Chapter 656: Rotation

As it always did a lot of time during the year, rain pattered lightly against the window at colnet.

A chill hung in the air as Arteta sat hunched over his desk, eyes fixed on a report.

The medical file in front of him had one name underlined twice.

Saka.

Grade II Hamstring Strain. Estimated Recovery: 6–8 weeks.

He rubbed a hand down his face.

It was the final stretch of the season which would decide if they would be getting large bonuses at the end of the season or going trophyless again.

And in this stretch, one of his most trusted soldiers was now out.

“How long exactly?” he asked without looking up.

The club physio — lean, sharp-eyed, tired — exhaled through his nose like he had seen these things far too often.

“Six weeks if we’re lucky. But you know how he plays. Explosive. It could flare up again if we rush it so I suggest we amek sure he is truly fit and not rush things.”

Arteta leaned back into the headrest of his chair before sighing heavily.

“We’re nine points ahead,” he muttered, half to himself.

“And yet… it feels like we’re two behind. Liverpool aren’t slipping. Not even once.”

The physio nodded grimly.

“They’re on something. The newest baldman in the league has them running like they’ve got battery acid in their veins.”

Arteta stood, pacing toward the window, hands on his hips as the drizzle blurred the view of the training pitches.

“I can’t afford to lose anyone else. One more injury and the spine starts cracking.”

He turned back.

“Talk to the performance team. Nutrition, sleep monitoring, and psychological recovery. I want these players tighter than ever. We’re heading into a furnace and I want them fireproof.”

The physio gave a nod.

“I’ll brief them all before the next session.”

Then—

Knock knock.

A pause.

Arteta’s gaze flicked to the door.

“Come in,” he said.

…

[2 days later]

“Nine-one.”

The word hit the airwaves before the teams even entered the stadium.

“This tie’s over,” said the pundit on the pre-match panel.

“I don’t care if it’s the Champions League. No one’s coming back from 9–1 down, not PSV and certainly not at the Emirates.”

The camera cut to footage of PSV’s team bus arriving in London earlier in the day — players stepping off with grim, rehearsed composure, heads tucked under hoodies, headphones on, not a smile in sight.

You could feel it through the screen.

They were here to fulfil a fixture, not chase a miracle.

“Let’s not sugarcoat it,” another pundit added.

“They came to avoid embarrassment.”

“But let’s talk about the lineup,” came a sharper voice.

“Arteta has made eight changes. Eight. No Izan. No Ødegaard. No Saliba. Not even on the bench.”

“He is resting the generals,” the first speaker said and gave a half-smile but the second wasn’t so amused.

“Or underestimating PSV,” but before he could go on further, the first pundit shut it down.

“The tie’s dead. It’s 9 goals to one, and that was at PSV’s home ground. What makes you think they will come back to win this game, even with the squad Arteta has fielded?”

That was the last of the discussion before the camera feed panned to the Emirates, which was being prepared for the game.

Across London, in a different kind of arena, two boys weren’t thinking about PSV.

One was already changed into a sharp grey tracksuit with a signature Adidas logo stitched clean on his chest.

His name was stitched, too.

IZAN.

The other had just stepped out of the changing room, adjusting the collar of his tee while brushing off a smudge on his brand-new trainers.

They were unreleased — his line — the first drop from a Barcelona legend-in-the-making.

Lamine Yamal.

Both were seventeen and already too big for the boxes they were trying to keep them in.

The shoot was quiet at first — no crowd, just white lights, camera rigs and a crew buzzing around them.

But the significance was loud.

Adidas had brought both of them in for this.

Two seventeen-year-olds, headlining a campaign meant to declare dominance over the future.

The Next Two.

As one of the directors explained, “The youngest talents in the world. Your own boot lines. Your own brands. That’s never been done at your age. Never. Not like this.”

And for Izan, it was true.

His HIM line — a complete redesign of the F50S, engineered with carbon-weave and lightweight fold-burst tension for acceleration — had launched back in Valencia.

They were shooting side by side when the sulking began.

“I’m still only 86,” Lamine muttered mid-shot, keeping his pose as the flash popped in his face.

Izan raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“FIF-, I mean FC. God why did they split. EA is who I mean. The new title update came out this morning. I’m still 86 overall.”

Izan blinked.

“What am I?”

“Ninety-one. That puts you on the same level as Mbappe, Haaland and Rodri,” Lamine answered flatly.

“Should be higher,” Izan said with a chuckle.

Lamine, on the other hand, wasn’t even trying to hide the annoyance now.

“I mean,” he continued, “I get it. They don’t want to hurt egos. But come on. If they were honest, you’d be 94 already.”

Izan shrugged.

“It’s just numbers.”

“Yeah, but those numbers are what some people see. They don’t watch every game. They just load up Career Mode and decide who’s good.”

“You’re still 17.”

“Exactly!” Lamine shot back.

“They should rate me like I’m 23. Because I play like it.”

Izan couldn’t help laughing at that.

Lamine didn’t break.

“And by the next game — five months from now — you should be 93 minimum. Not up for debate. If they don’t make you at least 93, they’re lying.”

The next camera shift came, and the two jogged into frame again for a new angle.

“So, are you going to show me London or what?” Lamine asked between takes.

Izan looked over.

“I came all this way. No training. No meetings. You can’t just drag me to a warehouse, give me a towel, and send me home.”

Izan smirked. “What do you want to see?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Everything. How do you even live here? What’s your routine? How are you able to do what you do every game?”

Izan’s smile dimmed just a little, eyes lowering as he thought. “I train. A lot.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” Izan said.

Then, after a pause, “I just try to stay sharp. Every match is a chance to prove I belong up there in the top rigging.”

Lamine fell quiet for a moment. “I want that too.”

“I know you do, but you play too much.”

“We’ve done a lot already.”

“Yeah,” Izan nodded. “But it’s not enough.”

“What do you want by the end of this season?” Lamine asked, and that made Izan glance over.

“To be clear. Above everyone. No questions.”

Lamine gave a tight nod. “Same.”

An hour later, the cameras were off.

The studio lights were cooling as Assistants packed boxes and folded light stands.

The set was already starting to look like just another concrete hall again.

Lamine checked his phone.

“It’s too early to head back to my hotel,” he said. “What now?”

Izan was still pulling his hoodie on.

“There’s only so much two seventeen-year-olds can do before curfew.”

Lamine rolled his eyes. “What, FC?”

“Arsenal vs PSV is in an hour.”

Lamine groaned. “I came here to relax.”

“You can relax in the box seats. I’ve got two.”

Lamine crossed his arms.

“If they lose, I’m posting it everywhere.”

“We’re up 9–1,” Izan said, already walking.

“Be serious.”

Lamine followed behind, dragging his duffel.

“Then maybe I’ll root for a miracle.”

“You’d still need eight.”

“I feel bad for them. Couldn’t be us, though. Have you seen our comebacks this season?”

Izan just chuckled and hit send on a quick text.

Miranda — one guest. Lamine.

The car soon arrived, with Lamine feeling a bit annoyed as he entered it.

“And here I was, hoping to ride in that unreleased spaceship of yours. Sometimes, I think of changing my agent to yours.” Lamine said, causing Izan to chuckle again.

“You talk just like Saka. I think it might be an occupational trait for dark right-wingers.”

After some time, their car slid through the Colney security gates in near silence, blacked out and discreet.

Lamine looked out through the tinted glass as the final light of the London sky faded behind rows of training fields and staff buildings and then turned toward Izan, hoodie still over his head.

“We’re really sneaking in like criminals?” he muttered.

“It’s not that serious,” Izan said without looking up.

“You literally told them to open a side entrance.”

“I just don’t want the box full.”

Lamine smirked. “You don’t want the attention.”

They exited through a discreet tunnel that led directly to the upper interior of the Emirates.

A private steward guided them up two short flights of steps and into the box with frosted glass doors.

It was modest but sleek — black leather seats, a clean view of the pitch, and a stocked counter of drinks and snacks that neither of them touched.

“I get that we aren’t of age and all, but was the juice box necessary?” Lamine called, gesturing towards one of the drinks.

The stadium was already filling fast, but it wasn’t the best of attendances.

Still, the 58,000-capacity on the screens wasn’t small.

Lamine dropped into one of the chairs, peeking over the edge of the glass to check how visible they were from the pitch.

“Think anyone noticed us?”

Izan was still standing, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ground. “No.”

But then—

There it was.

Suddenly, their faces — clean, sharp, lit perfectly in the Emirates glow — flashed up on the big screen for everyone to see.

“IZAN & LAMINE YAMAL IN ATTENDANCE TONIGHT.”

The crowd reacted immediately with some slight applause and a few excited murmurs.

The stadium didn’t know what to do with that much firepower watching from above.

Lamine leaned back and muttered, “So much for sneaking in.”

Izan sighed and sat beside him.

A/N: Hello, guys. Just got back from our school clinic. I really wasn’t feeling well today, and that is why I couldn’t release the chapters. So now 2 added to the 3 I was supposed to release makes it 5 for today. I will try and release as much as I can so stay tuned.