God Of football

Chapter 625: One Leg Away [2]

Arsenal had them where they wanted—statistically, at least.

Every passing pattern clicked like a drill.

Odegaard orchestrated from the half-spaces, Rice held the balance, and Saka pulled defenders wide with every burst down the right.

Martinelli floated left, occasionally drifting centrally to fill in for Izan, who watched from the bench in full kit, coat zipped, legs bouncing lightly under the dugout’s heating vents.

But as dominant as Arsenal looked, nothing was sticking.

Fifteen minutes in, and they had over 75% possession.

The ball rarely left Newcastle’s half.

White and Zinchenko played as auxiliary midfielders, overloading the midfield thatdidn’t do much to a team that didn’t touch the ball past their half.

Merino rotated short with Jorginho, trying to suck defenders forward and unlock the back five.

But Newcastle didn’t bite.

They waited and absorbed as their manager shouted instructions from the touchline.

Inside the box, everything Arsenal created died on impact.

Martinelli tried a disguised layoff—cut out.

Odegaard flicked a looping ball over the line—but it was smothered.

Even Saka’s low cross, driven with intent, found only the shins of Schär.

”They’re trying to win by chaos,” the commentator said.

”But Newcastle are treating this like a puzzle, not a storm.”

Newcastle’s defence seemed to have an answer for every Arsenal attack, and by the 19th minute, the rhythm began to stall.

The passing was still sharp, the movement still intelligent, but the weight behind it was thinning.

There was no cutting edge.

No Izan-level incision.

And it was always going to come down to one thing after Arsenal’s next attack failed.

A rare loose touch from Merino under pressure gave Guimarães his cue.

He poked it past Rice and burst into space.

Murphy took it up next, outpacing Jorginho and dragging Gabriel wide before a one-two with Gordon sliced open Arsenal’s right flank.

Lewis-Skelly backtracked while Saliba stepped out, yet the pass came anyway.

Murphy again—dragging it left, forced Raya to commit after sending a powerful effort towards the Spaniard, but the last-second slide from White blocked the initial shot with the ricochet bouncing out, high and spinning, past the six-yard box.

Corner.

Guimarães jogged over.

Ball tucked under his arm as he glanced into the box.

Newcastle’s fans found their voice now—clear, defiant, cutting through the air like a knife.

Trippier trotted over.

”Short routine?” guessed a few in the stadium, but it wasn’t.

Guimarães, poised and ready, sent a fast arcing ball into the box.

Dan Burn, hidden in the chaos, moved like a man with purpose, accelerating past Merino and Gabriel with one clean run.

The latter tried to halt him by grabbing Burn’s shirt subtly but the latter still got there and stuck out his left foot and cracked the ball downwards—fast and true.

Raya reacted, but he had no chance.

The net thumped, and the St. James, dead a few seconds ago, rose into a roar.

”Would you believe it?” the co-commentator exclaimed, stunned. ”Against all the flow, Newcastle lead!”

Arteta whipped around, already halfway barking at the fourth official.

His hand clutched the notes from his back pocket, lips moving rapid-fire to Carlos Cuesta beside him.

The Arsenal bench straightened, and so did the fans in the first few rows.

On the pitch, Odegaard turned, clapping his hands furiously, shouting his teammates back into focus.

But it was Izan’s stillness that stood out.

He just kept watching, expression unreadable.

Hands in pockets.

Head tilted slightly toward the pitch like a hunter waiting for the wind to settle.

And above him, the stadium’s big screen flashed the score.

Arsenal 0 – 1 Newcastle.

Arsenal still had a 3-goal advantage, but the momentum was now with Newcastle.

”Newcastle ahead here at St. James’s park and we don’t know for now if this is just a consolation or the start of something good?” the commentator said.

And he seemed to have prophesied because a few minutes later, the second goal hit differently.

Newcastle’s first had jolted Arsenal—shook something loose in their shape.

But the second?

That one stung.

It came just six minutes later, and it wasn’t complicated.

A long diagonal had pulled Ben White wide, forcing a corner after Raya’s fingertips redirected the cross beyond the back post.

Newcastle’s set-piece routine was basic: crowd the six-yard box, obstruct the keeper’s view, swing it in with pace.

And that’s exactly what they did.

The ball whipped in from the left, and Raya punched clean, but not far.

It dropped at the edge of the box, and Sandro Tonali, waiting there, didn’t think twice.

His half-volley was low, angry, and mean.

It beat the forest of legs in the box, skipped off the grass, and tucked just inside the post.

”Suddenly,” the commentator said, ”this tie has teeth again. That’s the kind of goal that turns murmurs into belief.”

The crowd surged with energy, black-and-white shirts rattling the stands.

Eddie Howe didn’t celebrate; he gestured, urged, and demanded.

More pressure. More purpose.

The away end, on the other hand, shifted.

Arsenal’s travelling support had been in full voice when the match started, but now?

Now they were murmuring and trading glances.

The aggregate score still favoured the Gunners, but momentum, clearly, did not.

Arteta stood rigid on the touchline, gesturing wildly towards his defence.

Something wasn’t right.

It wasn’t just the scoreline—it was the rhythm.

Arsenal had dominated possession but lacked incision.

The plan had been to smother Newcastle with fluid, high-tempo play, make them suffer with the ball.

Instead, they’d driven them into a defensive shape and then... stopped.

Arsenal had tried to force chaos, and Newcastle had built a fortress from it.

On the pitch, Saka pushed forward again down the right, driving toward the byline.

He turned Burn inside, hesitated, then went again.

This time the cross found Martinelli, who tried to flick it on first time—but Botman blocked it with his chest, forcing a corner.

Rice recycled it wide and quick again, finding Martinelli who slipped it back to Merino but the ball didn’t last long in the hands of the latter before he turned it towards Odegaard.

”We’re not moving them,” Ødegaard shouted mid-play. ”Speed it!”

But even when they did, nothing came of it.

The crowd began to sense a lull.

And then—like a pin dropped in a loud room—Saka shifted his hips, faked a cut inside, and instead burst into the box.

Burn leaned too far, and in trying to correct, clipped Saka’s knee and down he went.

The away end erupted.

Newcastle players surrounded the referee, pleading their case, but replays confirmed the decision—light contact, but contact.

Burn’s knee had brushed Saka’s planted leg.

Intent didn’t matter.

In the box, it was enough.

Saka picked up the ball and didn’t hesitate.

He set it down with care, took three short steps back, and waited.

The referee after finally getting the complaining Newcastle players out of the box, sounded his whistle and Saka, with no hesitation, ran and buried the ball towards the left bottom corner.

And just like that, the atmosphere cracked.

Newcastle’s fans, loud just moments ago, fell into silence as the away end roared to life again.

Arsenal supporters roared as Saka jogged toward the sideline, arm raised, face stoic.

He didn’t celebrate wildly.

He just gave a short nod, like a man resetting a scale.

”Every time,” the co-commentator said, ”every single time it looks like they’re slipping, Arsenal remind you—they’ve got answers. And Saka? He’s one of them.”

”They needed that,” the lead voice added.

”It’s not about tonight. It’s about control. 4–2 would’ve made things nervous in the second half. 5–2? That’s breathing room again.”

Newcastle restarted the match, but they had lost that manic energy that had surged through their veins after their second goal.

Suddenly, they weren’t the ones pressing, but the ones nervously probing.

Their urgency had turned jittery.

Arsenal’s midfield now hunted with more certainty—Rice stamping out threats, Ødegaard dictating angles, Merino keeping the left corridor balanced.

There wasn’t much more before the half.

A couple of hopeful balls into the box.

A rising header from Isak, well over.

Then one final Arsenal sequence: a quick triangle between Martinelli, Merino, and Ødegaard that ended in a shot from 25 yards that clipped a boot and rolled wide for a corner.

But before it could be taken, the whistle blew.

Halftime.

”They’ve kept him off the pitch. But he’s still in the story. Always. We are at the halfway point here, and it’s cagey and chaotic. Arsenal are behind on the night but ahead on aggregate, but if what they showed in the first half is anything to go by, Newcastle won’t go as quietly as Arsenal would have hoped. It’s Arsenal 1, Newcastle 2.”

The commentator closed out as the players strolled into the tunnel, the fans not letting up as their warriors went out of sight.

A/N: Way behind on the Chapters. Sorry for the late release. first of the day, Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.