God Of football

Chapter 552: December Crunch [1]

The wind off the Thames hit harder than usual.

It crept between jacket buttons and into gloved fingers, whipped through the old iron gates of Craven Cottage, and swirled across the pitch like it had something to say.

Packed to the rafters, the stadium groaned with anticipation.

The crowd buzzed—not rowdy, but sharp, edged with hope and edged with nerves.

And above it all, a voice slipped into the broadcast.

”This place has always felt like it remembers things,” said Rob Hawthorne, his tone almost reverent as the camera panned across the bobbing crowd and the snug old stands.

”History leaks through the bricks at Craven Cottage,” responded co-commentator Chris Sutton.

”But if Fulham want a different kind of memory tonight, they’ll need more than nostalgia. Arsenal aren’t here for the tour.”

”Yes, Chris,” Rob Hawthorne said, ”This is the point where titles are lost or won. The December crunch and if Arsenal have their sights set on the title, then they need to tread carefully in this upcoming stretch or they could even slip outside European football contention..”

Kickoff snapped the calm.

It wasn’t aggressive.

It wasn’t manic.

It was methodical.

Arsenal passed like a chess master opening with perfect form—no drama, no flamboyance.

Just a quiet threat in every move.

Izan was on the shoulder early, drifting into the half-spaces and baiting pressure.

Not touching the ball too often.

But always where the defenders’ eyes twitched toward.

”Izan occupying the spaces in front of the Fulham defense early on.,” Sutton muttered. ”He’s tying knots and weaving nets but they won’t know when they are caught.”

In the seventh minute, Arsenal made their first real incision.

Rice spun past Alex Iwobi with a simple shoulder feint and immediately slotted a ball into Ødegaard.

Fulham’s line reacted late—too late.

Izan had dropped in, pulled Bassey with him, and already flicked it sideways to Jorginho, who pinged it wide for Saka.

The Fulham right side was caught flat.

Saka hesitated just enough for the fullback to commit.

Then burst.

And Izan?

He didn’t stand and admire.

He ran.

He arced toward the box like a magnet drawing defenders with him.

Saka never looked back.

He clipped the ball low and sharp across the face of the goal.

And just as the keeper anticipated a deflection, the ball passed untouched.

It kissed the far corner of the net like a whisper.

Arsenal didn’t explode.

They exhaled.

So did Izan, pointing straight to the fans, and then toward Saka who grinned, arms wide.

”Clinical from Arsenal here at the Craven Cottage,” Hawthorne said, low.

”That’s the thing with Arsenal this season,” Sutton added, shaking his head slightly.

”They don’t kill with a hammer. They do it with a scalpel.”

The home crowd groaned, a collective disappointment—not of effort, but of understanding.

They’d just seen it play out like a problem they’d known was coming and still couldn’t solve.

On the touchline, Arteta gave a tight nod while the opposing coach, Marco Silva folded his arms.

The ball had barely settled in the net before Arsenal were back at it.

Fulham rattled, shuffled to reset, trying to rebuild some semblance of their shape.

The noise from the Cottage hadn’t died—if anything, it had grown louder, not in celebration but in defiance.

Their team was down, but not beaten.

Not yet.

On the touchline, Arteta stood statuesque, his eyes scanning every movement.

No clenched fists, no joy.

Just pure unadulterated focus.

And on the pitch, the red shirts swarmed again.

Arsenal didn’t charge recklessly.

They suffocated Fulham.

They played with a tempo just under frenzied—fast enough to force mistakes, slow enough to remain precise.

Rice drifted in and out of pockets while Ødegaard pulled strings from invisible angles.

But it was Izan who glued it all together.

In the 24th minute, he dropped deep again, just inside his half, as Jorginho clipped a ball toward him.

With one touch, he killed it.

With the second, he spun away from Lukic, dragging him along like a cloak.

”He’s just got magnets in his boots,” Sutton muttered from the booth.

”It shouldn’t look that easy.”

”And he hasn’t even turned it up yet,” replied Rob Hawthorne.

”That’s the bit that makes you shiver.”

As the commentators poured out their poetic insights, a ball bounced loose near the halfway line—too far from anyone to claim outright.

And then the crowd stirred.

Because two players had locked eyes.

Adama Traoré.

Izan Hernández.

Opposite flanks.

Same ambition.

Adama, muscles rippling under the rain-slicked floodlights, was already turning.

His foot hit the turf with power and he was off like a thunderclap—every step leaving vapor trails in his wake.

But Izan didn’t flinch.

He stepped into the challenge.

Cold breath curling from his mouth, boots digging into the turf as he surged.

[SPEEDSTER Lv 3.]

His system’s voice echoed slyly through his head, like a wink laced in code.

And suddenly Izan was flying.

”Here we go!” one of the commentators nearly shouted.

”This is what we paid for! Adama versus Izan! Inarguably, the two fastest men in the league—foot for foot!”

The fans felt it.

The volume swelled as the fans watched a display of pure acceleration.

Izan was trailing by a step, but the gap didn’t widen.

His breath grew shallow, heartbeat syncing to each strike of his feet on the turf.

The distance between him and the Fulham winger—two yards, one and a half, one—

Then none.

Like a shadow reattaching to its source, Izan closed him down.

Adama tried to body him off.

That low center of gravity—impossible to move.

But Izan dipped his shoulder, braced, and matched strength with greater strength and guile, before he spun around him, stealing the ball cleanly with the inside of his right boot.

”OH! He’s stolen it! Izan Hernández has taken it from Traoré and turned defense into fire!”

The crowd roared louder than before—not just at the Arsenal end, but all around the Cottage.

Everyone had been waiting for it.

And now that it came—it felt unreal.

Adama spun back too late as Izan was already sprinting forward.

The grass sprayed behind him like mist.

The stadium tilted with him as he zig-zagged through white shirts, first one, then two, then three.

He reached the top of the box, slowing down a bit as he took one look at the keeper.

A right-footed missile—laced across the goal.

But Bernd Leno—former Arsenal man—read it and dove like a man chasing a memory.

Parried it with two fists, punching it into the wet night.

”No!” the commentator cried.

”That had the net written all over it! But Leno—old habits die hard!”

Izan slowed to a stop near the six-yard box, hands on hips, breathing fire.

He glanced at Leno and nodded at Leno.

The Fulham keeper held his stare for a moment, then raised a gloved hand.

After Izan’s lightning attack, Fulham closed ranks.

There were five defenders now, tight as a drum.

But Izan didn’t force it.

He passed sideways, slowed things, and waited.

And then he found the slit in the wall.

A quick pass to Ødegaard, who returned it instantly.

Izan, now inside the left channel, paused—just for a second.

Enough to draw the defense toward him.

Then, with the outside of his left boot, he threaded a pass through two Fulham players, finding Trossard slicing across the penalty area like a scalpel.

The winger didn’t break stride.

Just opened his body and curled it low past Leno to make it 2-0.

”Cut through like butter,” Sutton whispered. ”Arsenal could be running away with it here.”

And they did because Fulham looked lost in their own house, even after coming back from the break.

In the 64th minute, it was Izan again.

He hadn’t scored—but he didn’t need to.

The pulse of the game beat under his feet.

This time he received the ball near the edge of the centre circle with Bassey tight on him.

A drag-back, then a spin.

And he was gone.

He drove forward, space collapsing around him but it was all too familiar to him.

As Trossard made the run outside, Izan dipped his shoulder like he was going that way—then sent a disguised reverse pass inside the box.

Saka was already there.

The English International, took a touch and then blasted the ball into the roof of the net, making it a brace for himself in the day.

Now the Arsenal end erupted.

”This is measured destruction,” Hawthorne said.

”It’s cold. It’s brutal. And it’s exactly what champions do.”

Arteta turned and pumped his fists, just once.

Then, on cue, the board came up.

Number 10. Off.

Izan jogged off to a standing ovation from the traveling fans, clapping above their heads, chanting his name like a hymn.

No smugness on his face—just nods.

A job done. Nothing more.

Fulham, to their credit, didn’t crumble completely.

They clawed one back in the 81st, a bouncing volley from Rodrigo Muniz catching Raya wrong-footed.

3–1.

But by then, the match had been long decided.

And as the final whistle blew, the camera panned to the away section.

Fans were chanting, in full voice.

”Top of the league, say we’re top of the league!”

43 points from 15 games.

Unbeaten still.

In the post-match studio, the mood was electric.

”They’re not just unbeaten,” said former Arsenal player, Ian Wright.

”They’re unforgiving. They’re efficient. This stretch, this December crunch—it’s where titles are won or lost. And if they survive this... they might not just win it. They might walk it.”

”But one injury changes everything,” countered Glen Johnson.

”That’s why they’re managing Izan,” Rob Hawthorne added.

And somewhere, on a quiet bus winding out of west London, Izan sat with headphones on, arms folded and his eyes closed.

He had two assists in the night, and although he hadn’t scored a goal tonight, his dominance took many forms.

A/n: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in the afternoon with another one.