The sun's warmth hit Izan's skin as he stepped out onto the pitch and the familiar smell of freshly cut grass around him.
The buzz of conversation dulled into a low hum around him, replaced by the steady thump of boots on turf, the occasional barked laugh, and the whistle of a passing ball.
He paused for a moment, soaking it in—Colney at full rhythm, the calm before the intensity.
Arteta stood at the center, clipboard in hand, flanked by his assistants.
Carlos Cuesta had a stopwatch slung around his neck, and Steve Round was already shouting directions toward the keepers at the far end.
Izan jogged to where the midfielders were gathering, slotting naturally into the group.
Rice offered him a quick fist bump while Ødegaard nodded at home with a small grin.
"Morning," Mikel called out, voice rising above the shuffle.
"Let's go! Warm-up rondos — four boxes, four players per group. Keep the touches sharp, and stay vocal. We've got a session to dominate today."
