[Colney]
The sun had long dipped below the horizon, casting an amber glow on the far edge of the Colney training pitch.
Most of the players had already left, slipping into warm recovery gear or idling in the treatment rooms.
But Izan stayed—out near the sideline, inside the quiet hum of the floodlights.
He was working on set pieces again.
Over and over, his boots cut clean divots into the turf.
Ball. Step. Whip.
The net rustled again and again like it had grown used to his rhythm.
Arteta watched from a distance for a while, arms folded with a thoughtful expression as Izan struck another ball into the empty net.
After a few more strikes, the manager finally stepped onto the grass, the cold crunching beneath his shoes as he approached the teenager.
"You planning on camping here?" Arteta asked, voice dry but calm.
Izan looked up mid-swing, his breathing measured but his brow damp.
"Just finishing," he said, brushing back a loose strand of hair.
