God Of football

Chapter 781: To Win It All.

Trent Alexander-Arnold crouched by the corner flag, his palm pressing the ball flat against the turf.

The white paint of the quadrant glistened under the floodlights, a stark boundary between calm ritual and the chaos waiting to erupt inside the box.

He took his time, straightening the ball, twisting it a fraction, then standing back.

The noise in the stadium swelled into a living roar that curled around the stadium like a storm cloud, charging every breath with electricity.

Trent exhaled, wiped his brow, and then took three slow steps backwards as his eyes darted into the penalty area, scanning the mess of red and black shirts.

Arms were already tugging, jerseys already stretched.

Konaté and Saliba locked together like wrestlers, grappling for space in a battle that had barely begun, while Gabriel shoved Van Dijk in the chest, but Van Dijk barely moved, a tower rooted in red.

Raya shouted, arms flailing, but his voice was swallowed whole by the Kop’s thunder.

The referee spotted it, Konaté’s hand clutching too firmly at Saliba’s shoulder, and jogged in, blowing short, sharp notes on his whistle.

”Enough!”

His gestures cut the night air, prising the giants apart.

Both defenders raised their arms, innocence painted on their faces, but everyone knew neither would stop until the ball soared.

Back he went, retreating to the edge of the crowd.

He checked the box one last time and then raised his whistle to his lips as one long, shrill note released the storm.

”Here it comes,” Peter Drury’s voice cracked with anticipation, his words a shiver through the broadcast. ”Trent Alexander-Arnold, the scouse heartbeat... he has threaded so many needles from this very patch of grass...”

And the delivery was perfect.

A whip, a curl, a ball with venom, shape and promise.

It bent away from Raya’s fists, spinning into the heart of the crowd where black shirts rose.

But the red shirts rose higher.

And then above them all was Izan.

He surged skyward, timing, courage, and defiance etched into his leap as his forehead thumped through the ball, driving it clear.

But it dropped only as far as Curtis Jones, stationed like a trap.

One touch out of his feet, then another ball swung back into the furnace.

Izan prepared to rise again as the ball was spiralled towards his direction, but as he did, he felt the resistance before his boots had left the ground.

A weight on his back, arms tangling.

He strained, body screaming, and then jumped anyway, but then crack.

An elbow smashed across his cheek.

Followed by a white-hot sting.

And then a flash of light.

The roar of Anfield exploded, deafening.

He staggered, dazed, vision blurred and through the haze, he caught the streak of red: Van Dijk charging away, arms outstretched, sliding towards the corner flag as Liverpool’s scoreboard ticked from 2 to 3.

GOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

”IT IS PARTY TIME, ANFIELD!! VIRGIL VAN DIJK!” Drury roared into the chaos.

”Liverpool’s captain, Liverpool’s colossus, and maybe Liverpool’s saviour! Arsenal thought they had the title wrapped, but do not—do not—count these men in red out!”

Jim Beglin’s voice folded into his.

”That’s what he does. When the pressure is unbearable, Van Dijk is there. What a towering header... and listen to Anfield! They believe again!”

On the touchline, Arteta froze, anguish carving through his face.

The Arsenal bench slumped, heads bowed as the away end, which had soared only minutes before, fell into silence, arms dropping to sides, eyes wide with disbelief.

And then, from the penalty box, voices rose.

It was frantic and sharp as Timber, on his knees, waved towards the referee leaning over Izan’s crumpled figure.

”Ref! Ref! Here!”

His voice cracked, swallowed by the celebration.

Izan was motionless, a thin line of blood trickling from his lip, his eyes still glassy from the impact.

The referee turned, caught the scene, and at once the mood shifted.

His whistle shrieked, slicing through Liverpool’s celebrations.

Hands waved, urgency replacing euphoria.

Arsenal’s medical staff sprinted on, kit bags bouncing against their sides.

Immediately they got there, one dropped to a knee, cradling Izan’s head, another tilting him upright gently.

A bottle squirted water across his mouth, the blood spilling crimson across the pitch.

Arsenal players swarmed the referee, Rice, Ødegaard, and Gabriel, pointing furiously to the giant screen above.

”Check it! VAR! That’s at least an elbow!”

Their words were frantic, desperate, and the Liverpool players rushed in too, shaking their heads, palms outstretched, protesting innocence.

The referee, however, shoved them all back, his patience tested.

With a deep breath, he stepped aside, hand pressed to his earpiece.

He stood there, and after a few moments, he stepped to the sidelines.

”Oh no. This match has had so many twists and turns, but now, we have VAR checking what went on in the box, leading up to the goal.” Jim Beglin’s voice tightened, subdued now.

The Kop turned, venom pouring from its lungs.

Insults rained down, chants spat with fury.

Still, the referee waited, hands on his hips, his gaze fixed on the small screen as replays spun in the booth.

He lingered there, the seconds stretching, the whole of Anfield suspended in limbo.

And then, at last, he stepped back onto the grass.

He drew the rectangle with his fingers.

The VAR sign.

Gasps spread, cheers and jeers blending into a single storm of noise.

The referee’s whistle cut through the Anfield roar like a blade.

He wasn’t pointing back to the centre circle.

No, his arm swung the other way.

He had seen enough.

It was a foul, and it was Arsenal’s free-kick.

For a fraction of a second, there was stunned silence, then the stadium split into two worlds.

The Kop erupted into sheer fury, their voices climbing over one another until the noise became a wall of rage.

”Well, Anfield believes they have their lead, but the referee does not! He has chalked it off, and Arsenal... Arsenal have just been handed a reprieve!”

On the pitch, the referee jogged back into the box, a yellow card already in his hand.

He lifted it high above his head, flashing it towards Ibrahima Konaté.

The Frenchman immediately feigned innocence, his arms spread wide, mouth moving quickly as if shocked at the accusation.

But the replay already told its tale: the elbow across Izan’s cheek, the moment that had left the teenager crumpled in pain.

As Konaté raged, Izan was slowly pulled to his feet by two members of the medical staff, his arm draped across their shoulders.

His cheeks were still damp, the water he’d used to rinse blood from his mouth streaking down onto the grass.

Timber remained by his side until the medics waved him off.

The travelling fans, on the other hand, erupted in cheers, thenroars of relief and defiance spilling from the thousands of Arsenal supporters.

The scoreboard flickered, Liverpool’s ”3–2” suddenly snapping back to ”2–2,” a sight that drew another surge of cheers from the travelling contingent.

And yet, for Arsenal, there was little time to breathe.

The fourth official was already at the edge of the pitch, board raised.

In harsh red lights, it read: 8, and in glowing green: 15.

Martin Ødegaard was going off, and serving as a replacement was Jakub Kiwior, who already stood by the touchline.

The captain turned instinctively, already tugging at the armband around his sleeve as he glanced back towards the dugout.

”And here it is... Arsenal’s signal of intent. Martin Ødegaard makes way, and Kiwior is coming on. This, you feel, is Mikel Arteta shutting the shop. They’ve clawed themselves level, they’ve suffered and survived, and now, it may be about seeing this game out.”

Ødegaard jogged towards the touchline, but before he could cross over, he slowed.

Izan was just off the pitch, sitting upright now, spitting out the last of the water he’d used to clean his mouth.

The Norwegian walked straight to him, armband in hand, crouching for a moment.

Izan raised his head, eyes still sharp despite the bruise forming along his cheekbone.

Ødegaard slowed at the sight of Izan, his breath heavy but his face warm with a knowing smile.

He reached down and fully removed the armband, eyes on the medics, who had just finished wiping the last streak of red from Izan’s cheek.

Then the captain crouched, extending the armband.

”I think,” Ødegaard said, voice low but steady, ”this belongs here now.”

Izan blinked, half surprised, half aware.

He rose gingerly to his feet with the help of a medic.

Ødegaard guided his arm through, slipping the band around his bicep with a firm tug.

Out on the pitch, Bukayo Saka stood watching.

His hands rested on his hips, his chest heaving, but his eyes never left Izan.

When Izan finally looked his way, Saka gave the faintest of nods, approval, maybe even relief—as if silently saying: you wear it now.

Izan’s lips curved into the smallest of smirks, nodding at the winger before turning back to the Norwegian in front of him.

Ødegaard straightened, the faintest laugh leaving his throat.

”Remember what you said,” he reminded him, tapping Izan’s shoulder.

”Not even to draw. To win it.”