God Of football

Chapter 723: Grim

[2 days later]

The morning of the game had a strange quietness about it.

When Arsenal’s squad list dropped, social media was already buzzing.

Saka, Odegaard, Martinelli, Gabriel Jesus — all the usual names were there.

But as expected, Izan’s wasn’t.

There was no fanfare about it anymore.

People had accepted that, being cleared to walk didn’t mean he could start running immediately, and they would rather lose this season than lose for the upcoming years.

Still, it felt unusual, almost eerie, to see the team sheet without him.

As the time for the game approached, the camera followed Arsenal’s coach as it wound its way into Selhurst Park, the red and white tracksuits spilling out into the stadium tunnels.

Fans behind the barriers pressed up, chanting, waving scarves, trying to catch glimpses.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Hampstead, the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different.

Inside Izan’s house, the home theatre was alive with the pre-match buildup.

Olivia sat curled up on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around her legs, while Komi sat a little stiffly beside her, her posture neat even in such a casual setting.

Hori, meanwhile, was stretched out like a cat in the corner chair, chin in hand, already fighting back a mischievous grin.

Miranda was the only absence, her sharp voice and endless phone calls replaced by silence.

She had flown out to France the night before, busy renegotiating a set of revised terms with Saint Laurent on Izan’s behalf.

In her absence, the household felt looser, more homely.

Izan shifted against the cushions, lazily tossing a pillow across the room, where it smacked Hori lightly against the side of the head, making her burst into a flurry of insults, but she was reprimanded by Komi.

”And, Miura, stop bothering your sister.”

Izan nodded, muttering a small okay, but his tongue, which he stuck out, irked Hori more.

”You’ll see, Arsenal are going to lose today,” she said, rubbing the spot with an exaggerated grimace.

Izan gave her a half-smile, shaking his head.

”In your dreams.”

But his words were distracted. His eyes had already drifted back toward the massive screen that filled the room, the high-definition display now showing the teams walking out of the tunnel at Selhurst Park.

The lineups scrolled across the bottom of the screen, the commentators’ voices filling the space through the surround-sound speakers.

”Palace, unchanged from their last outing,” one voice intoned.

”Eze and Sarr wide, Mateta leading the line. As for Arsenal, well, no real surprises — though of course, the one name missing again, Izan Miura Hernández. Fans will have to wait a little longer to see him back in action.”

Komi, quiet as ever, folded her hands neatly in her lap while Olivia nudged a bowl of popcorn in Izan’s direction.

He waved it away, eyes fixed on the screen as Selhurst roared, and soon, the whistle blew, the noise bleeding into the Hampstead living room through the speakers.

Palace didn’t hesitate; they went direct, launching the ball high and forward, forcing Arsenal to turn.

Within seconds, Eberechi Eze was sprinting down his flank, feet like quicksilver, chopping inside and driving toward the box.

Raya had to throw himself low, palms outstretched, to claw away the shot that followed, but the home fans were already in the mood as the stand began trembling.

.

”Bright start from Palace!” the commentator barked. ”They’re not holding back, and that’s a warning sign for Arsenal.”

The warning wasn’t heeded, and barely minutes later, Palace broke again.

Ismaila Sarr threaded a clever ball through the middle, where Mateta ghosted into the gap between Saliba and Gabriel.

The home fans tensed at the thought of Mateta putting the ball into the back of the net, and the Frenchman didn’t disappoint.

He steadied himself, despite the pressure from Saliba, and then rifled a shot, low and hard, past the outstretched hand of Raya.

”GOAL! Palace draw first blood, and it is Jean-Philippe Mateta with the opener, and Arsenal are behind early!”

Back in Hampstead, the silence was heavy for a moment, only broken by Hori shifting in her seat as she turned her head toward Izan, her smile already forming.

”Told ya.”

Izan turned slowly, staring at her, and all she did was widen that grin, pleased with herself.

....

Back at Selhurst Park, Arsenal did not fold under the early blow.

If anything, conceding so quickly seemed to jolt them awake.

After the celebrations died down in the stands, Mikel Arteta’s men began stringing their passes together, knitting play the way they had rehearsed countless times on the training pitch at London Colney.

The red and white shirts worked the ball patiently across the back line, nudging forward through Zinchenko and Declan Rice, before spreading it wide to Bukayo Saka on the right.

Crystal Palace, emboldened by their lead, did not sit back passively.

They too pressed, bit at the ankles, and made sure Arsenal could not settle too easily.

But still, slowly, almost inevitably, Arsenal began to carve out their rhythm.

Saka’s low centre of gravity allowed him to twist away from Tyrick Mitchell more than once, sending teasing crosses into the box.

Martin Ødegaard floated between the lines, trying to stitch the play together, and Kai Havertz drifted into awkward pockets, attempting to trouble Guehi and Andersen.

The goal did not come, but the sense of it, the weight of it, hung in the air like an approaching storm.

Every attack seemed just a step away from breaking through.

The home fans could feel it too.

Their voices rose whenever Palace won the ball back, a nervous instinct, almost begging their side to relieve the pressure.

Arsenal’s movements became sharper, the ball zipping quicker, the triangles forming cleaner across the pitch.

It was Arsenal’s brand of football beginning to bloom, the familiar dominance, the suffocating control, and the sense that the equaliser was only a matter of time.

As the first half ticked toward its final minutes, Arsenal began to lean forward harder, their backline holding higher and higher, their midfield pushing to camp inside Palace’s half.

Then it came, a sweeping move that started at Saka’s feet.

He darted infield, riding a desperate challenge, and laid the ball into Ødegaard.

The captain, with one touch, slipped it into space for Havertz, who arrived at the top of the penalty area, and Havertz didn’t hesitate.

He did what any good forward would do and opened his body before he rifled a shot with his left foot.

The sound was brutal, the ball smacking against the post with a dull thud that seemed to echo across Selhurst Park.

The frame of the goal shuddered as if it too had been caught off guard.

The rebound spilled awkwardly into the six-yard box, chaos ensuing, but Marc Guehi threw himself at it.

Sliding desperately, he hooked the ball away before Bukayo Saka could pounce, clearing it out toward the halfway line.

The groans from Arsenal fans in the away section were swallowed almost instantly by a roar from the Palace faithful, because the clearance had set the stage for something more.

Palace had broken, and when they broke, they did so with venom.

The ball fell to Eberechi Eze, and immediately he was off, springing forward with that unteachable glide in his stride.

Rice lunged to cut him down, but Eze skipped away with a flick of the ankle.

Ødegaard was next, as he tried to close the angle, but Eze turned inside, rolled the ball onto his other foot, and kept moving.

It was a mazy and slaloming run.

He carried it thirty, then forty yards, weaving between shirts as though they were cones in a drill.

Now at the edge of Arsenal’s defensive line, Eze spotted the runner, Ismaila Sarr, tearing down the right flank.

With the precision of a master, Eze curled the ball outward into Sarr’s path, where the winger took it cleanly without breaking stride before charging toward the box with Zinchenko desperately scrambling to match him.

The winger could have gone for glory himself, but instead, with composure that silenced any doubt, Sarr squared it across the face of the goal.

And who was waiting there?

None other than Eberechi Eze again, having followed his own pass with a burst of speed.

He arrived just in time, met the cutback, and with one sweep of his right boot, tucked the ball past David Raya.

Two-nil.

”Goooaaallll! Arsenal are two goals down at Selhurst Park, and it is looking grim for Arteta and his men.”

The stands shook as thousands of Palace fans leapt from their seats, scarves waving, limbs flying, voices blending into one deafening roar of disbelief and jubilation.

Arsenal’s defenders looked at one another in stunned frustration, some hands thrown in the air, some heads dropping while Eze sprinted to the corner flag, arms outstretched with his teammates swarming around him and the crowd feeding off every ounce of his energy.

Two goals down before half-time, with all of Arsenal’s possession undone by ruthlessness from the other end.

A/N: First of the day. Damn.