The next morning, the team bus rolled to a slow stop outside the training facility in Whippany, New Jersey, the late morning sun beating down on the tinted windows.
The parking lot shimmered faintly from the heat, a far cry from the cool drizzle of North London, the players were used to.
One by one, the doors hissed open and the Arsenal players began stepping out, stretching stiff legs and blinking against the glare.
Izan was among the last to come down, his tracksuit zipped all the way to his neck, a duffel bag slung across his shoulder.
He looked around, inhaling a chunk of the air that smelled faintly of cut grass and asphalt.
After a few seconds of silent observation, he muttered, "Wait, remind me again why we had to drive an hour and a half just to train here?"
Odegaard, stepping down behind him, gave a small smirk as he adjusted the strap of his own bag.
"Because apparently," he said, "the pitches closer to Philly aren't up to standard."
Izan turned, frowning.
