God Of football-Chapter 357: Prelude to Pre-Season

The reserves worked quickly, pressing with intent, but the compact shape was difficult to break.

When they finally managed a switch of play, the wing-backs reacted instantly—one stepping out while the midfield shifted laterally to cover the open space.

Then came the turnovers. As soon as they won possession back, Arsenal's structure flipped like a spring-loaded trap.

The back five expanded, Rice dictated the tempo, and Izan and Ødegaard immediately occupied the spaces between the lines.

It was fluid. Organized. But still not perfect.

Arteta observed, arms crossed, watching for weaknesses. "Again," he ordered, resetting the play.

—————————

The final whistle—well, the final shouted "Stop!" from Arteta—brought the session to an end.

Players bent over, hands on their knees, sweat dripping onto the grass.

Breathing was heavy, the kind that came from an intense, tactical-heavy drill that demanded both physical and mental sharpness.

Saka, still catching his breath, turned to Izan with a deadpan expression. "Bro…never say anything to Arteta again."

The players nearby chuckled, some nodding in agreement.

This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.

They had already been pushing themselves hard, and the tweak in formation had made the session even more demanding.

Izan, just laughed, shaking his head.

"I'll think about it," he said, grinning at his teammates.

A ball had rolled loose near his feet, one of the many scattered around from the session.

Without thinking much, Izan took a step and struck it cleanly, sending it flying across the pitch.

Clang.

The ball smacked perfectly into an open bin near the equipment rack, sinking in with precision.

A few of the players looked over, impressed.

"Alright, now you're just showing off," Jesus muttered, shaking his head with a small smirk.

Izan shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess."

As the players started making their way off the pitch, a few pairs of eyes lingered on the ball bin where Izan's shot had landed. A clean strike, almost too casual.

"Hold on, hold on," Martinelli said, stopping in his tracks. He turned back and grabbed a ball. "That was nice, but anyone can do that."

He placed the ball down a few steps away, lined up his shot, and struck.

The ball flew straight, but it clipped the rim of the bin and bounced out. A chorus of "Oooooh!" rang out as he groaned.

"Oh, we're doing this now?" Odegaard chuckled, grabbing a ball of his own.

Soon, others joined in—Jesus, Saka, even Saliba, who had no business being part of a shooting challenge but wasn't about to back down.

Some got close, a few scuffed their attempts embarrassingly, and others barely missed.

Saka's shot looked promising until it swerved slightly off-course and smacked against the bin's side.

"Nah, that was in," he tried to argue, but the jeering around him said otherwise.

Izan stood off to the side, watching with an amused expression before nodding toward the bin. "Just aim right, it's not that deep."

"Yeah? Why don't you go again, then," Jesus challenged.

Izan didn't hesitate. He picked up another ball, took a couple of steps back, and struck it cleanly.

Swish.

The ball sank into the bin without even touching the sides.

The players erupted in laughter and shouts, some shaking their heads while others threw their hands up.

"Nah, man, I'm done," Martinelli said, waving it off.

From a distance, Arteta had been watching the whole thing. What started as lighthearted competition had reminded him of something else.

Izan had another dimension to his game—his set pieces.

It was easy to get caught up in his movement, his creativity, and his ability to play between the lines.

But dead-ball situations? That was another weapon entirely.

As the players wrapped up, still laughing and taking playful jabs at each other's missed shots, Arteta made a mental note.

He needed to see more of that.

...…

The locker room was a blend of steam, running water, and exhausted voices as the players washed down after the intense session.

The cold showers were a relief after the taxing drills, and there was a quiet satisfaction in the room—a good kind of tiredness.

Izan rinsed his face, feeling the sting of cold water against his skin. As he grabbed a towel, he heard Jesus and Saka still going back and forth about their failed attempts at the ball bin challenge.

"I swear mine was closer than yours," Saka argued.

Jesus scoffed. "Bro, at least mine hit the rim. Yours? That was nowhere near."

The debate carried on as they got dressed in fresh Arsenal tracksuits, the signature red and black colors sharp against the clean white of the dressing room.

Izan chuckled as he pulled his top over his head. "Doesn't matter. None of you won."

Jesus pointed at him. "We're running that back next session."

Izan smirked but didn't respond.

With everyone cleaned up, they started making their way toward the cafeteria.

The cafeteria was already filled with the scent of warm food, a spread of healthy yet satisfying options laid out.

Players grabbed plates, loading them with grilled chicken, pasta, rice, vegetables—whatever fit their personal nutrition plans.

Izan sat down next to Saka and Odegaard, who were in the middle of a conversation about preseason fixtures as well as early premier league fixtures.

"United first," Odegaard said, poking at his rice with a fork. "Then City."

Saka sighed dramatically. "Why do we always get City early?"

"Good test," Izan said simply, taking a bite of his food.

"Yeah, but I'd rather face them later when we're in rhythm," Saka replied, shaking his head. "The first few games of the league are always weird."

Jesus, who sat across from them, nodded. "Preseason matches are tricky. You're fit but not fully sharp, the chemistry's still settling, and new signings are adjusting."

Odegaard glanced at Izan. "Speaking of which, how are you settling in?"

Izan took a sip of water before answering. "Good. It's different, but I like it. Feels right."

"Man, you're a robot," Saka joked. "Other players need time, you're already talking about formations and scoring challenges on your first proper day."

Izan smirked. "Just adapting."

The table laughed, the conversation flowing from preseason prep to random topics—favorite music, the worst-dressed player in the squad, the upcoming kit reveal.

It was the kind of banter that made the transition into a new team feel natural.

From across the room, Arteta walked in, grabbing a quick meal while speaking with his coaching staff. His mind was still running through the formations they had tested earlier.

But as he glanced at his players—relaxed, chatting, blending together—he knew the real work was just beginning.

With lunch finished, the players made their way toward the video analysis room, some still nursing protein shakes as they walked.

The relaxed cafeteria atmosphere faded as they stepped into the dimly lit space, where a large screen was already set up with tactical diagrams and match footage paused at key moments.

Arteta stood at the front, arms crossed, waiting for everyone to settle in. His assistants stood nearby, ready to break things down in more detail if needed.

The players took their seats, the usual light chatter dying down as they sensed this was about to be important.

Arteta tapped on the board. "Before we start, I want to address something from today's session."

He clicked the remote, and a few freeze frames appeared—different moments from their training drills, positioning diagrams layered over them.

"This," he gestured, "is what Izan pointed out to me earlier."

Some heads turned toward Izan, but he kept his focus on the screen. Arteta continued.

"We've been experimenting with different structures, and while a few felt smooth, something was missing.

Izan recognized it—efficiency. We were moving well, but we weren't maximizing our chances. We had control, but control alone isn't enough."

He clicked again, and two new formations appeared.

"3-4-2-1 in attack, transitioning into a 5-4-1 when defending. That's what we'll be refining for the next few days."

A few murmurs passed through the room. Some players shifted slightly in their seats, understanding what this meant—changes, adjustments, new roles to adapt to.

Arteta's expression was firm. "This isn't just theory. We'll apply it immediately. Our first test is Leyton Orient.

We'll use that match to assess how quickly we can settle into these transitions before we face bigger opposition."

He let the words sink in before he stepped back, nodding toward the assistants.

"We'll break down the details now. Pay attention."

......….

The meeting wrapped up after a while, the players absorbing the key points before Arteta finally stepped back and glanced at them.

"That's all for today," he said. "I want everyone to rest tomorrow—no training. Take the time to recover because we'll be going hard once we return.

I still need to make some tweaks, and we'll need everyone sharp when we put this into practice."

A few nods, some murmurs of agreement. The physical toll of the session was already settling in, and an unexpected rest day wasn't something anyone would complain about.

One by one, the players filed out of the room, some discussing the formations, others just eager to get home and switch off for the evening.

Arteta remained behind, looking back at the board, still deep in thought. There was progress—but there was more to refine.

A/n: I know there hasn't been much action but don't worry. We'll get there in the next couple of chapters. Anyways have fun reading and I'll see you with the next one