Sunday evening. 9:32 p.m.
The coach hummed along the motorway, its black-tinted windows reflecting bursts of sodium streetlight as the Arsenal squad journeyed back to London Colney.
Inside, it was dim. Quiet. Not tense—just the good kind of tired. Victory tired.
Music played low from someone's speaker at the back, bass barely audible.
A few players dozed off, hoodies up, legs stretched out over duffel bags.
Others scrolled through match clips or Instagram stories from friends and family, blowing up their notifications.
Izan sat near the middle, hood up, phone tilted low between his forearms. His earbuds dangled unused around his neck.
A half-empty Gatorade bottle rested by his foot.
Still wearing his tracksuit, the collar tugged up to his chin, he had the air of someone content—but not resting.
His phone buzzed. Then again.
Then once more in quick succession.
Olivia
"I still can't believe I missed that goal like THAT goal? In person???
Are you kidding???"
