God Of football

Chapter 653: Hotspot.

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—”

Sancho’s voice never made it past his tongue.

Because by the time the word had formed, Izan was already nearing Palmer.

Few metres closer by the second, but he wasn’t in doubt.

Izan moved forward like the moment belonged to him, locked in, head low, body turning the ball with his boots like a craftsman working in silence.

The noise dipped.

Just a little.

Just enough for everyone to notice that something was coming.

”He’s not charging up the pitch like he did last time. He’s... inviting them this time but I don’t think any chelsea players wants to go out and meet.” the commentator said.

And as if they had heard the words, they answered.

Caicedo stepped out while Palmer started to shuffle closer, but Izan didn’t stop.

If anything, he sped up.

He nudged it forward with a quick tap and brushed past Caicedo before the midfielder could reset his stance.

After he got past Caicedo, Izan didn’t stand around and carried on.

A couple of touches to keep the ball close followed before he rolled it out to Martinelli, just wide enough to let the Brazilian face forward.

Caicedo pivoted immediately, realising too late that he’d been bypassed again.

He turned and chased, but Martinelli wasn’t even running.

He just stood there and, with a half glance behind, he sent a simple pass back inside to Lewis Skelly, who had quietly positioned himself in a pocket of space.

Caicedo kept running — straight past Martinelli now — trying to double back again.

But Arsenal were already one step ahead.

Skelly’s body was already turning before the ball had reached him.

He didn’t hold it long and sent another pass back to Izan, who had now drifted inside, just off the shoulder of Cole Palmer.

Palmer stepped up — half a second too late.

Because the moment the ball touched Izan’s boot, he flicked it backwards through his own legs.

Palmer tried to react but his foot came down wrong with his balance being undone by the move by Izan.

And then he was on the floor.

Boots sliding out under him like the turf had disappeared.

The crowd groaned.

A few laughs, but mostly the kind of noise fans make when they see a player spun too easily.

Caicedo stopped midrun, then turned and looked back, mouth already opening.

His arm shot out, pointing.

Calling someone, anyone, to approach.

”Again,” the commentator said, flatly. ”They’ve isolated him again.”

”That’s the third time now. Same part of the pitch. Caicedo’s getting stretched and there’s no cover.”

Cole Palmer sat up on the ground, staring at the turf like it had betrayed him.

He watched Izan go but couldn’t stay idle.

He shoved himself off the turf with both palms, rising like someone who was chasing his own pride.

His boots dug into the grass as he lunged forward, eyes locked on Izan, who was already accelerating toward the edge of the box.

Izan didn’t look back because he could feel and hear them.

He could feel the chase behind him — hear the breath, hear the boots.

Reece James had just been nutmegged moments ago, standing frozen in place, eyes raised like he needed a review.

The pitch tilted, and Izan was gliding through it, threading through a narrow corridor between chaos and calculation.

Chelsea’s midfield had recovered by now, but only just.

The defenders were in scramble mode, one foot behind the tempo.

And then came Palmer again — catching up far too quickly for comfort.

”Pace, unheard of from Palmer,” the commentator said, voice tightening.

”He’s made up the ground. And look — look at the help coming now.”

Palmer surged in, arms slightly raised, trying not to foul — trying to do it clean.

But Izan’s balance was already gone from the relentless barrage of tackles and the flow of the play.

His left leg dipped unnaturally, boot clipping slightly against the ground as the chase squeezed him between the trailing edge of the midfield and the front line of defenders.

Palmer thought he had him.

Thought this was the moment to poke it away, win the challenge, silence the noise.

But Izan — already half-tilting, already on the verge of the fall — flicked the ball back again.

Through the legs, but those of Palmer this time.

A gasp swelled from the crowd, but their reaction wasn’t unfounded.

Even Palmer was a bit shocked.

He tried to recover — but he did so a tad bit early, as Izan’s planted foot was still there.

His outstretched leg caught Izan’s trailing boot — the one that had just finished the flick.

It wasn’t violent, but it was enough as it twisted awkwardly beneath the weight of momentum, and Izan tumbled hard into the turf.

Boots, arms, shoulder — a blur of red, white and grass.

The whistle came sharp and early, cutting through the roar before it fully formed.

”Oh, he’s blown for it!” the co-commentator shouted. ”That’s a foul. No question.”

”And the ref’s gone straight for the card — yellow for Palmer. That’s frustration. He’s been cooked, what, three times now in two minutes?”

Palmer, characteristically, threw both hands out.

”He was already going down!” he yelled, turning to the referee.

”I didn’t touch him! He was falling already!”

The Chelsea players swarmed briefly, some protesting, others just trying to delay the inevitable.

But the referee pointed straight to the spot where Izan had landed — his boot still imprinted into the grass like a marker on a map.

Palmer backed away slowly, shaking his head.

And Izan?

He rolled once, then pushed himself up onto a knee, brushing the dirt from his elbow like it was just a minor inconvenience.

Then, with a faint grin, he stood.

He looked around, nodded once, and clapped — slow, deliberate like he had just done something naughty but at the same time good.

The realisation came after a while when the Chelsea players realised where the foul was.

Twenty-seven metres from goal.

Dead centre with potential of a shot to the left and potential to the right.

Arsenal’s bench leaned forward as one all eyes on the ball, as Izan set the ball down while the referee went to deal with the wall.

”He might’ve just created something bigger here,” the main commentator said, his tone quieter now, almost reverent.

”Because that’s not just a foul — that’s a free-kick in dangerous territory. And for Izan... that’s his hotspot.”

The camera zoomed in as the referee stood by the ball, arms raised, trying to calm a pocket of Chelsea players still crowding around, protesting the call.

”You fouled him after he touched it. End of,” the ref snapped, turning toward Reece James.

”Now get back. I’m sorting the wall.”

James muttered something under his breath while Enzo Fernandez gestured toward the grass, pointing at the faint scuff mark where Izan had gone down.

But the whistle wasn’t coming back.

The foul was locked in, and so was the distance.

”Have a look at that heat map,” the co-commentator added.

”If you’ve watched Izan long enough, you know this is the exact blade of grass he loves. Most of his direct free-kick goals — that top arc of the box, right of centre. That’s where he bends it. That’s where he lives.”

The screen split — the live shot on one side, and on the other, a graphic replaying the arc of Izan’s converted free-kicks from earlier in the season.

And then, a standout clip rolled.

”8 freekick goals this season, and that one there — remember it?” the commentator said with a grin creeping into his voice.

”Valencia in the last game of the league phase of the UCL. From forty metres out, and he still hit it top bin like he was playing five-a-side.”

”Pure technique. Pure nerve.”

Back on the pitch, the referee was finally satisfied with the wall — four blue shirts standing shoulder to shoulder, with Cucurella, dropping the the ground space behind the wall.

A/N: OKay guys. I am free most of tomorrow so I will be using tonight to type a few more Chapters than Usual. This is 1 out of the 5 Chapters that I will be releasing to cover for not releasing and the Golden Ticket Chapter too. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the second.