God Of football

Chapter 707: Missed Presence.

The commentary broke, trembling with emotion, as if about to witness something outrageous.

”Ohhh, you just can’t take your eyes off him for a second!” Ian Darke roared as Izan took the ball to his chest before it dropped.

The ball seemed magnetised to his boot as Izan absorbed it on his right instep, cushioning it like a violinist catching a final note, before shifting his weight onto the other foot.

He dipped his shoulder, pushing out to the left as though he meant to spring that way, and for the briefest moment, Rudiger lunged forward, bracing himself for the burst.

But Izan was quicker in mind than body—the turn was sharp, cruel almost, dragging the ball back across the German’s reach in a flash of deception that left the defender stumbling half a step behind.

With the space carved out of nothing, the teenager didn’t wait.

He smacked through the ball, his strike whipping through the Madrid night like a bullet, and for a heartbeat, the Bernabéu held its breath.

The trajectory was perfect, arrowing into that narrow pocket between Courtois’ glove and the post.

”Ohhh—IZAN—WHAT A HIT! COURTOIS—!” Ian Darke’s voice cracked with the sheer suddenness of it.

The Real Madrid keeper reacted late, scrambling across his goal, but his arm stretched out with the reach of a man who has spent years denying the improbable.

Fingers like iron met the ball, and somehow, impossibly, he clawed it away just as the Arsenal fans behind that end had risen, convinced it was destined for the net.

”Goodness me, how’s he even seen that?! Courtois—what a save, but my word, Izan’s just made something out of absolutely nothing there!” Robbie Savage was half-shouting, half-laughing in disbelief.

The away end groaned in unison, guttural and frustrated, the sound carrying like a collective heartbreak.

Heads were in hands, scarves clutched tight.

For them, the image of the ball nestling inside the net had already burned into their minds before reality tore it away.

And Real Madrid wasted no time punishing Arsenal’s hesitation.

Ascensio was quickest to the rebound, hacking the loose ball away from danger with a snap of his boot.

It spun high into the night, the relief of the home fans audible in the cheers that followed the clearance.

”He’s taking on everyone, from Mbappe to Rudiger, Courtois—champions of the game—and he’s making them earn every bit of their reputation!” Robbie Savage followed, almost in awe himself now.

”I mean, Arsenal fans will be gutted that it didn’t go in, but just look at the confidence. Look at the arrogance! He truly is the last of a dying and rare breed of footballers!”

The game carried on, but the echoes of that one moment lingered, rippling through the stadium.

On the Arsenal bench, Arteta clapped furiously, urging his side to press again, refusing to let the spark fizzle.

On the Madrid side, heads turned nervously toward Courtois, the man who had just bailed them out, as if already calculating how many more of those rescues might be needed before the night was done.

”Arsenal have it back again,” Ian Darke’s voice surged over the roar of the Bernabéu, the clock ticking toward the sixty-eighth minute. ”And look—less than twenty-five minutes of normal time remain. This tie is still hanging by a thread, but the momentum has still remained with Real Madrid, despite Arsenal’s recent efforts.”

Down on the pitch, the camera around the pitch tightened once more because Izan had the ball once more.

The latter’s shoulders squared, his eyes locked forward as the ball was played into his stride.

This time, he looked on resolutely. There wasn’t going to be any halfplays.

He was going to force it.

The Bernabéu seemed to shiver as a ripple of sound passed through the stands, thousands rising to their feet in unison, sensing danger before it even unfolded.

The away fans—pockets of red in the sea of white—were already on their feet, arms outstretched, anticipation dripping from every heartbeat.

Izan received the ball, cushioning it under his sole with an almost lazy grace before rolling it forward.

Valverde was the first wall in front of him, stepping in with that compact, relentless energy he was known for, but once Izan’s touch flickered, the former seemed to lose all the energy in his muscles.

”Ohhh, nutmegged him! He’s skinned Valverde!” Darke’s voice cracked in delight as Izan slipped the ball through the legs of the Uruguayan.

Valverde spun, furious, arms reaching out to tug him back, but Izan just shrugged it off with a burst of pace, his body leaning into the run, that low centre of gravity allowing him to slither out of the grasp of the Uruguayan.

Now it was serious and it was dangerous.

The Real Madrid defence tensed all at once, like a predator realising too late that prey had teeth.

Jude Bellingham was next, deeper than usual, dragged into no-man’s land just to block the angle.

He stepped across, arms pumping, trying to cut the lane, but Izan’s close control was venomous.

Each touch was subtle, almost hypnotic, with the ball never more than a whisper from his boots.

Jude, with his eyes set on the ball, stuck out a foot, but all it did was clip Izan after he nudged the ball just enough to go past the Englishman.

Bellingham would have won the ball, but he raised his two hands up, as if to say he hadn’t done anything bad, and that momentary halt gave Izan and space and time to leave the former Borussia Dortmund man, turning in circles.

”He’s dancing through them! It’s spellbinding!” Robbie’s voice was cracking now.

Raul Acensio, tracking back desperately after venturing too deep, darted in from the flank, but Izan saw it before it even came.

He glanced up, paused for a heartbeat, then nudged the ball with the outside of his boot.

And instead of going for glory himself, he clipped a perfectly weighted pass — delicate, almost effortless — right through the gap.

And from nowhere, Bukayo Saka arrived like a shadow breaking into light.

He was free, all that space in front of him crafted by Izan’s vision, his run perfectly timed.

Rudiger, who had already lunged toward Izan, expecting the solo shot, only to realise too late that the ball had already left, tried to recover, but he soon realised he wasn’t going to get there.

”SAKAAAAA!!” Ian Darke screamed, the word tearing into the night as if dragged from his chest.

He took one touch to set himself, then swung his foot through the ball.

The strike was fierce and clean, rising quickly toward the goal before Courtois could even move his full frame, and the net rippled with a sharp snap, like a thunderclap.

”GOOOOOOAAAALLL!!! Bukayoooooooo Starboy! They did miss his presence, but now he is back with a bang!”

The away end detonated, red shirts bouncing as if tethered by nothing but joy, limbs flailing, scarves ripped into the air.

Some supporters collapsed over the rails, shaking each other, roaring in disbelief and ecstasy.

Down on the pitch, Saka wheeled away, arms wide, eyes blazing, his voice swallowed by the sheer tidal wave of noise.

Izan, instead of rushing forward, slowed in his stride, his chest heaving as he looked at the chaos he’d created.

His teammates mobbed Saka near the corner flag, a red swarm exploding in celebration as a few fans threatened to jump onto the pitch, but the stewards and security were already on top of the situation.

”That’s what great players do! He could’ve taken the shot himself, everyone expected him to—Courtois, Rudiger, even us! But Izan knew. He just knew Saka would be there. That’s the difference, that’s the killer instinct—but shared, not selfish!”

[Or just the Author nerfing him]

Darke’s words came through trembling with awe.

”It’s 3-3. Arsenal are right back in this tie. And make no mistake, folks—this is his doing. He just ripped Real Madrid apart, and he had the composure to find the pass when the world expected a shot. This kid is the difference once again, here in Madrid!”

The Bernabéu was alive with two sounds at once—an orchestra of groans, disbelieving gasps from the Madridistas, and a fever dream chorus of Arsenal’s away supporters, bouncing, chanting, their voices turning the Spanish night red.

As Arsenal’s players trudged back toward their own half, heads swivelling, breaths measured in unison with the whistle, the fourth official’s board was already glowing along the touchline.

The camera panned across Carlo Ancelotti, impassive as ever, but the changes he was about to make were anything but routine.

Up went the numbers — 14 off, 6 on.

Aurélien Tchouaméni’s number was replaced by Eduardo Camavinga’s, and that switch drew nods of understanding from the commentary box.

”Fresh legs in midfield,” Ian Darke observed. ”Camavinga brings energy, mobility, and a bit more security. It makes sense, especially with the way Arsenal are starting to find a foothold.”

Robbie Savage chipped in: ”Yeah, and don’t be surprised if Valverde tucks deeper now. I think he’s still got the engine for it.”