God Of football Chapter 722: Gold, Gold, Gold! [GT - .]

Izan pushed open the heavy door of the locker room, with the noise of a dozen conversations overlapping in the air, with boots half-tied and kit bags tossed open, the usual chaos before training.

But the moment heads started turning, the noise shifted.

A ripple of acknowledgement spread across the room, with some whistles, a couple of sarcastic claps, and a whole lot of smirks.

"Look who’s finally decided to grace us. If it isn’t Izan Hernandez," Declan Rice said, lifting his chin with mock solemnity.

"VIP treatment, man," Raya added from across the room, flashing his teeth. "Next thing, they’ll carry him in on a throne."

The teasing didn’t stop anyone from getting up, though.

One by one, hands slapped into Izan’s, shoulders bumped, arms wrapped around him in quick hugs.

Zinchenko ruffled his hair like he was a little brother while Martinelli pulled him in and lifted him off the ground with a laugh before setting him back down.

"Careful, his physio will write you up," Ben White muttered dryly, but even he cracked half a smile while dapping him up.

"Come on, guys, it’s been just three days", Izan said, but he couldn’t resist laughing through it, letting the energy wash over him, though his eyes were scanning.

The usual corner felt empty.

He didn’t spot Bukayo, and neither Ethan Nwaneri nor Myles Lewis-Skelly were around either.

A crease of curiosity touched his brow.

"Where’s the trio?" he asked finally, looking around as if they were hiding behind the laundry baskets.

As if on cue, the door swung open again.

The missing three strutted in like they owned the place.

Bukayo walked with that playful swagger, Ethan was grinning ear to ear, and Myles had his phone in his hand, already setting something up.

Before anyone could ask, Ethan clapped his hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen... It’s showtime."

The three gathered in the middle, a mischievous hush falling over the room.

Then, like they’d rehearsed it a hundred times, they burst out in song.

"Caaaalifornia City!"

The opening line rang out shamelessly, voices half-serious, half-satirical.

Bukayo led with surprising pitch control, Ethan exaggerated the hand movements like he was on stage at Wembley, and Myles backed them with an off-beat clap that somehow made it funnier.

The whole locker room exploded.

Laughter, whistling, and a few players banging the benches like drums.

Gabriel Jesus grabbed a water bottle and pretended it was a mic stand while Trossard doubled over, tears at the corner of his eyes.

Even Jorginho, usually the first to tease someone else, was clapping along like a proud dad.

Everyone was joining by the second chorus, some butchering the lyrics, others just shouting "Californiaaa!" at random intervals.

When the final drawn-out "Ciiiiity!" echoed out, Bukayo dropped to one knee like a rock star finishing a ballad while Ethan bowed deeply, and Myles tossed his imaginary mic into the air.

The room roared in applause and whistles.

Izan shook his head, half-baffled, half-delighted.

"Nah, nah, wait, whose idea was this?" he asked, laughter still spilling into his words.

Myles raised his hand without shame. "Genius never sleeps, bro."

"And when exactly did you lot rehearse this? ’Cause last I checked, we were in the middle of ninety minutes against Villa."

Ethan pointed dramatically.

"Halftime. In the tunnel. Perfect acoustics."

That set everyone off again.

"Lies, man! We were losing at halftime, and where were you going to find the time to rehearse?" Martin Ødegaard chuckled, holding his stomach.

Bukayo grinned, shrugging. "

What can I say? Talent works under pressure."

Izan groaned but smiled anyway.

"Unbelievable. You three are a menace."

"Correction," Ethan said with a cheeky grin, "we’re entertainment."

"Yeah, and don’t forget," Myles added, "California City is the new anthem now. We’re taking requests, five pounds a performance."

"Five?!" Jesus wheezed. "With that singing, you should pay us!"

More laughter spilt out, the kind that lingered and wrapped the room in warmth.

The room was still buzzing when the door cracked open again.

"I heard singing," Arteta said.

A ripple of laughter went through the room, and Gabriel Jesus, never one to miss a beat, snatched up his water bottle and casually lobbed it into one of the kit bags as though nothing unusual had happened.

"No, míster," he grinned, feigning innocence.

"We were just... warming up."

That earned him a few chuckles and a playful shove from Martinelli.

Arteta let the moment breathe, a small smile tugging at his lips before he clapped his hands once, brisk and decisive.

"Alright, enough rehearsals. Time to join me out on the pitch. Let’s keep the energy where it belongs."

The lads groaned good-naturedly, peeling themselves away from benches and lockers, boots squeaking lightly against the floor.

But then his eyes found Izan, steady and pointed without being harsh.

"As for you, Cuesta will tell you what you’re doing today. Listen to him."

Izan gave a small nod, already expecting it.

The room shifted into motion, laughter still lingering in the air as boots thudded and chatter spilled toward the corridor.

....

In the bright studio lights of Sky Sports, three pundits sat around the desk, the iconic red and blue branding glowing on the panel beneath and behind them.

host David Jones began, glancing at the camera with that steady broadcaster’s smile.

The large screen behind them flickered, bringing up a shot of Arsenal’s training ground where Izan was front and centre, strapped with a thick resistance band around his waist and leg with Carlos Cuesta bracing him from the side as he drove forward in short controlled bursts.

A few of the pundits chuckled at the image of Izan getting back to speed while dealing with his ankle.

"Look at that," Maxwell Benzo said, leaning back in his chair.

Aaron Lennox jumped in, grinning,

Graeme Souness gave his trademark nod, slow and deliberate.

he continued.

The camera pulled back, showing the three men with the Arsenal crest faintly glowing on the graphic behind them.

David Jones agreed.

Aaron Lennox leaned forward, voice lowering slightly.

Maxwell Benzo chuckled.

Souness raised his eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching into what almost passed as a smile.

David Jones said softly, as the picture faded.