God Of football

Chapter 779: Not Ready To Breathe.

[Liverpool]

The bar was thick with noise, which clung to the walls and ceiling until it felt like the place was breathing along with the game.

Screens were mounted at every angle, above the bar, in corners, even one precariously balanced over the dartboard, and every pair of eyes was locked on them as the match rumbled on.

The commentary floated out of the speakers, but it was swallowed by the roars, groans, and half-drunken curses of the crowd.

On screen, the picture jolted: Izan was down again, curled on the turf after another crunching challenge.

This time, it was Robertson, his mistimed slide clipping his shin instead of the ball.

The whistle had gone sharp and quick, but the damage was already done.

”Ah, for f—’s sake, Robbo! Just let that little shit go,” a man near the bar slammed his pint down so hard some of the lager splashed over his hand.

”Every bloody time, eh? He’s walking a line!”

The referee moved into the frame, card in hand, yellow lifted high for all to see.

Robertson barely argued, his face a mask of resignation, as the jeers rained down from Arsenal fans on the broadcast.

Inside the pub, though, the mood split.

Half the regulars groaned and shook their heads, nerves twisting as they feared the momentum swinging.

Others roared their approval, pints raised like shields.

”He’s been diving all bloody day, that kid!” one fan barked, voice raw.

His mate cut in, louder, ”Dive or not, you don’t give him chances, not at two-nil up. That’s stupid, that is!”

The camera cut wide: scoreboard in the top left, Liverpool 2–0 Arsenal, the clock ticking onto 71:03.

The commentator’s voice slipped back into focus:

”...so, twenty minutes plus stoppage time remain here at Anfield, and Arsenal still chasing a way back into this final.”

A hush fell just long enough for everyone to feel the knot in their stomach.

Then the pub erupted again after Saka lost the ball the next second, the tension bleeding out in shouted orders for more drinks and in arguments that spilt across tables.

Back in the stadium, the moment felt as though the air inside Anfield had tightened, every breath suspended.

Liverpool were in possession, easing the ball down the left where Luis Díaz squared up against Timber.

The Colombian slowed his steps, little shimmies of his shoulders suggesting he was ready to dart either way.

Timber mirrored him, body low, timing sharp, waiting to intercept, but then it happened.

A voice—Robertson’s, barking a quick instruction, carried across the pitch, just enough to pull Díaz’s head to the side.

In that flicker of distraction, Izan surged, nicking the ball clean from under his boots.

Like a thief in plain sight, he was gone before anyone could react.

The Arsenal end exploded to its feet, a wall of red and white noise roaring encouragement.

The Liverpool sections, by contrast, howled for a foul, arms thrown up in desperation, but the referee was already waving play on, and Izan wasn’t going to wait.

He turned upfield with the ball tied to his feet, body leaning forward like an arrow being drawn and released in the same heartbeat.

He pushed forward with venom, slicing through the open grass.

A feint to the left, a cut to the right, then back again, every step calculated, refusing to reveal his next move.

The Liverpool backline recoiled, retreating in perfect symmetry, but they looked less like a wall and more like a line being bent under pressure.

Finally, Virgil van Dijk stepped forward, calm but wary, shoulders broad, eyes narrowing.

Behind Izan, Gravenberch sprinted desperately to cover, his long legs closing the ground.

But Izan slowed, almost unnaturally, as though inviting the danger closer, waiting for his teammates to arrive.

The hesitation forced Van Dijk into doubt: press or hold?

And in that hesitation, Izan struck.

He planted his left leg, shoved the ball slightly right, and unleashed a strike.

The sound of his boot against the ball cracked through the air as the shot tore forward like a bullet, rising as it flew, curving wickedly.

Alisson sprang across goal, his fingertips straining, but the ball beat him—only to cannon off the crossbar with a brutal metallic clang.

Gasps erupted across the stadium, an agony of almosts.

But the play wasn’t over.

Gabriel Martinelli, who had ghosted in from the left flank, was already sprinting.

He reacted quicker than anyone, his body lunging forward as the ball rebounded violently down.

It clipped his thigh as he stretched, not the cleanest of finishes, but enough as the ball trickled over the line and into the net.

The Arsenal end, that had been forced to keep quiet, to be silent, all game, erupted in chaos, and it was pure bedlam.

Fans leapt, scarves whirled, throats tore open with the sound of release.

Martinelli didn’t even pause to celebrate properly; he snatched the ball from the net with urgency, turning back upfield, face fierce with belief.

”GOAL! Arsenal are back in it! Right Place, Right Time,” Peter Drury’s voice thundered through the broadcast, almost drowning beneath the eruption of sound.

”A hammer against the crossbar, and Martinelli is there with the finish, and this game has suddenly ignited! ”

Liverpool players swarmed the referee, arms raised as shouts of offside filled the air.

Van Dijk’s voice carried above the others, while Robertson gestured furiously at the assistant referee.

The official, though, stood his ground.

The referee’s hand was to his ear, eyes locked on the far touchline, waiting for confirmation.

Seconds stretched like minutes as the stadium was suspended in a strange silence, the Arsenal end chanting desperately while Liverpool supporters whistled in defiance.

And then came the decision.

The referee drew his whistle back to his lips, extended his arm towards the centre circle, and pointed.

Goal confirmed.

Anfield shook as the Arsenal end detonated once more, Martinelli pumping his fist as he roared to the travelling supporters.

Izan, chest heaving, jogged to him and slapped the back of his head in encouragement.

On commentary, Drury could scarcely contain himself.

”From the despair of the bar to the ecstasy of the rebound. Arsenal live again! It is 2–1, and this title decider is alive!”

Arne Slot was already at the edge of his technical area, his black jacket pulled tight against him as though he were bracing against a storm.

His arms cut the air with sharp, deliberate movements, his voice carrying even above the roar of the crowd.

”Stay calm! Keep the ball, keep the composure!” he barked, both hands spread low, urging his men to lower their heart rates, to resist the urge to panic.

His face was set in stone, his eyes tracking each player in red.

”Don’t let them swing it! Hold your line, stay in control!”

Liverpool’s players glanced his way between gulps of air, Van Dijk gesturing with his hand for calm, Robertson pointing inward at the space Izan route had been made through, while Mac Allister shouted for Diaz to tuck back.

They tried to cloak themselves in the aura of calm Slot demanded, but the noise of the Arsenal end and the sting of the goal was still buzzing inside their heads.

”Oh, not here. Oh, not here at the great Anfield,” rained down from the home fans around the stadium, trying to wish away the momentum Arsenal had.

On the opposite touchline, Mikel Arteta was in constant motion, clapping furiously, his arm circling in the air like a conductor whipping an orchestra into tempo.

His mouth stretched wide, voice raw. ”Vamos! Restart fast, fast, fast!” he cried, pointing his players back towards the centre circle.

He slapped his palms together again and again, demanding energy, demanding fire.

On the pitch, Izan looked across and nodded once, already jogging into position, while Martinelli thrust a fist into the air at the travelling support before settling back.

The referee, stern and watchful, pressed the whistle to his lips.

One shrill note pierced the din, and the players stirred.

Gakpo rolled the ball back with a firm touch, Liverpool spreading out as if to reset, as if to convince themselves the scoreline still belonged to them and for the most part or at the moment, it did.

Only, now they didn’t know when they were going to lose it.

From the commentary box, the voice of Peter Drury threaded into the atmosphere, not overtaking it but enriching it.

”Liverpool told to keep their heads, while Arsenal are told to raise theirs. Two managers, two messages, and now the game turns on how well their players can listen. Fifteen minutes, plus added time, is a whole lot in football and can change a whole lot of things. For now, Anfield is not ready to breathe, and so are we.”

The ball was moving again, the stadium alive, the two touchlines bristling with opposing wills.

A/N: Have this one. This is the last of the previous day and I’ll see you in a bit with the first of the day.