God Of football

Chapter 620: The Biggest [Bonus Chapter]

Izan stayed still as the wall was set.

Four City players stood firm—Stones, Dias, Gvardiol, Nunes—all just over six feet but trying to make themselves ten.

Ederson shouted final adjustments, waving his left arm as he stepped half a yard off-center, crouched low, hands twitching at his sides.

Izan stood still, eyes alternating between the net and the ball on the grass.

The Emirates didn’t cheer now; it waited, silently hoping that their expectations would be met as the quiet tension inside the stadium sharpened.

The whistle soon blew, and Izan moved.

One step.

Two steps.

Three, then the strike—right foot through the valve, textbook clean.

The ball climbed.

Not high.

Just enough to ghost the edge of the wall as Gvardiol’s hair fluttered in the slipstream.

Then it dropped.

Sudden, sharp with a violent curve.

The dip caught the air wrong.

Or right.

Depending on who you asked.

Ederson reacted with a quick switch and lunge, left hand extended, body parallel to the grass.

He got his fingers barely to the ball, but barely wasn’t enough.

The ball curled inside the far post with surgical precision, kissing the net just above the turf.

Sound broke through the stadium like a dam collapsing.

Arteta jumped, a fist punched skyward while Cuesta slapped his thigh, wide-eyed.

Guardiola, on the other side, didn’t flinch at first.

He had already turned before the ball crossed the line.

He knew.

Now he just stood still, jaw clenched, hands rising with resignation drawn all over his face.

”That’s unsaveable,” the lead commentator muttered over the storm.

”Dipped like a stone. Keeper goes full stretch—and still can’t touch it.”

”This is as good as it gets,” the co-commentator said.

”A free kick with perfect dip and curl. Izan, once again, reaffirms why coaches don’t like their players fouling him anywhere near the box.”

Izan was already running toward the corner flag like a man who had nothing left to prove.

He slid—knees down, arms spread wide, a streak across the grass as his boots tore up the divots.

The Emirates thundered around him.

Saka followed first, launching himself beside him.

Then Rice. Then Trossard.

Then Odegaard, grinning quietly.

”Two goals,” the first commentator added.

”And no scraps. No tap-ins. One created from chaos. One bent into perfection.”

”He makes it look like muscle memory,” the co-commentator said.

”But there’s nothing normal about what he’s doing out here.”

In the City end, fans stood motionless.

No shouting. Just silence.

Some leaned on the rails.

One man put his hands on his head. A few looked down—not in shame, but in futility.

Because what do you even do with that?

You plan for structure. For overlaps. For breaking lines and recovering shape.

But it was getting impossible to plan for him.

You can’t draw up a player who bends physics on set pieces.

Who made it look inevitable.

The scoreboard blinked:

Arsenal 2 – 0 Manchester City.

There were still minutes left in the half.

But everyone watching knew that it might as well be over.

....

The sensor-lit glass door slid open with a soft hiss as the cold air entered from the outside.

No noise. No fuss.

Just the quiet welcome of a house that always waited.

A figure stepped inside—tall, shoulders slightly hunched, a ball tucked under one arm.

The white panels of it were worn now, marked with boot scuffs and grass stains, but carried like something precious.

He moved through the house in silence.

Past the kitchen, past the soft lighting, into a narrow alcove carved into the heart of the home.

The trophy room wasn’t grand.

No spotlighted statues, no revolving cases.

Just calm, cool wood, clean shelves, and trophies that didn’t shout for attention.

He crouched slightly and placed the ball beside the others.

Each labeled. A name. A date.

Real Madrid.

Sporting

Germany.

Valencia.

Now—Manchester City.

He tapped it once, like saying, ”You belong.”

”Still have room in there?”

The voice was soft and teasing.

He turned.

Olivia stood in the doorway, barefoot, sleeves stretched over her palms, smile crooked.

”Thought you would stop watching after the first half like you always do when you aren’t watching in the stadium?” he asked as he stepped forward.

”You mean the bit where you cooked Manchester City until the stadium forgot how to exist? You wanted me to stop watching so I wouldn’t see this sadistic side of you, right?”

She rose to her toes and kissed him, her hands brushing his cheek as she pulled back.

”You were disgusting,” she murmured. ”In the best, most unfair way.”

He raised an eyebrow.

”You mean brilliant.”

”I mean criminal. You should be arrested.”

He wiped a smudge off the ball.

”They’ll survive.”

”I don’t doubt that they will, but they will definitely need something like a group counselling after that.”

They wandered out into the living room, the muted glow of the TV washing over them over them as the screen changed to the score of the game.

FT: Arsenal 7 – 2 Manchester City.

On the couch, Hori was curled into a blanket fortress, ice cream in hand.

She didn’t look up.

”You guys could’ve stopped at four,” she said.

”We did.”

She turned her head.

”Then you went and scored another. Now it’s 5 goals in 2 games for you against them.”

”Team effort, but glad you are keeping tabs on things like that.”

”Gaslighter and no, I’m not keeping any tabs. It’s all they’ve talked about since the game ended. How you are now just a goal shy of equalling Haaland’s record for most goals set in a Premier League season and 2 goals shy of breaking it, with 14 more games to go.”

He dropped onto the couch next to her with a grunt while Olivia took the other end.

”He’s humble, remember?”

”Humility would’ve meant letting City keep a scrap of pride,” Hori said as Izan stretched out.

”Now we are probably going to see Pep turn up at the door with a chalkboard and tears begging Izan to sign for him.”

”Let him come,” Olivia said, nodding toward the trophy wall. ”We will let him vent inside.”

Hori squinted at the screen.

”You looked fake, by the way. Like someone modded FIFA.”

”Well, can’t say I am not modded,” Izan said, under his breath.

”What?”

”Nothing.”

He eyes turned towards the stairs as the transparent glass caught the glow from the screen, fracturing it like water.

”Where are you going?” she asked after Izan got up.

”Upstairs. I feel sore all over after all the tackles I went through”

Hori yawned into her blanket.

”You’re so dramatic.”

He stood, slow and fluid.

”Coming from the girl who once fake-cried over a test.”

”It was physics, Izan.”

”Still did” Izan retorted as Hori lauched a pillow near her at him but Izan caught it and hurled it back towards her head.

”Uh, mean”, Hori, clutching the side of her head where the pillow had hit, called out, but Izan was already up the stairs.

....

[BBC Sport Broadcast – Following Morning]

The studio lights were steady.

Calm and composed.

A contrast to what had been witnessed less than twelve hours ago.

On the main screen behind the host, the scoreline lingered—still a shock to read even now.

ARSENAL 7 – 2 MANCHESTER CITY

The broadcast rolled clips on a loop.

Highlights. Stats. Possession charts. Goal breakdowns.

But all the numbers faded the moment the footage switched to the boy—no, the problem—at the centre of it all.

Izan Hernandez.

Three goals and one assist on the night.

The host leaned forward at the desk, papers neatly stacked, voice measured but laced with the disbelief the entire football world still hadn’t fully shaken off.

”Well,” he said, ”Where do you even start?”

A brief pause rang as the camera panned to the panel of guests—two former professionals and a senior columnist.

All three shifted in their seats, the kind of shuffle that came not from nerves, but from trying to figure out where to begin.

He continued.

”Last night, Arsenal handed Manchester City their biggest ever defeat in the Premier League era. That’s not just under Pep Guardiola—that’s ever. It is now their second biggest since the inception of the club. They conceded seven at the Emirates. And yes, they scored two—but no one’s talking about that.”

Behind him, Izan’s second goal—the free kick—played again.

”He scored three,” the host added.

”His sixth Premier League hat trick. I repeat—six, and he hasn’t even turned eighteen, nor has he played a full season yet. Add an assist on the night. A performance that was part video game, part warning shot to the rest of the league.”

Another replay now. Izan’s third—a long-range strike from deep that had curled and dipped past Ederson like it had no intention of obeying gravity.

”You’ve got managers watching that today thinking, ’How do we stop this kid?’” the host said.

”And the scariest part? The answer might be—you don’t.”

He shuffled his notes, then turned to the panel and asked.

”What is your take on this, gentlemen?”

”Well—”

A/N: This is the bonus Chapter. Sorry I couldn’t do the mass release. I had planned to do but I didn’t get enough time to stock up on Chapters. So I will try and make it up to you after my mid-sem. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the last of the day and hopefully, the first too. As the first GT Chapter of the month, I’ll fit it into tomorrow’s schedule.