God Of football

Chapter 754: Feeling Out.

Ousmane Dembélé stood over the ball, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he waited for the referee’s whistle.

It came sharp, and with a swift nudge backwards, he rolled it toward Vitinha.

Paris wasted no time in declaring their intent.

The navy shirts fanned out like a net, crisp passes shuttling from side to side, always finding feet, always one step ahead of the pressing Arsenal shirts.

Odegaard darted forward, then checked his run.

Rice swung across the middle to cut a lane, Izan shadowed Hakimi’s half, while Partey dropped deeper than usual to close angles.

But still the ball ticked on, never still, PSG stitching their rhythm.

”Early signs of control from Paris Saint-Germain,” Darren Fletcher’s voice hummed over the pictures. ”They’re probing, testing Arsenal’s press, seeing how high they can drag them out.”

Arsenal chased, not blindly, but with a purpose that demanded effort.

Lewis-Skelly turned his head once, then twice, tracking Ruiz as the Spaniard ghosted between lines.

The Gunners’ shape shifted like a wave, always reacting, but the Parisians were keeping the ball just out of reach, inviting frustration to build.

A sudden change in tempo by Paris forced Dembélé, deployed as a number nine but never truly fixed there, to drop short, peeling away from Saliba’s attention.

A neat pass into his feet followed, with Dembele taking a touch to settle before following that up with a slick layoff into Doué, who had crept inside.

Doué, back to Rice, didn’t hesitate, before clipping it back toward Dembélé, who’d already spun off into space, dragging Skelly’s hips into another turn.

The teenager twisted left, then right, always a second behind as Dembélé slipped the ball into the vacated channel.

And there was Hakimi, thundering into view down the right.

His stride lengthened, the ball glued to his boots as he drove into the Arsenal box.

The noise inside the Parc swelled.

A thousand pairs of eyes followed the Moroccan’s every step.

Raya braced himself, narrowing the angle as Timber backpedalled, eyes darting between Hakimi and the lurking figures inside.

The sensible play, the expected play, was the cutback, and everyone saw it, but Hakimi didn’t or ignored it.

Because instead of passing it like they all thought he would, he coiled his right leg, tension surging through him in a flash, and unleashed a strike that carried venom.

The ball zoomed towards the little sliver of angle, trying to force itself through, but it cracked against the near post with a metallic clang that echoed across the stadium.

Gasps burst into groans, whistles, and half-screams from the home end as a ripple of relief washed across the Arsenal section, red and white scarves pumping furiously in the air.

”Oh my word! He’s rattled the post!” Ally McCoist bellowed, his voice riding the noise.

”Hakimi, with a thunderous effort, no one expected that. Not the Arsenal defence, not Raya, and they were inches from going ahead!”

The ball spun out of play as Raya, who had frozen mid-dive, arms spread, his chest heaving, pushed himself upright.

The keeper’s eyes were wide, his heartbeat still racing as the near-miss replayed on the big screens.

On the touchline, Mikel Arteta’s voice pierced through the din.

”Lewis!” He jabbed a finger toward the pitch, his tone razor sharp. ”Don’t rush into the circle! Stall! Wait for backup, always wait!”

Skelly, who had edged closer to hear him, nodded hard, guilt written in his expression.

”Got it, boss,” he muttered under his breath before jogging back into position.

Behind him, Raya jogged toward the byline as one of the ball boys tossed him the spare with a quick flick.

The Spaniard caught it, settled it onto the turf, then straightened.

He raised both hands to signal his teammates forward, a call for calm after the storm that had almost undone them in the opening spell and then whistled the ball high and long into the night air, a dart meant for the cluster of bodies gathering in midfield.

The ball dropped into a melee, and there was Thomas Partey, towering above Ruiz and Doué, his neck snapping back as he angled the header forward into PSG’s half, and the cue was instant.

Red with white shirts surged forward like a trigger had been pulled, each one covering zones and spaces in seconds.

The press was alive, Odegaard charging at Pacho, Saka closing off the left, Rice narrowing the centre.

Pacho, who had the ball, hesitated, eyes flicking for an option before retreating into the only safe answer, laying it back toward Donnarumma.

The Italian keeper, uncomfortable under the swell of Arsenal shirts, shuffled the ball onto his stronger foot as the noise grew.

He didn’t like to take risks, and certainly not when a lot was on the line like this.

With a heavy boot, he sent the ball spiralling upfield, rising and hanging in the air as players from both sides craned their necks, timing their leap.

Declan Rice was already coiled, ready to spring, but just before he went, a voice cut through the chaos, sharp, commanding.

”Leave it!”

Izan’s call carried above the crowd, above the thundering feet, straight into Rice’s ears.

The Englishman pulled out of the contest, veering just enough to let the duel fall between Izan and Vitinha.

For those in the stands, there was little suspense.

It felt a given who would come out on top.

But the expected clash of heads never came.

Izan, body loose, chested the ball down with a subtle angle, redirecting it toward the waiting Lewis-Skelly, who lingered just behind him.

The touch was clean, almost casual, but it bled intent because the instant it left his chest, Izan was gone, darting into space and hugging the touchline.

Hakimi saw it, of course, and he quickened his stride, eyes locked on the teenager, the Parc buzzing with anticipation.

The first duel.

The match within the match.

”And here we go, this is what they came for,” Fletcher’s voice sharpened as the cameras zoomed in. ”Izan and Hakimi, face to face on this side. A battle everyone’s been waiting for.”

Izan feinted, body coiled as if he’d explode down the line with that trademark burst.

Hakimi bit, just enough as the Moroccan shifted and set himself to match the run, but there was no run.

Izan had stopped dead, shoulders loose, a grin barely visible on his face as he rolled the ball back into Lewis-Skelly’s path.

Hakimi straightened, a fraction too late to hide the buy-in.

The Parisian crowd saw it.

And they didn’t forgive.

Jeers rained down immediately, a wall of whistles and insults, like coward and afraid.

Mockery in French, in Arabic, in every tongue they could hurl, but Izan barely looked at them, his head still half-turned, his stride carrying him casually back toward the flank as he let the ball go.

Lewis-Skelly moved it on, nudging the ball to Gabriel.

The Brazilian defender slowed it, hung onto possession deliberately, stalling to let Arsenal breathe.

”Well, the crowd here wanted fireworks early,” Ally McCoist chuckled as the cameras lingered.

”But Izan’s made a different choice, and it was measured. It wasn’t time yet. That battle with Hakimi will come; don’t worry about that. Just not yet.”

”Exactly, Ally,” Fletcher followed. ”And you can see what the Paris fans think of it, they’re desperate for a spectacle showing by their right back, who has been unplayable all season. But patience... patience is what Arsenal are trying to play with tonight.”

An attempted pass from Gabriel followed with the latter wanting to chip it to Odegaard, but the ball hit Fabian Ruiz and went out for a throw.

The broadcast cut briefly, zooming in on Izan as he swiped loose strands of hair from his face, tying the bun tighter as though winding himself up for what was to come.

With the ball now out of play, Lewis-Skelly stood on the touchline, the ball tight in his hands, eyes darting left and right.

White shirts shifted, calling for it, but none of them were truly open.

Each option looked crowded, half-risky, until a sharp, confident voice cut through the noise.

”Here!” Izan had dropped a shoulder into Hakimi’s shadow, hand raised, calm in the chaos.

That was all Lewis-Skelly needed.

If it was Izan, he didn’t hesitate.

The throw came quickly, straight into his chest as the ball thudded against Izan’s torso, sticking to him as Hakimi closed in, swarming him instantly.

The Moroccan’s timing was vicious, pressing against Izan’s back, every muscle screaming with the intent to pin him down before he could spin away.

Izan tried to shift, rolling his body to slip around him before letting the ball go first, through the legs of the right back but Hakimi’s fist clutched at the fabric of his shirt, dragging him down, legs tangled in the clash and the whistle pierced immediately.

The referee jogged over, arm raised, pointing firmly at Hakimi as the stadium erupted.

The home crowd roared, not in anger but in celebration of their defender’s defiance.

”Hakimi! Hakimi!” echoed through the Parc des Princes as a chorus of approval that rattled over the turf.

”Well, there’s the first duel won, not cleanly, but Hakimi was never going to let Izan glide past him on that occasion.”

Izan pushed himself back to his feet, brushing the pellets of grass off his shirt with a casual swipe.

His eyes didn’t linger on Hakimi, nor the referee, but on the ball, already waiting to be placed.

The crowd might have cheered the foul, but the brief look on Izan’s face said enough: My Battle Isn’t with just you.