God Of football

Chapter 453: Colors Of London

The match had tilted.

Minute by minute, Arsenalʼs grip had tightened on the gameʼs throat, even if the scoreline still sat stubbornly at 0–0.

The ball flowed between red shirts — from Rice to Ødegaard, out to Martinelli, pulled back to White — smooth, sharp, confident.

Despite all the fury their fans poured down from the stands, Tottenham had begun to retreat step by step, their lines compressed, their touches rushed.

It was subtle, not a collapse. Not surrender — but it was there: the slight hesitation in Bentancurʼs pass, the way Van de Ven took an extra touch instead of playing first-time into midfield.

Arsenal were asking questions now.

Over and over, yet they were not getting the answers they were looking for.

Ødegaard dropped deep, pulled a marker with him, and with a flick of the boot, found Saka in the half-space between Davies and Udogie.

Saka drifted inward, waiting while Martinelli peeled wide left, anticipating.

White walls surged beyond, and the rhythm was building.

Saka clipped a pass toward the top of the box, where Havertz — all wiry strength — rose between Romero and Van de Ven, glancing a header back down into Martinelliʼs path.

Martinelli let it bounce once, steadied, and cracked a half-volley, his shot sizzling low — a snap of panic — forcing Vicario into a sharp low save at his right post.

The ball rebounded out messily, no clean hands on it, squirming toward the edge of the area.

The crowd gasped — a rising noise, desperate and afraid, one side roaring at its players to clear the ball while the other was hoping for something or someone.

And it was there that Thomas Partey appeared for Arsenal.

Stride sure.

Mind clear.

The chaos slowed for him as he focused on the ball rolling towards him.

He killed the speed of the ball with a single touch, then took a glance to measure the angles.

The Tottenham players scrambled to block the Ghanaianʼs path, but it was too late as Partey drew his right foot back and smashed the ball.

A shot, not hit with wild violence but with a devastating, deliberate force, skipping off the wet grass once before angling low into the bottom corner.

No chance for Vicario. No chance for anyone.

The net bulged — sudden, violent — and for a half-second, even the away end hesitated in shock before the explosion came.

GOOOAAAALLLL

The Arsenal players flooded toward the corner flag as Partey was swallowed by his teammates, Rice shouting something wordless into the night sky, Martinelli hammering his fists into the badge on Parteyʼs chest.

”North London is red! North London is red!” the Arsenal supporters howled, their voices a living weapon cutting through the stunned stadium.

Up in the gantry, Peter Druryʼs voice rode the electric storm:

”When the world spins madly around you — stay calm, stay true.

Thomas Partey... with the strike of a master craftsman in a moment of bedlam. Arsenal lead and the tide of this derby is shifting red!”

Beside him, Lee Dixon added, leaning into his microphone, urgency in his tone:

”Itʼs been coming, Peter. Arsenal turned the screw, and Tottenham blinked first. And in matches like these, one mistake, one poor clearance — it punishes you instantly.”

The Arsenal players lingered around the corner flag a bit too much while celebrating, causing the Tottenham players to complain to the referee.

Seeing this, Carlos Cuesta screamed from the touchline, telling the Arsenal players to return to their half.

The game restarted, but the rhythm had changed.

Tottenham stung, lashed out instinctively — Son darting between Gabriel and Saliba, demanding sharper balls, Maddison buzzing angrily around Rice like a hornet.

For a few minutes, the home side surged forward, anger fueling their legs.

Porro lofted a dangerous cross that Richarlison only just failed to meet at the back post before Son followed in the next attacking sequence with a shot from the corner of the box, curling just wide beyond the reach of Raya but the ball also went behind the goal.

”Every tackle now, every challenge, carries double the weight,” Drury murmured, as the camera caught Arteta urging calm, hands in front of him, palms down.

Arsenal didnʼt panic.

They adjusted, absorbed the waves, and waited for the counter.

Ødegaard picked his moments perfectly — small turns, tight pivots, slipping passes into Martinelliʼs stride with surgical precision.

Martinelli, catching Van de Ven flat-footed, raced clear down the left — the Arsenal fans roaring him on, before cutting back dangerously toward Havertz, only for Romero to throw himself across with a last-ditch interception.

”Come on, you Spurs!”

”Come on, you Spurs!” the home crowd roared, trying to resurrect their side from the rising red tide.

The clock ticked toward halftime, but the match refused to settle.

There was an anger to it now, a simmering threat that anything could spark. Rice and Bentancur clashed in midfield — a heavy, honest collision that left both gritting their teeth and shaking it off.

In the end, Rice won that battle for Arsenal, slipping the ball towards the right flank where Saka tried to burst forward after getting the ball but Udogie got to him.

The two players tangled on the flank, arms and shoulders bumping, neither yielding an inch until Udogie brought Saka down, giving away a foul to Arsenal.

”Itʼs a proper derby now,” Dixon said with a rough chuckle.

”You can feel it — itʼs not just football, itʼs pride, itʼs bragging rights stitched into every pass.”

The final seconds of the half saw Tottenham hurl one last long ball toward Son, but Saliba rose imperiously, heading clear without fuss.

The Korean attacker moved to restart the ball, but before he could do so, the whistle blew.

Reluctant. Grudging.

Halftime, the scoreboard showing, Arsenalʼs one-goal advantage at the break.

The players trotted toward the tunnel — Rice tapping fists with Saliba, Ødegaard shouting encouragement to his wingers — while the home fans booed, bitter and bruised.

Arteta clapped his hands sharply, gathering his players around with quick, clipped words.

And somewhere, as the cameras followed them down the tunnel, the lens caught Izan — still, on the bench — standing, rolling his shoulders loose, eyes sharp, face calm.

......

Inside, the away dressing room at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium shook the Tottenham fans, knowingly or unknowingly disturbing the visitors.

The Arsenal players filed in — shirts tugged loose, heads down for a beat, trying to catch their breath.

Some dropped onto the benches immediately, and others kept moving, pacing in small circles to stay loose.

Mikel Arteta was already there, standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, eyes scanning his team like an eagle.

The second the last man crossed the threshold, the door swung shut — muting the distant roars of the crowd outside — and Artetaʼs voice broke the tension.

”Good,” he said first, a clipped nod accompanying the word.

”You look solid. You look composed. And you earned that lead.”

A ripple of quiet acknowledgment passed through the players — the faintest sighs of relief — but Arteta wasnʼt finished.

”But,” he added sharply, the edge in his voice snapping their focus back to him, ”good is not enough in a derby. Not here. Not against them.”

He pivoted, pointing without hesitation.

”Ben — too passive at times. Youʼre letting them step past you when you should be stepping through them.”

White gave a tight nod, jaw clenched, looking on as Artetaʼs eyes wandered for a new subject.

”Martin — when we break, commit. Youʼre holding, youʼre checking when you need to kill them.”

Martinelli barely blinked, but the shame in his eyes was clear.

Artetaʼs gaze swept across the room — not cruel, but demanding, like a fire that refused to be dulled.

”You want to win this? Then you have to want it more than they hate you. Every second.”

He left it there. No long speech. No overcoaching.

The players absorbed his words in silence, stewing, simmering, each man turning them over like blades in their heads.

The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly forward.

When it showed five minutes until restart, Arteta finally stepped back, arms crossing over his chest.

”Carlos,” he said lowly, beckoning Cuesta toward him.

His voice dropped.

”Tell Izan to warm up when the time nears the 70th-minute mark.”

Carlos nodded immediately before leaving Arteta, who glanced toward the bench, where Izan sat, still in his training jacket, head lowered, laces already tight.

Arteta turned back to his players, voice rising just enough,

”First five minutes — we kill their momentum. Theyʼll come flying. Let them. Make them run into a wall.”

He clapped his hands, sharp and loud.

”Letʼs finish it.”

”Yes Coach” the players roared as they surged to their feet, the energy rising, the rhythm of boots tapping against the floor syncing to the thundering pulse of the game calling them back out.

A/n; This is the 2nd chapter of the previous day but i couldnt release it in time. Well, Have fun reading and I will see you in a bit with the first chapter of the today.