The Emirates airplane touched down just after noon, the tarmac shimmering under the Valencian sun.
The air outside was dry and bright, warmer than London by a good ten degrees and as the Arsenal players filed off the jet, a breeze swept across the airport apron—light, but enough to ruffle collars and brush past warm foreheads.
Their team coach had arrived earlier in the country, already parked just beyond the barriers.
Security crews and club liaisons were waiting beside it, earpieces in, clipboard-wielding.
Everything was clockwork, professional.
Inside the terminal, they moved together, a quietly focused pack.
No music, no unnecessary noise.
Just the hush of trainers on polished tiles and the occasional cough or murmur from staff.
Then came the usual checks.
Passports.
Luggage.
Faces to match the printed names.
