God Of football

Chapter 694: We’ve Got Rice.

Odegaard was first to react, lunging in and sweeping the ball clear before a Madrid boot could get there.

It spun out toward the top of the box, no real control on it, just begging to be claimed.

But it was there — just like so many times in Valencia colours — that Izan read the moment like a predator.

The ball skipped toward him, and in one smooth motion, he brought it under control, pivoting on his heel as the pitch opened up ahead.

One opponent was already lunging in, another was trying to track back, but Izan’s first touch had already bought him the half-second he needed to burst into the counter.

”Well, here we go again, it’s on now for Arsenal, and it is Izan with the loose ball-” Darren Fletcher’s voice sharpened, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd. ”— and, ohhh, he’s decided to go.”

The sound of the Emirates lifted as the teenager turned toward the Real Madrid half, nudging the ball into the middle of the pitch.

Thousands of red-and-white scarves swayed in the air, and the chant of ”IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!” began to ripple around the stadium.

They had seen this before; the signs were there, and they knew that one of those magic runs might be coming, but it wasn’t going to come easy.

Camavinga was the first obstacle.

The Frenchman sprinted in, lowering his shoulder, arms out, determined to use his strength to knock Izan off the ball.

But the impact was a dead end.

It was like ramming into a wall—nothing gave way.

Izan stayed balanced, his core rock-solid, then rolled his shoulder forward, causing Camavinga to stumble, boots skidding, and before he could recover, he hit the turf.

The home fans roared, some leaping from their seats, others waving their arms at the Madrid crowd, who were now on the edge of their seats.

”Lovely display of strength from Izan, and the danger is still on!” Fletcher’s voice cracked slightly over the volume.

Izan, after going past Camavinga, knew he had to buckle up because just ahead was Modrić and Bellingham moving in—a veteran genius on one side, a powerhouse runner on the other.

Both were closing in fast, and their angles left him little room to breathe because one wrong touch and the attack was gone.

Izan glanced up again at the approaching duo and decided not to risk it, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop.

With a sharp turn of pace, he darted toward Modrić’s side, tapping the ball just out of reach of the Croatian’s probing foot.

Modrić twisted his body to chase, but the teenager was already gone, carrying the ball forward with fluid, easy strides.

The crowd gasped, then rose in unison as Izan threaded the ball out toward Arsenal’s right flank with Martinelli just behind him, but it never looked like the ball was going to leave the feet of Izan.

And waiting ahead was David Alaba.

The eyes of the Austrian were stuck to Izan, trying to imprint his movements to mind.

This was their first proper clash tonight, and both knew it.

The noise in the stadium seemed to dip into a tense hum—one-on-one, attacker versus defender, on a Champions League night.

Izan leaned inside, eyes locked forward like he was about to drive straight into the heart of the Madrid shape, and Alaba bought it, stepping inward to block the lane.

But then Izan snapped the trap shut—pivoting back left in a single motion, his studs brushing the turf as he took the ball with him.

Alaba’s weight was wrong, his legsbracing too late.

By the time he turned, Izan had already slipped past him, a smudge of movement under the lights.

”And he’s past Alaba—wait... ohhh no, that’s trouble!”

Antonio Rüdiger arrived from the blindside.

There was no mistaking his intent—this wasn’t for the ball.

His sliding tackle came in heavy, all momentum and muscle, and it smashed through Izan’s stride.

The teenager’s legs went airborne before his back slammed into the grass.

He rolled once, his arm instinctively clutching at his ankle, and then stayed down.

The noise flipped in an instant.

A heartbeat ago, it had been pure excitement—now it was a wall of fury.

Boos crashed from the stands, whistles cutting through the air, and chants of ”OFF! OFF! OFF!” rolled from every corner of the stadium.

”Rüdiger’s gone right through him! You cannot do that in a Champions League quarter-final!” Fletcher’s voice was sharp, almost disbelieving.

Arsenal shirts flooded in from every direction.

Ødegaard was in the referee’s face, his hands spread wide in a demand for an explanation, while Gabriel, from defence, stormed straight at Rüdiger, chest to chest, yelling loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

A few players of both sides approached, pulling the duo away from each other for fear of losing them both to bad misconduct.

Izan tried to sit up, but it wasn’t convincing.

His elbows pushed into the grass, his face tightening, teeth gritted.

He flexed his ankle once, winced, then let it drop back down.

The referee crouched near him, one hand out to wave players back, but no one was backing off.

On the touchline, Arteta was halfway onto the pitch, shouting at the officials, jabbing a finger toward Rüdiger.

Rüdiger, for his part, stood over the scene with a flat expression, offering no apology.

His teammates closed in, trying to shield him from the wave of red shirts that had surged again after seeing Izan not getting up.

”All eyes on the referee here,” Fletcher said, voice low but tense. ”This... could be a huge call.”

They knew what a red card here could mean, and every second the referee delayed, the noise grew louder with the chants of ”SEND HIM OFF!” pounding like a drumbeat under the floodlights.

The eyes of the home fans grew expectant as the referee turned towards Rudiger, expecting a red card, but only a yellow came because while it was true that Rudiger had gone in hard, he wasn’t the last man or the second to last as Madrid had Valverde and Ascensio at the back.

The fans, however, couldn’t care less as horrid chants and insults rained down on the referee.

”Well,” Darren Fletcher’s voice came in over the feed, a mixture of curiosity and doubt, ”this is definitely a good position for Izan Miura to take. We’ve seen him score from tighter angles. But... judging by the way he’s still moving, I’m not sure it’s likely that he will take this one.”

Izan shook his head slightly, his expression returning from that grim look to his normal expression.

Declan Rice jogged over, instinctively slowing as he reached him.

He wasn’t expecting to be involved here — everyone in the ground knew very few in the game could claim to be better deadball specialists, and currently, no one could.

Still, he was the closest one to the ball while Izan had been down.

”Go take it,” Izan said quietly, his voice low but firm.

Rice blinked. ”You sure?”

Izan nodded once. ”Yeah. You take it.”

Nobody else had even made a move towards the ball.

Even the opposition players seemed to hesitate for a second, almost confused at the sight of Rice preparing for the free-kick instead of the number 10.

But Izan wasn’t in the mood to argue with his ankle — or with the pain that still lingered from that heavy challenge.

”This is interesting — looks like Declan Rice will step up. That’s not something we see often with Izan on the pitch. He’s clearly still feeling the effects of that knock, something we rarely see, and Arsenal aren’t taking any chances here,” Darren Fletcher picked it up again from the commentary box.

On the touchline, Izan eased himself back down onto one knee.

The medics hovered, applying more spray and checking his leg while Carlos Cuesta came trotting over, glancing briefly at the ball before crouching to speak to him.

”Can you continue?” he asked, his tone direct but not rushed. ”Mikel wants to know.”

Izan looked him dead in the eye and gave a short nod. ”Yeah.”

Cuesta nodded back and stood, signalling towards the bench as Izan turned his head towards Rice, who was already positioning himself over the ball.

”Go for it,” he muttered again, almost like a quiet order.

Rice, a distance away from Izan, gave a small nod as if he had heard it and began to pace out his run-up.

”And here we go...” Fletcher’s voice rose with the anticipation in the stands. ”Is Rice going for goal here, or is he going to whip it in?” Fletcher wondered aloud.

With a confident run-up, Rice swept his leg under the ball with the Real Madrid wall rising as the ball arced impossibly over the wall, dipping viciously at the last moment.

Courtois, seeing this, flung himself full stretch, fingertips brushing air as he forced to grasp the ball, but all he caught was air.

And then the smile on Declan Rice’s face as he turned towards Izan on the touchline.

GOOOOOOAAAAALLLL

”Ohhh, my word! DECLAN RICE! Who would have thought?” Fletcher roared, his voice breaking over the noise.

”That is OUTRAGEOUS! And that is one of the best goals you will ever see in the Champions League!”

”No, Izan, don’t worry — we’ve got Rice!” Fletcher laughed into the mic.

”And tonight, Rice has delivered a worldie that even Izan would be proud of. It’s 58 minutes on the clock, and it is all equal.”

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I wanted to make the second leg a bit more exciting than this so I slowed down a bit with this one. Sorry if it was a bit too dull. I will show up in the second leg with a banger but I will give this one a befitting ending.