Chapter 805: No Fairytales.
The room buzzed with activity, flashes snapping, pens scratching, as the last words left Yamal’s mouth.
He sat back in his chair, gaze calm, as though he had shouldered the storm of questions and come out intact.
Beside him, Flick allowed the smallest of smiles to curl across his lips before the moderator finally stepped in, raising his hands.
"Alright, that’s enough for today. Thank you, everyone. We’ll see you tomorrow."
....
The flashbulbs had barely died down by the time Hansi Flick and Lamine Yamal stepped out of the press room and into the quieter corridor beyond.
The hum of reporters still echoed faintly behind the doors, but here it was just them and the staff of the stadium around, getting things ready for the battle that was to happen the next day.
Flick let out a sudden laugh, light but genuine, shaking his head.
"You handled that well," he said, his German accent curling over the words.
"Honestly, I thought your answers were going to be outrageous. You know, something wild, because of that maverick personality of yours."
Yamal grinned faintly, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets as they walked.
"I only do that sometimes," he admitted, his voice softer than the bravado he’d shown minutes earlier.
"It’s a shield, you know? People are quick to criticise, quick to laugh. If I act like I don’t care, then maybe it hurts less. But I know my limits. I know when it’s serious."
The honesty caught Flick for a second, and he slowed, then reached over and ruffled Yamal’s hair in that fatherly way only a coach can.
"Good," Flick said, smiling warmly.
"Keep that balance. Know when to play, know when to fight. Do that, and you’ll go far. To the very top."
Yamal chuckled, swatting his hand away, but the words lingered, heavy with truth.
Together, they turned the corner, following the marked path toward the exit where the team bus waited to take them back to their hotel.
Around them, staff and teammates mingled in small clusters, their voices a low hum of anticipation.
For Barcelona, the night was over, but for Arsenal, across town, things were only just stirring.
In the hotel dining area, the atmosphere was livelier.
Plates clattered faintly, forks tapped, voices overlapped in a blend of English, Spanish, and Portuguese.
The screens mounted high on the walls replayed highlights from the press conference, Yamal’s calm responses now looping with subtitles as pundits on another channel debated his words.
Saka leaned back in his chair, his eyes glued to the screen.
A sly grin spread across his face as he twisted in his seat toward Izan, who sat a few chairs down, absently poking at the rice on his plate.
"So," Saka began, voice pitched loud enough for the table to hear, "same question they threw at Yamal, who’s better, you or him?"
The words hung there, and for a moment, the table quieted, all eyes shifting toward Izan.
He finally lifted his gaze, narrowing it at Saka like he’d just been asked whether water was wet.
"You serious?" he asked, tone flat, almost bemused.
Saka raised his hands in mock innocence, a wide grin plastered on his face. "
Just asking! Don’t shoot the messenger."
But the reaction from the table was immediate.
A chorus of "oooooohhh" went up, some players drumming on the table, others shaking their heads in amusement.
The tension wasn’t hostile, more so playful baiting of brothers trying to stir a reaction.
Saka leaned closer, milking the moment.
"Alright, alright," he said, pulling out his phone.
The glow lit up his features as he tapped rapidly, then turned the screen for everyone to see.
"Here. Win probabilities. Fifty-two per cent Arsenal, forty-eight per cent Barca. Neck and neck. What do you say to that?"
Izan glanced at the screen briefly, then back at Saka, and a smirk curved at his lips.
His voice, when it came, was calm and a bit too calm.
"They all do this," he said.
"Match up the players, rate the chances, pretend the numbers mean something. But deep down..."
He paused, letting the silence grow heavier as his smirk deepened. "...they all know who’s winning."
The table went still as a few players exchanged quick glances, caught by the sudden shift in tone.
Izan leaned back in his chair, eyes sharp, voice dropping lower, colder.
"There’s no fairytale ending for Barcelona in their quest to bring the trophy to Camp Nou or whatever. No, not this time. Their loss, " he exhaled through his nose, the words rolling slow and deliberate, "is the start of my domination."
The words seemed to ripple across the table.
Saka, who had been the instigator a moment ago, found his grin faltering as a chill traced up his spine, with the latter trying to shrug with a chuckle, but it came off as forced.
For a second, he just stared, caught off guard by how raw and final Izan’s tone had sounded, like a prophecy rather than bravado.
Then, just as the weight settled in, Izan broke into a laugh, light, carefree, unbothered.
He pushed his plate away and shook his head, the smirk back on his lips, as though he hadn’t just dropped a sentence that felt like it belonged carved into marble.
"Relax, B. I’m joking," he chuckled, waving a hand.
Saka blinked, still shaking his head slowly, forcing out a laugh that didn’t quite hide the goosebumps on his arms.
Around the table, the others let out relieved chuckles, the tension dissolving back into chatter.
But for Saka, the words lingered, echoing louder than the laughter.
He hadn’t known Izan for years, like others but playing alongside him and being with him more times than Izan is with his family was long enough for him to know the difference between banter and belief.
And this? This wasn’t a joke. Not really.
As the table did away with Izan’s little charade, Nwaneri, hunched forward with his fork halfway to his mouth, suddenly looked around as though something had just struck him.
"By the way," he said, brows furrowing, "where’s Odegaard?"
Saka leaned back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully before pointing at Nwaneri with the edge of his knife.
"Yeahh, Matter of fact... where’s Mikel too? He wasn’t with the other coaches when they walked in."
He let the question hang in the air, then glanced down the room.
"And come to think of it, Carlos Cuesta isn’t here either."
Declan Rice sat with his arms crossed and gave a slow nod.
"You’re right. Haven’t seen any of them since training wrapped up."
He scanned the room, his sharp eyes landing on Albert Stuivenberg just as the assistant coach made his way past their table toward the staff section.
"Oi, Albert!" Rice called out, lifting his chin.
Stuivenberg stopped, clearly caught off guard.
"Yes?" he asked, adjusting his glasses with a slight tilt of his head.
Rice gestured lightly with an open hand.
"Any idea where the boss and the skipper are? And Carlos, too? Haven’t spotted them all evening."
For a moment, Stuivenberg hesitated, almost as if he hadn’t expected the question.
Then a chuckle broke out of him, soft and practised, and he shook his head.
"They’ll be around in a bit, don’t worry. Nothing for you boys to lose sleep over."
He smiled briefly, then excused himself with a polite nod and walked off, settling down at the coaches’ table near the corner.
His calm demeanour was enough to smooth over the moment for most at the table.
But not for Izan.
He had been quiet through the whole exchange, barely touching his food, eyes fixed on Stuivenberg with a piercing intensity.
He didn’t blink until the assistant coach finally sat down.
Then, only then, he turned his head away, shaking it slowly, like someone who had already decided the answer he had gotten was not the truth.
The room around him carried on, plates scraping, conversations spilling into laughter, but even after finishing their meal, Arteta, Carlos, and Odegaard were still nowhere to be found.
[München Klinik Schwabing]
"It’s not bad," the doctor said, his voice low but steady. "But for tomorrow’s game... It’s bad."
Arteta sat back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he took that in.
He didn’t speak right away, just let out a long sigh through his nose before shaking his head.
Then he turned toward the man sitting a little stiffly across from him at the table.
"You really didn’t help yourself, did you?" Arteta said, his tone caught somewhere between frustration and disbelief.
Odegaard, arms folded, gave another sigh, softer this time, like he already knew what was coming.
Arteta leaned forward, his hand pressing briefly against the table.
"You thought it was a good idea, Martin, to use a razor blade on your toenails. A razor blade. The night before a Champions League final."
Odegaard let out a wry chuckle, half embarrassed, half resigned.
"It was bothering me. I just... I didn’t think it would be that deep."
Arteta dragged a hand down his face, then turned his gaze to the doctor.
"Do something about it. Numb it, dress it, I don’t care. Just give me something I can trust tomorrow."
The doctor nodded, already reaching for his notes.
"We’ll patch him up. He’ll be able to play, but the pain will be there. He’ll have to manage it."
Arteta looked back at his captain, his voice quieter now, more serious.
"He will. He is going to have to play through this. I’ve already built the plan with you in it, and I cannot afford to change everything at the last minute. Understood?"
Odegaard leaned back, exhaling slowly before giving a small grin, one that looked more like acceptance than bravado.
The doctor gave a small smile of his own, almost amused by the scene in front of him, as Arteta went out.
"Now that he’s gone, can I get an autograph?" the doctor said after Arteta went out.
Odegaard: （⊙ｏ⊙）