"This is probably it," Izan muttered as the game restarted after Palmeiras’s own goal.
"You think so," Gabriel muttered, while Izan just nodded.
Back on screen, Chelsea had done well to steady themselves after Palmeiras’ equaliser, but the breakthrough, or rather, the gift, had come late.
Weverton’s unfortunate own goal in the eighty-third minute had sealed it, a mix of bad luck and the pressure of tired legs.
For another quarter of an hour, including added time, the Arsenal players sat watching, murmuring among themselves, the tension of the match slowly fading as the clock wound down.
Palmeiras threw men forward in the dying minutes, trying to nick something back, but it wasn’t to be.
When the whistle finally blew, confirming Chelsea’s 2–1 victory, the camera panned across blue shirts hugging and high-fiving, while the Palmeiras players slumped to the pitch, frustration written across their faces.
Saka stretched back in his seat, arms above his head, letting out a long exhale.
"Well," he said, tilting his head toward the screen, "guess our opponents for the next round is the Mandem FC."
That elicited a few chuckles from the player around him.
"You’re mad, bro!" Rice said, while Saka only grinned, pointing at the TV as Cole Palmer and Noni Madueke walked off the pitch, still cool as ever.
"Nah, I’m serious. Mandem FC. Look at Palmer, that’s my guy right there."
Even Arteta cracked a faint smile, though he quickly straightened his posture, glancing around at his players who were still laughing.
"Alright, alright," he said, raising a hand, voice steady but light. "Enjoy the jokes now, we’ll need the focus later."
The laughter simmered down, though the mood stayed bright.
Arteta stepped closer to the front of the room, his tone calm but clear.
"We’ll train in the evening," he said.
"A quick, light session. Nothing heavy. Then tomorrow morning, we leave for the airport. Flight to New York."
That earned an instant chorus of groans.
"Awh, come on, boss..." Jesus muttered, slouching a little.
"Can’t we just use the coach?" Martinelli asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
Arteta gave a small laugh, shaking his head.
"The bus has already gone ahead of us," he replied, almost teasing. "But if any of you want to sit in a car for fifteen-plus hours, by all means..."
That drew a fresh wave of laughter and resignation at their earlier suggestion.
"Nah, I’m good, gaffer," Jesus said quickly, raising both hands.
"Yeah, man, flight’s fine," Saka added with a grin.
Arteta turned for the door, his voice easing back into its usual tone of command.
"Good. And since breakfast wasn’t that early today, I can’t afford to stuff you with lunch again, so we will only have something light before going for the training."
He paused at the doorway, looking back once more at the group, still smiling, still in good spirits and nodded.
"Then after training, we have dinner at seven. Then rest. Big week ahead."
And with that, he stepped out, the door swinging gently behind him.
"So, since we might have the evening to ourselves, what do you wanna do?"
"Nahh," Izan said, shaking his head at Saka’s words before standing to his feet.
"Don’t include me in any of your shenanigans," he said before making his way out of the room, while Saka called, following him out with Nwaneri.
.....
"Please keep it civil and orderly," the moderator said in the press room in the MetLife Stadium as Enzo Maresca took his seat behind the microphone.
The Chelsea manager adjusted his jacket, offering a polite nod toward the journalists before him.
Behind him, the club’s crest and the Club World Cup insignia gleamed against the deep blue backdrop.
Chelsea had just booked their place in the semifinals, and everyone knew what the next headline would be: Chelsea vs Arsenal.
An all-English affair, and that called for talking.
The moderator gave the go-ahead, and the first reporter wasted no time.
"Enzo, you’ll be facing Arsenal next. They’ve been on fire, unbeaten, dominant, ruthless. How do you rate your odds going into that semifinal?"
Maresca smiled faintly, leaning closer to the mic.
"We’ll do what Chelsea always do," he said evenly, his Italian accent smooth but firm. "Beat what people are terming the big dogs, even though last season was their first League title in 20 years, and their first Champions League title in their history."
The room broke into a ripple of chuckles, while pens on paper scribbled.
His tone had that dry edge of conviction.
"Chelsea," he continued, "have always been at our best when people doubt us. We’ve upset the odds before. I mean, everyone remembers the Champions League final a few years ago. Tuchel’s team against Pep’s Manchester City, people said we had no chance. And yet, Chelsea lifted the trophy. That’s who we are. That’s what this club does."
He leaned back slightly, eyes calm, a faint glimmer of defiance in his expression.
"So, yes, Arsenal are a very strong side. Maybe the most dominant in the world right now. But they still drew 1–1 with us at the Emirates not too long ago. We know what we’re capable of."
A few nods followed from the reporters, pens scratching across notepads.
The cameras clicked, catching the manager mid-sentence.
A couple of quiet and standard questions followed, but before Maresca could move to the next question, a voice rose from the third row, sharper, curious, with that unmistakable tone of a journalist pushing for a headline.
"Enzo, fair point," the reporter began, "but Izan didn’t play in that draw at the Emirates, did he? The next time you faced Arsenal at Stamford Bridge, he did, and he set up Ødegaard before scoring a free kick himself to win it. Don’t you think it’s a very different game now, with him involved?"
The room tensed a little, quiet, like everyone knew that was the question Maresca didn’t want.
The Chelsea boss froze for half a second, eyes flicking toward the reporter.
His lips parted slightly, but no words came.
He finally exhaled through his nose, looking down at the table, then back up.
"Next question," he said curtly.
But the next question never came.
Another reporter started to raise a hand, but Maresca was already removing his earpiece.
He stood, adjusting his suit jacket again, forcing a polite but tight smile.
"That’s all for today," he said, stepping away from the microphone.
The room erupted in noise, flashes bursting like small storms, voices overlapping as journalists tried to squeeze one more quote out of him.
"Enzo! Enzo, one last question!"
"Do you think Arsenal are favourites?"
"Can you stop Izan?"
But Maresca didn’t turn back.
He gave a brief wave and walked briskly toward the exit with his press officer trailing just behind.
The door opened to the corridor outside, and as it closed behind him, the noise of the press room dimmed to a muffled roar, the sound of headlines already being written.
Inside, a few journalists exchanged glances with lazy grins on their faces.
They’d gotten their story.
The Chelsea manager had come to defend his side’s pride, to talk about belief and history, but one mention of Izan, and everything changed.
....
"Come on, guys, faster, more accurate," Arteta called through the Floridian air, as his men worked the ball on the pitch.
"Man on!"
"Switch, switch!"
"Back to me!"
Boots scraped against grass, passes zipped, and the steady thump of the ball became the pulse of the session.
Arteta stood near the halfway line, arms crossed, quietly observing, every movement of his players noted, every pass filed away behind that meticulous stare of his.
Out on the right side, Izan was already on the move.
The ball found him almost naturally, as if it always did, and within seconds, he was gliding forward, body shifting with that familiar rhythm that blurred speed with control.
Saliba stepped out to meet him, planting himself square, the perfect wall in training as always.
"Stay tight, Willi!" someone shouted from behind as Izan slowed, pushing the ball inwards, before flicking it back towards the space he had just come from.
Still, Saliba read it, sticking his leg, but Izan connected again, with the other foot, to send the ball through Saliba’s legs and onto his right, before the ball left his boot in a whip, clean, venomous, effortless.
The strike bent wickedly around Saliba, past the outstretched arm of Raya, who launched himself to his right but never had a chance, before it clipped the inside of the far post with a sharp, ringing, metallic hum that seemed to echo through the whole field, before nestling into the back of the net.
Then came the whistles, low, appreciative, from the rest of the squad.
"Wasted," Saka called out, causing the other players to laugh, while he approached Saliba and helped him up.
Out on the sidelines, Arteta couldn’t help but smile.
He brought his hands together in a soft clap, still murmuring to himself, almost like an instinctive note spoken aloud.
"Routine," he said quietly, nodding once.
Then louder, voice clear and calm:
"That was very nice. Now let’s go again," but all that came were groans from his men.