God Of football

Chapter 725: Party At Anfield.

[Liverpool, Anfield]

”It’s a party at Anfield tonight!” the commentator’s voice thundered across the broadcast, the camera cutting to a sea of waving red flags.

”It’s Liverpool four, Tottenham Hotspur one. It has been a clinic, a show of muscle, and Anfield is bouncing—absolutely bouncing. They’ve swarmed Spurs, they’ve suffocated them, and the Kop is in raptures.”

The roar of the Liverpool faithful rolled like a living tide, voices singing in unison.

The commentators hardly needed to speak, yet the contrast they drew was unavoidable.

”And as we are here, the word coming in is that...” the second commentator’s voice cut across the broadcast, ”back at Selhurst Park, Arsenal have conceded again and it is three-nil. Three down. And if Spurs don’t find something miraculous here, which feels far-fetched, frankly, Liverpool will cut the gap at the top of the table to just four points. Arsenal’s unbeaten league run looks destined to end tonight.”

A hush of awe slipped through Anfield’s buzz as the news filtered around.

The cameras briefly caught supporters holding up phones, refreshing scores, wide-eyed, nudging the people beside them.

Liverpool were feasting, and Arsenal were falling.

.......

And then, back to South London.

The Selhurst Park lights beamed down on chaos in red and blue.

The Holmesdale End roared with every clearance, every second ticked off like a drumbeat in Palace’s favour.

It looked like a certain defeat, but a few players were not having ”no” for an answer.

Bukayo Saka had the ball at his feet, and the commentators locked back in.

”Here goes Saka... he’s looked the brightest of the Arsenal forwards tonight, always trying to make something happen.”

The young winger jinked past Mitchell with that familiar feint, cutting inside onto his left boot and dragging Palace’s block slightly out of shape.

His stride lengthened, his head dipped, and he let fly from just outside the edge of the box.

”Sakaaa...!”

The ball thundered against a stretching leg of a Lacroix who threw himself desperately into the path, but the deflection spun wickedly, looping away from Henderson’s reach and bouncing into the corner.

”And Arsenal have one back! A touch of fortune, but Bukayo Saka doesn’t care. Arsenal don’t care. Three-one, Palace still in control, but the Gunners finally break through!”

The travelling Arsenal fans, packed into their small corner, erupted in a chant and claps as Saka snatched the ball out of the net, but it was still just a consolation goal.

At least in the eyes of the fans, it would be very hard, but not impossible, for them to get back on level terms at Selhurst Park.

Saka turned, sprinting toward the centre circle, barking at his teammates to follow as his chest heaved, face locked in determination.

”Look at that,” the commentator added. ”No time for joy. No time for smiles. Saka knows, they’re still drowning here, but maybe that’s the first gasp of air.”

The camera lingered on him as he placed the ball in the centre circle, pointing and shouting for the restart, while Palace players jogged back with a smirk, shaking their heads.

”But make no mistake,”the commentator concluded, voice rich with weight, ”Palace three, Arsenal one. Time is against Arteta’s side. Spirit may flicker, but this fortress in south London is not easily torn down.”

[Back at Hampstead]

Izan’s palms met in a sharp clap, the sound cutting through the room like a spark of relief.

He leaned forward on the couch, shoulders tense but face lit with something between determination and satisfaction.

”Come on, that’s it, Bukayo,” he murmured under his breath, eyes fixed on the replay of Saka’s strike taking that crucial deflection.

Beside him, Komi followed suit, clapping with a motherly eagerness that matched Izan’s.

”That’s the fight you want to see,” she said warmly, glancing at him as though Arsenal’s response was a reflection of his own persistence.

”Don’t let the night end without at least a statement.”

Hori, slouched against the far end of the sofa, raised an eyebrow.

She caught the rhythm of her mother’s claps and Izan’s glowing focus, and let a sly grin creep onto her face.

”So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Both of you bleeding Arsenal red tonight?”

Komi didn’t even look away from the screen, still applauding.

”We support our own. What’s wrong with that?”

”What’s wrong,” Hori said, folding her arms with mock seriousness, ”is that every good story needs a villain. Balance, you know? Heroes are boring without someone to boo.”

Her eyes darted across the room until they landed on Olivia, who was half-smiling at Izan’s stubborn energy.

”And since I can’t take both of you on by myself...” She lifted a finger and pointed dramatically.

”Olivia, you’re with me. Sidekick duties start now.”

Olivia blinked, caught off guard, then laughed lightly.

”Wait, me? Why do I feel like I didn’t get to audition for this role?”

”You don’t audition to be a villain,” Hori shot back with mock gravity.

”You become one.” She gestured toward Izan and Komi with a flourish.

”We’ll take the Palace angle. We’re the disruptors of hope. The necessary balance.”

Izan tore his eyes off the screen for the first time in minutes and squinted at her, unimpressed.

”You’re enjoying this too much.”

”That’s the point.” Hori leaned forward, grin widening.

”Besides, it’s fun watching you get all intense. Somebody’s gotta keep your ego in check.”

Olivia shrugged, tilting her head toward Izan.

”She does have a point. Plus... I’ve never tried being the villain before. We are always behind you, so this might be fun.”

She gave Hori a quick fist bump, sealing the alliance.

Komi finally looked over, shaking her head with a smile.

”Two against two, then. Fine. Just remember, good always wins in the end.”

”Not in football,” Hori countered, smug and sharp, her eyes flicking back to the screen as Palace’s players began circling with the ball.

”In football, sometimes the villains just defend like maniacs and ruin your whole night.”

Izan let out a breath, pressing his lips together to fight back a laugh.

He leaned forward again, clapping once more as the game resumed, his voice low but steady.

”We’ll see.”

........

”So we are back underway at Selhurst Park, and it is buzzing here. If you are just joining us here for some reason, it’s Palace 3, Arsenal 1 and the Gunners are proving to be troublesome here in the late moments of the game.”

Leandro Trossard, fresh off the bench, had been electric since coming on for Martinelli.

The Belgian didn’t wait for the ball to come to him; he demanded it, darting into spaces between full-back and centre-half, forcing Palace’s back line to shift nervously every time he got a touch, and it was helping.

”Arsenal have doubled their threat out wide now,” the commentator noted, his voice riding the current of noise. ”Saka still probing on the right, and Trossard, on the other side, is beginning to ask the kind of questions defenders hate late in matches.”

And yet, the home side had made their intentions clear.

Crystal Palace were deep, compact, bodies flooding the box whenever red shirts dared creep closer.

The midfield, once open for duels, was now crowded with blue-and-red shirts forming a shield around their area.

With passing lanes cut off, Arsenal had little choice but to start launching long balls from behind the centre circle.

Saliba and Gabriel took turns pinging diagonals while Ødegaard dropped back, scanning for gaps and lofting hopeful passes in behind.

And then Declan Rice, unshaken, took matters into his own hands.

With a sudden surge forward, he let fly from distance, his strike low and powerful, skimming off the turf with vicious spin.

The ball caught the keeper off guard, forcing him to lunge full-stretch to his right as the fingertips just managed to claw it away, pushing it past the post and out for a corner.

The away end erupted, a desperate cry of belief breaking through the Selhurst noise.

”There it is!” the commentator cried, voice sharp with anticipation.

”Declan Rice almost pulling one back from range, and the goalkeeper, well, he had to be at full stretch. Arsenal corner now, and here comes Rice himself to take it.”

Rice jogged over to the corner flag, sweat glistening on his brow.

He bent down briefly, fixing the ball in place, then straightened and raised both arms high into the air, a familiar signal that had been rehearsed countless times.

”Arsenal this season,” the co-commentator chimed in, ”they’ve been ruthless from set-pieces. The most goals from corners in the league. And this one... it could be the lifeline they need. Can they make it count here?”

The stadium tightened as the Palace fans whistled, clapped and stamped their feet, desperate to drown the moment.

Arsenal shirts gathered, Saliba and Gabriel pushing forward with Havertz lurking at the near post.

After the referee’s signal, Rice whipped the delivery in, the ball swinging with venom toward the heart of the six-yard box.

And there, Saliba rose above the melee, timing perfect, his frame towering as his forehead connected cleanly with the ball—

A/N: This is the first of the previous day. I will be releasing all that had been left in from now till I am done so don’t worry. Have fun reading and keep spamming the GT’s and I will see you in bit.