God Of football

Chapter 652: Powered By Izan.

”Woah! Would you look at that!” the commentator exclaimed, half laughing, half amazed after Izan’s nutmeg.

”That’s... well, that’s like telling your opponent to calm down in the middle of a bar fight.”

”A bit of cheek. A lot of class. And maybe — just maybe, a message to Chelsea that Arsenal are done playing nervous.”

The press staggered for half a second, just long enough.

Arsenal players re-formed behind the moment with their players settling into their positions well.

Even Chelsea seemed to slow — not by choice, but by design.

Izan had grabbed the tempo like a DJ sliding the fader down.

One movement and now the game breathed again.

”Look at how that one play’s reset everything,” the second commentator chimed in.

Back on the pitch, Izan released the ball out wide, a smooth pass to Jurrien Timbe overlapping near the touchline.

And the second half had well and truly begun.

.......

Back on the pitch, Izan released the ball out wide, a smooth pass to Jurrien Timber overlapping near the touchline.

But Izan wasn’t finished.

Even as Timber surged down the flank, Izan drifted back into space, eyes darting between shirts and shadows, scanning for the next break in Chelsea’s lines and the moment it came — a brief misstep in midfield — he took it with conviction.

He called for the ball, and Timber obliged.

The ball came skipping back into Izan’s orbit, and in one smooth motion, he spun on it — like he had been winding up for this all along — and took off towards the Chelsea half.

Caicedo, reading the danger like a man used to solving chaos with muscle, latched onto him instantly.

”Here we go again,” the commentator murmured as the camera followed the chase.

”That’s the Ecuadorian pitbull himself, not letting an inch go.”

But Izan didn’t buckle.

He kept his stride firm, the ball barely leaving his boots — then, like he’d just remembered something amusing, he slowed.

Just enough and chopped the ball back as Caicedo lunged.

Then — as if rewinding the moment — Izan feinted and returned to the very direction he’d just come from.

Caicedo slipped.

He went down in a heap, arms flailing for balance as the crowd gasped — a sharp, collective sound that cut through the Bridge like a dropped plate.

”Oof! Sit DOWN!” one commentator burst out, laughter tangled in his tone.

”That’s not just flair. That’s footwork made of glass and instinct. Moisés Caicedo doesn’t get bullied off the ball — ever — but Izan just danced right past him.”

For all its venom, the Bridge couldn’t pretend it wasn’t impressed.

The crowd let out a ripple of stunned awe — the kind that even rival fans had to respect.

Izan, like a magician after a reveal, slowed again — one hand almost rising like he was going to reset the tempo all over.

Chelsea’s line, already fraying, tried to reorganise, but it was a trap.

Suddenly, with a twitch of his ankle, Izan shifted his weight — and burst forward again, electricity surging through his every step.

Reece James came at him, teeth clenched, trying to time the tackle.

But Izan hit him with a stepover that landed so smoothly it might as well have been from a game.

James bit too early — and Izan was gone, ghosting past him with a glide that left even the away fans momentarily silent in disbelief.

”And he’s off!” the second commentator roared. ”Oh, he’s cooked Reece James! That’s the Arsenal seventeen-year-old saying: ’Catch me if you can!’”

Izan didn’t look back.

He angled his run, lifted his eyes, and with one sharp flick of the outside of his boot, nudged the ball into space for Nwaneri.

The pass was clean, smooth, like threading a needle at full sprint.

Nwaneri caught it with a soft tap, and without even glancing — flicked it back in a no-look return.

The Bridge held its breath.

”Lovely from Nwaneri...” whispered the lead commentator, just as the ball rolled neatly into Izan’s path.

Izan didn’t pause to appreciate the artistry.

He met the ball on the inside of his boot and whipped it across the pitch, in the shape of the shot but it wasn’t.

The ball was heading towards goal, but at the same time, it wasn’t.

It was curling but not bending.

It was something else.

”Lovely dink from Izan,” the commentator gasped.

The ball curled across the face of goal — not too fast, not too soft — and there, sneaking in behind Cucurella with the patience of a striker and the instincts of a ghost, was Kai Havertz.

He didn’t try to shoot.

Instead, with perfect awareness, he leapt and angled his forehead just enough to knock it down into open space.

And who was arriving?

Odegaard.

The captain. The technician. The one Arsenal always trusted when it had to be clean.

He met it with the inside of his foot before the ball even touched the ground.

One strike. One crack. One sweet, vicious volley and then,

BOOM.

The net rippled, the sound as clean as it was final.

1-1.

”GOAAAAAAAL! Arsenal level it!” the commentator shouted, voice nearly breaking.

”Martin Ødegaard with the equaliser — but that, my friends... that started the moment Izan told Stamford Bridge to slow down and listen.”

”This is what they mean when they say game-changer. That run, that pass — that pause — that’s not just football. That’s theatre. And Arsenal are back.”

The players mobbed Odegaard near the corner flag, but they all knew who it had come from.

Izan stood just outside the box, hands on hips, barely blinking.

He just stood, watching Chelsea finally understand that this match wasn’t going to plan anymore.

The fans?

Well, the away end shook with joy.

And the home fans? They were quiet again — not because they didn’t care.

But because it was hard.

It was hard to react to something you never saw coming.

”...and it’s Martin Ødegaard with the cleanest of finishes, but don’t miss the pass that made it possible!” the commentators continued.

”Just watch that again,” the second commentator said as the replay looped again.

”Izan with the vision, Havertz with the touch, and Ødegaard with the exclamation point. That’s a team goal you write textbooks about.”

The Arsenal players scattered with joy as if untethered — Nwaneri spinning in the air, Timber sprinting up to bump chests with Havertz, and Ødegaard grinning as he jogged backwards, arms out.

But Izan didn’t linger.

He had already jogged into the net and collected the ball, spinning it in his palm as he turned to face halfway.

He walked past his teammates on their way back and offered a small nod as he passed Ødegaard.

”Well,” the commentator said, the noise of the away end still buzzing, ”if you were wondering whether this game would heat up in the second half, you’ve got your answer.”

”We’re barely 5 minutes into the second half, but Wow, what a reply from Arsenal.”

As the players returned to position, Stamford Bridge crackled with something electric.

Even the home fans, stunned, rallied again — their chants rising from the deep like they were daring their team to respond.

The whistle came alive again and Chelsea kicked off.

Enzo Maresca paced near the edge of his technical area, clapping once, then pointing.

”Stay tight! Compact lines! Eyes on Izan!” he roared in his Italian tone.

He turned and shouted something else to Palmer — a tweak, an adjustment, a warning — before barking towards Cucurella and Disasi to stay flexible.

Chelsea passed the ball around slowly at first, then quicker, looking to pierce.

”You’ve got to hand it to Chelsea,” the co-commentator chimed in.

”Plenty wrote them off this season. Said they’d crumble against the big boys.”

”And yet here they are, toe to toe with THE title contender — and not just surviving. They’re punching back.”

Arsenal’s shape held, but it was visible now — gaps opening here and there, legs a little heavy from the press.

The ball came to Caicedo, who popped it left and shifted it to Palmer.

Then — Sancho.

And Stamford Bridge rose.

He had been quiet since the penalty won in the first half, but now the spark returned.

He danced down the left wing with that same slippery confidence, faking once, then twice, pulling defenders like he was tugging strings on a puppet.

Lewis Skelly stepped to cover — and Sancho skipped inside, cutting like a blade.

But this time, someone else was waiting.

Izan.

He had tracked back, quietly, almost ghost-like, had it not been for Enzo Fernandez, who had been pointing towards him with his voice.

And just as Sancho tried to drift inside again, Izan stepped forward and met him shoulder to shoulder.

A clean challenge?

No.

No contact at all.

Because Sancho — ever the technician — flicked the ball away.

A sharp little dragback, followed by a quick hop around Izan.

The move landed.

But something felt... off.

Because the ball? The ball hadn’t gone with him.

It had stayed obediently with Izan, stuck near his boots like a spell had bound it.

And now he was gone.

Already moving.

He didn’t even look back.

Sancho spun, expecting the ball, and only caught a glimpse of Izan’s number disappearing into the distance like smoke after fireworks.

”What the f—”

A/N: I hope this is a bit different from the recent Chapters. This Chapter is one that I got after experimenting with a few writing techniques when I was releasing once a day from the early Chapters, so I hope this is better. As I always say, feedback and criticism are gladly welcomed, but please keep it civil.(●’◡’●). I have an early class tomorrow, and I just finished today’s Chapter a couple of hours ago since I left in the morning, so I will see you tomorrow with the first and last Chapter of the day as well as the Golden Ticket Chapter, which was sponsored by Andrew Stewart who gifted 60 golden tickets today. Bye for now.