God Of football
Chapter 586: Worth His Weight In Gold

Chapter 586: Worth His Weight In Gold

The evening before the FA Cup clash against Manchester United passed without the usual matchday jitters.

No press conference buzz.

No public training noise.

No teasing headlines about lineups or tactical shifts.

But then—at exactly 8:04 p.m.—the storm broke.

It came quietly at first.

A push notification.

A headline ticker on a slow sports channel.

A flicker on the club’s official site.

“ARSENAL REJECTS REAL MADRID’S WORLD RECORD BID FOR IZAN AND RENEWS CONTRACT IN THE SAME WEEK: IZAN EXTENDS UNTIL 2030, WITH TWO-YEAR OPTION.”

By the time morning rolled in, it was everywhere.

£500 million potential value. Messi-level structure. First of its kind in England and the first of its kind to be given to a player so young.

Twitter broke into two camps.

Rival fans and neutrals poured in fast:

“£1.7 million a week for a teenager?”

“This is going to ruin wage structures for everyone else.”

“He’ll lose focus. Mark my words. This kind of deal never ends well.”

“This guy just turned 17. And Arsenal just bent the wage economy around him.”

“Is anyone going to talk about how this ruins negotiating leverage for every other club?”

“Hope this kid’s legs don’t break under the weight of the crown they’re putting on him.”

“Who needs Saudi money when you can get North London money?”

The more extreme corners joked darkly about burnout, bad agents, and greed while others tried to deflect with statements like, “Mbappé earned more before this” and some talking about how Arsenal have paid Izan what they think he’s worth.

But amid the noise, there was one consensus:

This wasn’t normal.

This was a shift.

At London Colney, the air was cold, even sharper than the day before.

The sky wore that faint winter grey, flat and wide and unforgiving.

Arsenal’s players moved through the final drill sets ahead of their FA Cup clash with Manchester United.

Arteta hadn’t said anything about the contract—yet.

He didn’t need to.

Everyone already knew.

Inside the warmup circle, Saka took it upon himself.

As Izan walked onto the pitch, quiet as always, boots tapping the floor like any other morning, Saka widened his arms like a host introducing a surprise guest.

“Ladies and gents,” he called, loud enough for the echo to reach the stretching bands across the turf.

“I did this a few days ago after I heard he wasn’t leaving. But with a new contract comes introduction and when your contract is worth that much, we go the extra mile. Welcome our new signing. Money Man Miura.”

A ripple of laughter followed.

Even Arteta cracked a smile from the sidelines before clapping his hands together.

“Alright. Enough ceremony,” he called.

“Let’s keep our heads where they belong. We play in a few hours remember, big match against Man United.”

And with that, his men continued their last session.

……..

Back home, Komi saw the announcement during dinner.

She said nothing at first—just shook her head, impressed but not surprised.

Hori let out a soft “whoa” as she read through the perks list.

“This guy’s basically Batman now,” she muttered, not looking up.

Miranda, in her home office, was already on a follow-up call.

“No,” she said calmly, “we’re not commenting further. The club will speak when the time’s right. That’s all.”

And in Olivia’s case—she didn’t even flinch when she saw it.

She just turned her tablet toward Izan where he sat on the couch beside her and raised an eyebrow.

“I guess Dinner’s on you for the next decade.”

Izan looked down at the tablet.

At the contract breakdown.

“Technically, it’s all yours too, if you just let me put my name-” he tried saying but she smacked him with a throw pillow.

……..

The next day dawned cool and crisp— still, some hours gone by since the signing, but yesterday’s storm still buzzed in the air.

ESPN pundits and social media voices were droning with debate, but the legends were where the real conversation simmered.

On Premier League Network’s live panel, Roy Keane, Ian Wright, and Patrick Vieira leaned into their microphones as the details unfolded.

Their chemistry rolled between camaraderie and confrontation, each voice layered with tone and unspoken tension.

Roy Keane started, clipped and direct.

“I’ve seen players get big deals before, but this—that’s something else. He’s seventeen. At seventeen, we were still scraping gloves and learning to live with the pressure. He’s sitting with Messi-level words beside his name.”

Wright, always the optimist, countered with a grin in his voice.

“It’s not just the money. It’s what he’s earning. We’ve watched that kid destroy games. We’ve seen him take on Premier League veterans like last week. This was never hype—this is real.”

Vieira jumped in, slightly pitched.

“He’s worth it—but only if they give him everything he needs to stay grounded. Young players burn out fast, especially with that much expectation attached. How do you keep his focus with that weight?”

Keane leaned forward, tone cautious.

“Grounded doesn’t pay the tax on that contract. He’s playing on a different field now—social media, and global endorsements. If he gets too comfortable, you lose him before the shirt does.”

Wright shook his head.

“But let’s not pretend jealousy isn’t part of it. I mean, we’re legends—people respected our Prime and spent money then. This is a statement. Arsenal saying they won’t sell out every time someone rings the bell.”

Vieira’s voice softened.

“There’s a message here. It’s not just for Izan—it’s broadcast to every kid. ‘Stay here, grow here, and we will pay what it takes.’ That’s rare in today’s world.”

Their debate rolled on—finance, psychology, loyalty, legacy—each detour circling back to one truth: Arsenal had gone all in.

Meanwhile, at the training ground near the Emirates, Arteta’s squad exited the coach at precisely 2:05 p.m. The street buzz rose steadily—a mix of press vans, stewards, and the clatter of training gear. Banners fluttered above them: “Keep the Dream” read one, “Not For Sale” read another adjacent sign.

Inside the tunnel, the players walked in calm but focused pairs.

Behind them, Arteta leaned forward and whispered into the ear of a young defender who was none other than Lewis Skelly.

They emerged onto the lush green pitch just as Manchester United fans began their approach, noting every number, every pattern, every name.

The away end—still muted, respectful—still poised to spark.

As Arsenal stretched and traded passes, the applause came first—hesitant, polite.

Then the murmurs grew.

A few “I-Z-A-N”s spilt over from the home crowd, unplanned, unsure—but gaining momentum quicker than sound should.

Arteta’s players executed their warm-ups—ball control, sprints, crosses and Izan moved within it all, measured.

No extra throbbing of ego, just the natural rhythm of elite motion.

But as a wave of the famous United “WAR … SHIP!” chant began to rise.

Izan paused mid-drill, glanced toward the stands, and broke into the faintest smile.

……

The Emirates lit up beneath the soft orange glow of early dusk, floodlights punching clarity into every edge of the pitch.

The winter air had that sharp, almost metallic bite—dense enough to carry noise, but crisp enough to make it crack.

And that noise? It was a roar.

The Manchester United fans were tucked into their away corner, wrapped in red and white scarves, bouncing with venom.

And when Arsenal’s players emerged from the tunnel, it rose louder.

Pure tribal spite wrapped in voice.

But Izan walked through it—shoulders back, chin up, the Arsenal crest resting firm on his chest.

He acknowledged a few of United’s players with subtle nods and proceeded to mind his own.

In the gantry, the commentary feed hummed to life.

“There’s been a week of noise. A week of headlines, offers rejection, speculation, and a contract unlike anything we’ve seen in Premier League history. And now… there’s just the pitch.”

The camera panned across the players as they broke into their final formation lines.

“This is the FA Cup. Arsenal versus Manchester United. Two clubs with intertwined history, unforgettable battles, and something deeper in the bones when they meet.”

“And there he is. Izan Miura Hernandez. Seventeen. Just seventeen. Signed, sealed, and no longer rumoured. He stays in red. And he starts tonight as a man being paid more than nearly anyone in world football—because Arsenal believe he’s worth every coin.”

Arteta stood near the edge of his technical box, clapping his hands in a steady rhythm while Ruben Amorim mirrored him at the opposite dugout, arms crossed but locked in, reading every inch of his opposition.

The whistle blew and Izan stood on the halfway line, ball at his feet with Ødegaard beside him.

He looked up once, scanned the field and then touched the ball backwards.

“Game on,” one of the commentators roared as the match began.

And from the very first second, it was clear—none of the noise had dulled the sharpness in Arsenal’s game.

That under the lights at the Emirates… Izan was still here.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit. Gosh I’m tired

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