't Thursday night football anymore.

******

[Well, in some ways it still was since some of the league phase matches were played on Thursdays.]

********

That trophy—earned as it was—meant nothing here.

In the Champions League, history is reset every year.

Every reputation had to be rebuilt under a new spotlight.

The captains exchanged nods at the front, the referee giving the standard rundown to both sides.

Neither set of players said much.

Respect hovered in the air, but so did the scent of competition.

A camera swept by. Izan caught it in his periphery but didn't flinch.

"You good?" Saka said from behind as Izan slipped on the last of his gloves.

Izan nodded once. "Always."

...

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to fight Club-I mean Champions League football "

A/n: Second of the day. But definitely not the last. Have fun reading and I'll see you with another chapter. Now i gotta sleep, or not.