God Of football

Chapter 493: Great Start [GT Chapter]

The roar from the Emirates reached a rolling crescendo as the players emerged from the tunnel, led out by the referee’s team under a flurry of blue and red strobe lights.

Arsenal in their traditional red-and-white and PSG in sleek midnight blue, the red trim gleaming under the floodlights.

A thousand camera lenses focused, flashes stuttering like thunder.

The Champions League anthem thundered into life, echoing off the metal bones of the North London Coliseum.

Up in the gantry, the commentators leaned into their microphones as the drama unfolded below.

“Well, good evening everyone, and welcome to what promises to be a night of headlines — on and off the pitch,” began Clive Tyldesley, his voice laced with both excitement and a pinch of journalistic wariness.

“We’re at the Emirates Stadium for Matchday 2 of the UEFA Champions League in this new format that has brought us exciting fixtures from matchday one, and it’s Arsenal versus Paris Saint-Germain… a heavyweight clash with more than just football in the air tonight.”

His co-commentator, Darren Fletcher, picked up seamlessly.

“Yes, Clive — a tie that already had enough history and narrative built in: two clubs on the rise, both unbeaten so far, both desperate to lay a marker in this new Champions League structure. But all anyone’s talked about in the last few hours? Not tactics. No talks about PSG. Not even Izan Hernandez’s football. Just that photograph.”

The camera cut briefly to Izan in the lineup, his face sharp with focus, his jaw tight.

The crowd behind him was a mosaic of tension, flags, and glowing phones.

Tyldesley continued with a wry tone.

“It’s been a whirlwind — a photo that appeared out of nowhere today, supposedly showing Izan and a companion out in what looks like a late-night setting. Some have called it clubbing. Some say it was a dinner meeting. Others… well, others have already made up their minds.”

Fletcher exhaled, the mic catching a hint of frustration.

“We’ll say this: there’s no confirmation of anything. The club hasn’t released a statement. Arsenal have kept it tight, which you’d expect on matchday. But whether or not it’s true, the narrative has caught fire. You saw the PSG tifo during warmups — they’re using it to rattle him.”

A low angle shot of the players stepping forward for the handshakes showed Izan exchanging a quick glance with Marquinhos, who gave the younger player a faint, unreadable nod.

“It’s difficult, Clive,” Fletcher said, his tone shifting slightly.

“He’s still sixteen, no matter how many adjectives we have to describe him. Sixteen. Playing in his second Champions League match, and suddenly he’s the epicenter of scandal. That’s a lot for a kid.”

“But he’s not just any kid, is he?” Tyldesley replied.

“Already a full senior player for Arsenal. Already a star man for country in that Euros win and already a sensation. And now, tonight, we get the only kind of confirmation that matters — not a PR statement, not a denial or clarification… but a performance. That’s the only eye test that counts in football.”

Fletcher nodded, voice steady.

“Exactly. And if this controversy has tilted anything — morally, psychologically — you’d have to say it leans PSG’s way right now. Arsenal need to show, from the first whistle, that it hasn’t shaken them.”

The camera caught Mikel Arteta on the touchline, arms folded, brow furrowed, mouthing some words toward the midfield triangle before the match even began.

On the other side, Luis Enrique gestured with calm, open hands, like a chess master about to make his opening move.

“But then again,” Tyldesley added, “we’ve seen this before. Pressure doesn’t always break young stars. And if anything we’ve seen from Izan is to go by, then I say I’m glad for the sudden eyes on him because he could go off tonight.”

The referee glanced down at his watch.

A final roar surged through the stands.

“And here we go,” Fletcher said.

“All the stories, all the noise — let’s put them aside. It’s Arsenal. It’s PSG. The Champions League. And the world is watching.”

The whistle pierced the North London night.

From the center circle, Desire Doue nudged the ball to Kang-in Lee, and the match was underway — PSG kicking from left to right was met instantly by a chorus of roars and jeers alike from the Emirates crowd.

The ball zipped between the Parisians like live current, their tempo urgent from the start, as though they smelled blood.

And for good reason.

Inside three minutes, they nearly struck.

Vitinha, drifting into a half-space on the left, clipped a wicked diagonal to Barcola at the far post.

The winger, unmarked, twisted mid-air to meet it, and it took a full-body stretch from Raya to tip the volley just over the bar.

The away end screamed in disbelief.

“Oh, that’s danger,” Clive Tyldesley said. “That’s early danger.”

Arsenal responded in kind, pushing higher up the pitch with Rice barking instructions here and there.

But PSG were clearly playing with a point to prove.

They pressed with intelligence and controlled transitions sharply, drawing Partey and Rice into reactive midfield battles.

And Izan — floating in that interior forward channel — wasn’t quite himself.

He looked sharp, yes, and his first few touches were crisp.

But the snap wasn’t there.

His movement was slightly delayed.

A clever flick around the corner came too late for White’s overlapping run.

A trademark body feint earned him space, but he was outmuscled by João Neves before the Gooners could applaud the escape.

The murmurs came quickly.

“He’s just a half-beat off,” Darren Fletcher noted.

“Still involved, still alert — but maybe not… all there.”

Tyldesley was quieter, watching a replay of Izan misplacing a one-two.

“You wonder if the headlines have gotten in his head just a little. He hasn’t been poor, but when you’ve set the bar this high, anything below it stands out.”

And the fans noticed.

From the PSG corner came a rhythmic chant, first in French — “On t’a vu hier soir, Izan! Dans la nuit!” — then shifting seamlessly into mocking English:

“He goes clubbing on matchday night!”

“Sixteen? He’s living life!”

The camera caught Izan glancing up once, expression unreadable.

But his body language tightened.

He pressed harder. Demanded the ball more. Perhaps, too much.

In the ninth minute, Arsenal conceded a dangerous foul.

It came from a clumsy moment in transition — Barcola broke down the right, cut inside onto his left foot, and pinged a ball into Doue near the D.

The French winger controlled and tried to lay it off, but Thomas Partey rushed in and slid awkwardly, the ball ricocheting up and striking him on the elbow.

Shouts immediately erupted.

“Handball!”

Vitinha pointed frantically at the spot.

“Ref, that’s inside! PENALTY!”

Doué joined him, arms raised.

“That’s clear! That’s a handball!”

The referee, Anders Olsson, blew his whistle first for the foul, pointing to the edge of the box.

Free kick. But the PSG players crowded around, insisting, voices rising.

In the stands, whistles and shouts swirled in a storm.

The Arsenal players gestured: “Outside the box! No way!”

Then came the familiar motion: Olsson raising both hands to his ears, touching his earpiece, and then the signal.

Rectangular. VAR review.

Gasps rippled across the Emirates.

He jogged toward the pitchside monitor.

A hush fell.

On the replay, clear as day, Partey’s sliding body twisted, and the ball struck his trailing arm as he fell.

It wasn’t deliberate. But it did make contact.

Inside the area.

Olsson leaned in, squinting.

“Hmm. That’s tight…” he muttered to his assistants, voice picked up by the parabolic mic.

“Tight, but… not invisible. It hits him.”

Another angle showed it again.

Slowed. Zoomed.

The decision was made.

He turned.

Pointed to the spot.

The PSG fans exploded. Smoke erupted from their end as chants surged, a sea of black and blue rising in celebration.

Firecrackers popped. Arms waved.

A Paris flag unfurled again, this one bearing a giant picture of a trio, Barcola and Doue, with the middle figure, unmistakably Mbappe, crossed out.

Arsenal’s players swarmed toward Olsson, arms wide, protests flowing fast and loud.

Rice: “He’s falling! He’s falling, ref!”

Partey: “You’ve got to be joking! That’s never a pen!”

But the Swede didn’t waver.

“It hits the arm. No more,” he said, stern, gesturing them away.

Marquinhos walked calmly forward, taking the ball from Hakimi’s hands as the gooners began trying to throw him off with their chants.

He set it down on the spot, adjusting it with slow precision.

The referee began to usher the Arsenal players back, clearing the penalty area.

The tension was thick enough to slice.

And as Marquinhos stepped back, the camera caught Izan standing near the edge of the box, biting the inside of his cheek — watching.

Waiting. The match had not even fully settled.

But, now PSG had a golden chance to strike first and strike fear into the hearts of the faithful.

A/N: Hello guys. This is the promised Golden ticket chapter Have fun reading and I’ll see you with another chapter

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