God Of football

Chapter 405: Izan’s Footprints

The buzz inside the Emirates was still strong as the players emerged from the tunnel for the second half.

Arsenal led 1–0, but it wasnʼt just the scoreline keeping the crowd energized—it was the way theyʼd done it.

Izan was among the first out, his head held high as he jogged across the pitch to light applause and scattered chants.

Some fans along the front row stood up and clapped just for him, pointing toward him and gesturing in disbelief, as if still unsure of what they had witnessed before the break.

”Come on, lads,” Declan Rice called out, rallying the group as they spread across the grass again.

Odegaard gave Izan a firm slap on the back. ”Youʼve got the crowd in your pocket now,” he said with a grin.

Izan gave a small smile but kept his eyes forward.

Wolves came out too, with a different energy.

Their players looked more urgent, more deliberate in their steps. Clearly, theyʼd been given instructions to tighten the screws.

Guy Mowbrayʼs voice returned to the broadcast as the camera panned across the players resetting into position.

”Well, weʼre about to get underway for the second half here at the Emirates. Arsenal with the lead, thanks to that ice-cold panenka from Izan,” he said, his tone light but admiring.

”A cheeky finish that has already gone viral. But now comes the true test of control—Wolves are down but not out, and Gary OʼNeil will expect a reaction.”

The referee gave a final glance at both goalkeepers before blowing the whistle.

Arsenal kicked off the second half, moving left to right, and immediately began working the ball through their midfield.

Wolves, as expected, came out pressing higher, trying to force errors early and disrupt Arsenalʼs rhythm.

Odegaard collected the ball deep and quickly shifted it to Rice, who glanced over his shoulder and called out, ”Izan, show!”

Izan appeared and dropped into space and received the pass cleanly on the half-turn, pivoting between two Wolves players with a smart feint.

The crowd responded immediately—gasps, then applause. His composure was evident.

Mowbray chuckled gently through the commentary.

”Heʼs playing like he belongs, isnʼt he? So tidy on the ball, and so aware. Itʼs one thing to score with style, but itʼs another to show you can handle the dirty work, and the rhythm of Premier League midfield play. And Izanʼs doing both.”

Arsenalʼs tempo began to pick up. Saka shifted wide, Odegaard drifted inside, and Wolves were quickly being pulled into pockets they didnʼt want to be in.

Still, they fought, pressing as a unit, trying to force Arsenal into mistakes.

Wolves had started the second half trying to press higher, hoping to disrupt Arsenalʼs rhythm.

But within ten minutes, they were pulled back into their own half, shaped into a tight block of eight outfield players behind the ball.

Arsenal, on the other hand, looked like they were building toward something.

There was more zip in the passes, more purpose in the movements.

Rice dropped deep to collect from Ramsdale and shifted it across to Calafiori, who waited for Wolvesʼ press to activate.

It came, but half-heartedly. Calafiori popped it back to Ramsdale, who calmly pinged a low pass out to Ben White.

The right-back cushioned it with one touch and fired it down the line to Saka, who spun and accelerated.

The crowd came alive instantly—Saka was in stride, surging into space. Ødegaard peeled off, offering support centrally.

Ahead of him, Havertz made a decoy run to drag Dawson away.

Saka found Ødegaard with a perfectly weighted ball.

The Norwegian received it just outside the box and flicked it on instinct toward Izan, who had ghosted into a dangerous area.

This was the chance.

Izan controlled it cleanly and poked it ahead to Havertz, who turned sharply and tried to slot it low past Sá.

But the Wolves keeper was sharp—he got down quickly and parried it away with a firm right glove.

The rebound spilled back toward the edge of the area, and the visitors cleared it hastily, but only as far as Tomiyasu, whoʼd stayed alert.

”Arsenal knocking—really knocking now. That was nearly the third assist of the day for young Izan, but Sá keeps Wolves in it,” Guy Mowbrayʼs voice rang through as the side restarted play.

The Emirates didnʼt deflate. Instead, they roared louder.

The fans could smell another goal coming.

Tomiyasu didnʼt dwell on the ball. He nudged it sideways to Izan, whoʼd already moved again, offering himself.

Izan didnʼt rush. He looked left, then right, then dragged the ball with the inside of his boot, weaving away from Mattheus Cunha before turning sharply to face forward.

One defender stepped up—too eager, looking to stop Izan in his stride but Izan skipped past him with ease.

”Watch him go,” Mowbray commented, half laughing. ”Itʼs like theyʼre magnetized—he draws them out just to break them apart.”

Izan threaded a pass out to Calafiori on the far left, stretching Wolves out.

The full-back carried it, waited for movement, then dropped it back to Rice, who immediately zipped it over to Ødegaard.

The Norwegian let it run across his body and clipped it wide to Saka again, now facing a tired Aït-Nouri.

This time, Saka feinted outside, cut in, and clipped a lofted cross toward the far post. Havertz rose, met it—and headed just over the bar.

Groans rang out around the Emirates.

Arteta clapped anyway. ”Itʼs coming!” he barked from the touchline. ”Keep the ball moving!”

Wolves jogged back into position slowly. Arsenal, by contrast, were already setting their trap again.

The next change of possession saw Ramsdale come out of his area, waving.

Calafiori turned and nodded, sliding the ball back to his keeper. The reset was instant.

Ramsdale passed to Rice, who fed Odegaard, and once again, Izan became the magnet.

Receiving the ball just behind the halfway line, he turned on his first touch, pulled two midfielders toward him, and slipped the ball behind them into Ødegaardʼs feet.

Then, without waiting, he took off diagonally into space.

Ødegaard didnʼt hesitate.

He played the return pass first-time, cutting through Wolvesʼ lines.

Izan took it cleanly on the run—no wasted movement.

One defender stepped up—Kilman.

Izan shimmied and rolled the ball under his studs before sliding a perfectly timed pass to Ødegaard, who had continued his run behind the line.

And now came the final piece.

Ødegaard, just inside the box, shaped to shoot.

But then he spotted Saka alone at the far post.

One touch across goal. Saka arrived.

Tap in.

Goal.

The Emirates lifted off.

”Now that… is liquid football!” Guy Mowbray roared.

”Izan again at the heart of it. The timing, the weight of the pass, the ability to draw defenders in and open lanes—itʼs elite. Ødegaard doesnʼt get greedy, and Saka does what he does best.”

Arteta couldnʼt hide his delight this time. He turned fist in the air and jogged back toward his bench.

”Thatʼs how we do it!” he shouted. ”Thatʼs Arsenal football!”

Gary OʼNeil stood frozen on the sideline, arms folded, lips pressed together. There wasnʼt much left for him to say.

The camera cut to the trio—Saka, Ødegaard, and Izan—embracing just inside the box, smiles all around.

From the crowd, chants erupted: ”Heʼs one of our own! Heʼs one of our own! Izanʼs one of our own!”

Mowbray, settling after the chaos, added one final note.

”They are playing like a unit, but with a little magician at the heart of it. Every time he touches the ball, something happens. And now, Arsenal lead 2–0, fully deserved.”

And this time, Wolves knew—they werenʼt just chasing a scoreline. They were chasing shadows.

The Arsenal player stopped celebrating after a while before turning towards their half, walking past the Wolverhampton players who looked like they had lost their urge.

The restart was almost ceremonial. Wolves stood over the ball, motionless for a moment longer than usual.

The urgency was there in their eyes, but not in their legs.

The refereeʼs whistle pierced the air, and play resumed—but the balance had shifted.

Arsenal pressed higher, faster, and more hungrily, emboldened by a two-goal cushion and the scent of more.

Wolves attempted to string a few passes together, starting from their center-backs. Dawson to Kilman, Kilman to Semedo—but it was cautious, passive.

There was no intent in their build-up, just survival instincts.

”Wolves look rattled,” Guy Mowbray noted, tone cutting. ”The fightʼs still there, but the belief… maybe not.”

Then came the mistake.

Joao Gomes hesitated half a second too late as he turned under pressure and that was all Izan needed.

He pounced, sharp as a razor, poking the ball clean off Joaoʼs toe before the Wolves man could shield it.

A gasp rose from the crowd as Izan surged forward, running 10 yards in two touches.

He didnʼt try anything fancy—not here. The vision clicked in immediately.

To his right, he spotted the blur of Saka making a dart between Aït-Nouri and Kilman, perfectly timed.

Izan snapped a low pass into space for him.

Guy Mowbrayʼs voice sharpened. ”And Arsenal are in again! Izan—winning it, feeding it, and now Sakaʼs flying down the right!”

The Emirates had barely sat back down. Now they were back on their feet again.

Saka took the ball in stride, controlled but quick, his boots whispering across the grass as he carved through the flank.

Ødegaard sprinted into the box. Havertz peeled left. Even Calafiori was making up ground behind.

Saka reached the edge of the final third and slowed just a fraction, glancing up.

”Here we go again…” Mowbray breathed.

The whole stadium felt it.

Saka had the ball.

And someone was about to get it.

A/n: Akay. Have fun reading and iʼll see you tomorrow. Donʼt forget to spam the golden tickets because Iʼll be releasing their bonuses come end of the week.