God Of football

Chapter 498: Denied Brilliance.

PSG kicked off again, but the atmosphere at the Emirates was seething.

The Arsenal fans hadn’t even sat down from their roaring celebration.

Chants were still bouncing around the terraces as if reality hadn’t yet caught up with the restart.

“We are back underway, but you’d think the Gunners are still mid-celebration!” Darren Fletcher said the stadium noise almost drowning him out.

“They’re trying to compose themselves, PSG,” Clive Tyldesley added.

“They look rattled. The Emirates has been whipped into a frenzy, and Izan Hernandez is right at the heart of it. I think Al-Khelaifi will be kicking himself for not doing more to sign Izan as PSG, were the closest to doing so back when Arsenal hadn’t even entered the fray.”

Indeed, the young Spaniard prowled the pitch with the swagger of a man possessed, dictating the rhythm as if the ball belonged to his bloodline.

He pressed, harried, and retrieved.

Arsenal moved with him—Martinelli tight to the line, Havertz checking between the centre-backs, and Saka already drifting inward to link.

On the near touchline, Arteta barked and pointed like a commander sensing the moment.

On the other side, Luis Enrique stood still, arms crossed, brow furrowed with rare concern.

It came from a simple turnover—Vitinha pressed in midfield by Rice, who poked the ball loose.

Izan snapped onto it like a predator, brushing past the recovering Portuguese with a la croqueta, then skipping inside the newly introduced Fabian Ruiz with a deft drop of the shoulder.

“He’s off again!” Fletcher exclaimed.

“Every time he touches it, the pitch tilts!” Tyldesley added, rising with the moment.

As Izan neared the edge of the final third, Saka peeled wide, dragging William Pacho out.

A feint of a pass was enough to open a corridor of grass, and Izan surged into it.

“Go on, lad…” murmured some of the fans in the stands, almost in prayer.

The PSG backline scrambled.

Marquinhos stepped up, but too early.

With one elegant stepover, Izan shifted the ball to his left and squeezed through a collapsing pocket of blue.

Hakimi lunged—but too late.

Now on the edge of the box, he looked up and saw Saka edging out in his battle against Nuno Mendes.

Izan slid the ball to Saka, who stretched but ultimately got to the ball before firing away at goal but Donnarumma came out on top, pushing the ball against the post as it rebounded back in to a portion of the pitch that the PSG fans were dreading.

Well, that was because Izan stood there, tensed but tempted to go for a shot since Donnarumma was still not positioned well.

The stadium inhaled.

“Could he… no, surely not from here…”

Then Izan dropped his shoulder to the right, faking the drive in that direction before kicking the ball onto his left.

[Knuckle Ball Lv 3, Activated].

The shot cracked off his foot—no wind-up, no fuss, no mercy.

A wildcard of a ball zooming wickedly through the North London sky, starting high and wide before veering, low and towards the goal.

Donnarumma backpedaled frantically, tensing as the ball neared.

So did the stadium’s pulse.

“Where is the ball coming from?” he uttered, but the ball just zoomed overhead before settling into the middle of the net.

GOOOOOOAAAAAALLL

“He’s done it again!” Tyldesley yelled, voice cracking.

“It’s in!” Darren shouted as the net billowed. “That’s number three!”

Izan didn’t stop.

No sliding knee.

No arms-outstretched stillness.

He sprinted, pumping his fists as he roared toward the North Bank, pointing, shaking, wild-eyed.

Then he slowed, turned, and held both hands aloft as if absorbing the worship.

The Arsenal fans were already at fever pitch.

People hugging strangers.

Now empty pint cups flung skyward.

A chant building that didn’t even try to sound musical:

“IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!”

It was delirium. This was just one of his nights.

Then—suddenly—the referee’s whistle.

A long, drawn-out blast.

Confused glances.

Izan’s face twisted as he turned toward the centre circle, still panting, slowing his celebration.

Behind him, the Arsenal players were already beginning to jog back to their positions.

But the referee wasn’t looking at them.

He was holding a hand to his ear.

“What’s this now?” Fletcher muttered.

“Hold on,” said Tyldesley, sensing it too quickly.

“We’ve seen this before tonight…”

The stadium’s excitement turned to confusion.

Booing began to bubble—not loud yet, but growing.

The referee lifted his hand again—the VAR signal.

“No…” Tyldesley’s voice lowered. “They’re checking for something, but what could it be?”

“I don’t believe it,” Fletcher sighed.

“That was a perfectly clean move, wasn’t it?”

The crowd fell into a stunned buzz.

The screen showed the foul being reviewed—a brief, barely noticeable clip from Gabriel on Kang In-Lee as Izan had begun his drive.

Off the ball.

Behind the play.

Entirely disconnected.

And yet…

“No goal,” the screen read.

The referee shook his head and waved it off.

Boos erupted.

Fury.

The Emirates boiling over.

“Unbelievable,” Tyldesley spat.

“A foul behind the play, and they’ve disallowed a moment of genius. A hat-trick… robbed.”

“Izan had his name etched in lights,” Fletcher added, “and now it’s wiped away.”

Izan stood still, disbelieving, staring at the screen, then at the referee, hands on hips, chest rising and falling.

Arteta, on the touchline, protested to the fourth official, but the former was made to back away with the threat of a card if it continued.

Saka threw his arms up.

The Arsenal bench stood in disbelief.

Meanwhile, the PSG end erupted—not from brilliance, but from relief.

“Merci VAR!” they sang, a mock chorus of survival.

“Let’s not mince words,” Tyldesley continued.

“That decision… It’s not going down well. The foul was there, maybe. But did it really have anything to do with the goal?”

Fletcher sighed. “This is football in 2025. A stray breath in the wind, and the game stops.”

As the players finally regrouped, the scoreline reset: 2–1. Izan still with two, but denied immortality.

The final ten minutes ticked on like the slow drip of winter rain.

PSG pushed—of course they did.

Kolo Muani kept running the channels, Hakimi flew forward like a man possessed, and Asensio kept shaping crosses into the box.

But nothing truly stuck.

Arsenal held firm.

Rice threw himself into challenges like a soldier defending sacred ground while Jakub Kiwior tracked every runner like it was personal, and Raya, fists clenched, eyes like fire, barked orders with the voice of a man who had already decided tonight wasn’t theirs to take.

The Emirates didn’t sit.

They stood—every single one of them, backs straight and hands clasped together as fans of both sides tried to will their team over the finish line, with one side praying it stays the same and the other praying that that their team might score.

Nervous murmurs turned into applause each time the ball was cleared, and every minute that passed, another breath closer to full-time salvation.

And Izan… Izan ran.

Tirelessly.

His legs heavy but still filled with intent, still pressing Donnarumma when he had to, still drawing gasps each time he so much as touched the ball.

He was guarding a victory.

The fourth official raised the board.

Five minutes added.

Groans from some.

Then cheers from others.

“We go again!” shouted someone from the lower rows.

Arteta was locked in a squat, gesturing, screaming while Luis Enrique stood with a hand covering his mouth, a furrow of resignation now replacing that earlier fire.

The final seconds.

A last PSG corner with Donnarumma trying to join at the front, but Luis Enrique advised against that from the touchline.

Raya jumped.

Fisted.

The ball flew.

The whistle blew.

Full-time: Arsenal 2 – 1 PSG.

The Emirates detonated.

Roars filled the North London air, drowning everything else.

Flags waved violently.

Flares sparkled crimson in the corners.

“Listen to that noise!” Darren Fletcher shouted, grinning into his mic.

“The Emirates shakes!”

Clive Tyldesley joined him, voice rich and proud: “Arsenal… victors. And at the centre of it all? A teenage wonder, time and time again, proving that he is no fluke, and moments like these were what he was made for. If you love football, then you will love Izan Hernandez.”

On the pitch, Izan dropped to one knee, breathing hard, his shirt drenched and clinging to his back like armour.

He stood, head up, and the fans called his name like a war chant:

“IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!”

He turned. Clapped.

Walked toward them slowly, acknowledging the North Bank, the East Stand, the Clock End—every corner.

He touched his chest. Pointed at the badge. Raised a fist.

PSG players approached him.

Some offered tired nods, others a hand.

Marquinhos tapped his back and said something in French that made Izan smile faintly.

Hakimi walked past without a word while Donnarumma gave him a thumbs-up and received a brief, respectful handshake in return.

Then UEFA officials intercepted him, flanked by two stewards.

“Player of the Match,” one said.

Izan barely reacted—his face was still focused, eyes distant, maybe still seeing that third goal being wiped away in his mind.

But he followed slowly.

A/N: Last chapter of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you soon with the first chapter of the following day.

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