Chapter 797: Arrival.
As its brakes released, the coach gave a low hiss, the Arsenal crest glinting faintly under the flood of camera flashes that lit up Heathrow’s terminal drop-off.
Inside the front row, Arteta let out a long, almost tired sigh, leaning an elbow against the window.
He didn’t have to say why, but the weariness that had suddenly filled his face told most of the story.
Beside him, Albert Stuivenberg shifted, but it was Carlos Cuesta who caught the look first.
He leaned slightly toward the manager, voice low so it wouldn’t carry down the aisle.
"You don’t really like them, do you?" he asked, tilting his head subtly toward the outside.
Dozens of lenses glared back through the glass, hungry, impatient.
Arteta’s lips pressed into a line before curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
"I don’t mind them," he murmured, eyes still on the crowd.
"I just don’t want what comes with them. The distraction. The noise."
He exhaled again as the bus rolled into its designated slot.
"We’re here to focus, not to play games before the game."
The door hissed open, and the first burst of sound came in, fans calling names, reporters already pushing microphones forward even before anyone had stepped down.
One by one, players rose from their seats, lifting bags and wheeling cases down the aisle.
Bukayo Saka went first, hood pulled halfway up, but his grin broke through anyway as he waved at the cluster of supporters by the barrier.
Behind him, Martin Ødegaard gave a polite nod, and Timber, loud as always, clapped towards the fans who shouted his name.
Izan came down in the middle of the pack, duffel slung over one shoulder, the strap of his carry-on gripped tight in his other hand.
Immediately, a wall of sound invaded the place.
"Izan! Izan!"
"Miura, over here!"
"Best of luck in Germany!"
Someone even yelled, "How will you deal with Barcelona’s high line?" and the absurdity of it nearly made him laugh.
He kept his head down, a small smile tugging at his lips, and walked on.
Arteta wasn’t spared either.
The reporters surged, voices cutting across each other.
"Mikel, what’s the plan for Flick’s high press?"
"Are you preparing differently for Lewandowski?"
"Do you think Barcelona arriving early puts you behind?"
"What are your thoughts on comparisons between Izan and Lamine Yamal?"
Arteta, tired already, just tightened his grip on his suitcase handle and strode ahead, the liaison officer and a couple of staffers buffering him from the barrage.
Inside the terminal, the chaos softened but didn’t disappear.
Check-in counters, staff ushering them through priority lanes, the occasional fan sneaking a selfie from the side.
The players moved in clusters, through security, through passport checks, until finally they emerged into the quieter side of the terminal where the private tunnel to their chartered flight waited.
The weight of noise and flashes fell away the moment the glass doors slid shut behind them.
Only the echo of suitcase wheels and low chatter remained.
By the time they reached the aircraft, the noise of the arrival had thinned into something calmer.
Bags were loaded underneath, boarding was smooth, and the squad filtered into the cabin where their seats had been pre-assigned.
It was quieter now, no chanting, no microphones, just the low hum of the plane’s systems and the rustle of bags going into overhead compartments.
Izan slid into his seat by the window, headphones hanging loose around his neck as he stowed his bag.
Across the aisle, Saka stretched, joking about how someone needed to invent a sauna for planes like these, drawing laughter from a few teammates.
The conversations continued until a stewardess appeared down the aisle, smiling politely as she spoke in a professional but gentle tone.
"Gentlemen, please make sure your seatbelts are fastened. We’ll be departing shortly."
The seatbelt sign pinged overhead as Izan tugged his belt across and clicked it in place.
He leaned back, head resting lightly against the seat, before slipping his headset on, the faint hum of music drowning out the murmur of voices around him.
Outside the oval window, the runway began stretching into the distance as the engines whirred, deepened, and then roared, the aircraft lurching forward, picking up speed.
London shrank beneath them, lights scattering like stars against the fading evening.
Ahead was only sky, clouds, and Germany waiting.
......
While the Arsenal plane toured the skies, the BBC’s evening studio lighting gave off a warm, professional glow, as the tension in their words simmered beneath.
The host leaned forward slightly, papers in hand, and spoke with his usual clarity.
"Now, just an update for our viewers, Arsenal left London around five o’clock, about an hour ago, and should be touching down in Germany in the next hour. A significant shift in schedule, considering their original plan had been to travel on Friday."
Beside him, one of the pundits adjusted his tie, nodding before picking up the thread.
"Yes, and that’s worth pointing out. This wasn’t Arsenal’s idea. Barcelona flew out earlier today, and, in effect, Arsenal have reacted. There’s a psychological game in this. Flick and Barcelona are already forcing them to change their rhythm. And let’s be clear, Arsenal haven’t trained since before that FA Cup final."
"That was... what, three days ago? All this travelling in quick succession, London to Wembley, back to Colney, now Germany ahead of schedule, it chips away at preparation. Travel takes its toll. Legs stiffen, minds wander. Even small disruptions can matter at this level."
Another pundit, younger, leaned in with a shake of his head.
"It’s not just the training rhythm, it’s the optics too. For a team as disciplined as Arsenal under Arteta, being seen to follow Barcelona’s lead rather than sticking to their own plan, it could give Barca a subtle edge mentally. These are the margins on which the finals are decided."
The host let the words hang a moment, eyes flicking between the panellists.
Then, with the practised ease of someone who knew when to stop digging, he wrapped it neatly.
"Well, either way, both sides are almost united in Germany now, and the countdown continues. Six days to the Champions League final. We’ll have more updates as we get them."
The camera angle widened, the jingle music kicked in, and the screen faded to another segment.
⸻
Meanwhile, in the dusk light over Germany, Arsenal’s chartered flight had already dipped through the clouds and touched down.
The engines gave a tired whine as the plane taxied, finally rolling to a stop.
Inside the cabin, the players shifted, stretching after the short but stiff sit, pulling bags from overhead compartments.
This time, the club had been clever.
Instead of funnelling the players through the main exit where fans and reporters waited in a tight pack, the liaison manager had arranged with airport staff for a side route.
A quiet service corridor, barely lit, but much smoother.
One by one, the squad stepped off, wheeling suitcases across the tarmac where a sleek, dark team coach waited, the second bus, driven ahead a day earlier, now stationed just beyond the fence while the staff moved briskly, guiding them along.
Still, as the coach doors closed behind them, they couldn’t miss the swell of noise just outside the barriers.
Fans, dozens deep, pressed against the rails, holding flags and scarves.
Reporters, too, clustered behind their own designated line, voices cutting into the night air, microphones raised high as the lights of cameras flickered across the scene like restless fireflies.
Declan Rice, who had taken a window seat near the middle of the bus, shook his head as he watched the commotion.
"Shame, innit?" he muttered, more to the lads nearby than anyone in particular.
"Half those kids came here just to see us, maybe get a wave. Can’t even get near because the reporters are clogging the front row with cameras. Ruins it for the ones who actually care."
A few nodded. Raya huffed a quiet laugh.
"If I had a quid for every time someone asked me about tactics instead of saying good luck, I’d retire now."
The bus pulled away from the airport perimeter, the noise fading as the barriers thinned and the night opened up into quiet German streets.
.....
"Yeah, we’ve just got in," Izan murmured, his voice low from the weariness of travel as he pushed the hotel door open with the back of his shoulder, his phone pressed tightly against his ear.
The room smelled faintly of fresh linen and polish, the kind of scent every hotel seemed to have.
He set his suitcase down by the wall with a dull thump, half listening to the soft laugh coming from the other end of the line.
"No, it wasn’t too bad... just weird," he said, tugging at the hem of his hoodie as he crossed the room.
His eyes flicked around, taking in the tidy setup while a smile slipped onto his face, small but genuine.
"Mm, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry."
"Yeah... I’ll call again tomorrow before training. I promise."
His lips curved again, and he exhaled through his mouth and then, "Love you too, Liv."
He tapped the screen, ending the call, and let the phone slip from his fingers onto the bedspread with a soft bounce.