The wheels of the plane touched down with the usual jolt as the cabin filled with the chorus of seatbelts clicking open, overhead bins swinging, and voices stirring.
London again.
Grey skies filtering faintly through the windows, a world away from the desert glow they'd left behind.
Izan leaned back for a moment, phone already in his hand, before he typed out a quick message.
"Back in London. Will head to physio tomorrow morning for a check."
Send.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, and almost immediately, a buzz.
He took it out again, the screen lighting with Arteta's reply:
"Ok."
Short, simple, but good enough.
Izan gave a faint smile and slid the phone away for good this time.
Football had its way of pulling you back with no ceremony, no pause.
The ride from Heathrow blurred by in silence, the familiar black SUV gliding through the late-night London traffic.
