God Of football

Chapter 853: Work Of Izan.

The whistle of the referee sliced faintly through the tension, and the players drifted toward their halves.

Up in the booth, the commentator took one last breath before the noise swallowed him again.

”So here we go,” he said.

”The Round of 16. Arsenal. Manchester City. The kind of fixture that never needs an introduction, not in England, and not anywhere. But maybe in the US, for the first timers who have chosen to swap the hoops for goal posts.”

The camera closed in on Izan for half a second, and then panned across to Nwaneri, still rolling his shoulders loose.

The crowd swelled one last time, a tide rising in red and blue, as the referee looked once at his watch and raised the whistle to his lips.

The noise hit its peak, and the screen hung for a heartbeat on the two teams frozen in motion, suspended at the edge of something inevitable.

And then, Haaland passed the ball back, starting the game.

From the moment the whistle split the night air, Arsenal played like they’d been waiting months for this.

The tempo was violent, alive, almost impatient, and at the centre of it all, and was it never, was Izan, stationed wide right, where Saka would’ve been.

Only this was something else entirely.

In the opening minute, he took his first touch under pressure, after Arsenal won the ball back, with Gvardiol closing in, fast, confident, and then, just as the Croatian leaned forward, Izan dropped his shoulder, nudged the ball past, and exploded away.

The crowd gasped before the cameras even caught up.

His acceleration wasn’t just quick; it was cruel.

Gvardiol gave chase, realised it was pointless, and checked his run as Izan whipped in a low cross that skidded through the box, begging for a touch, but the only one it got was Ait Nouri’s boot, to send the ball out of play as City regrouped from Arsenal’s throw, passing in their usual triangles, probing the lines.

But their rhythm felt stifled, like they were running uphill.

Arsenal pressed in waves, even without their squad at full strength, Odegaard snapping at ankles, Rice covering like a shadow, and Izan always lurking on the edge, waiting to turn defence into chaos.

By the fifth minute, he had the crowd buzzing again.

Reijnders tried to double up with Gundogan, but Izan feinted inside, then slashed down the line, flicking the ball between them like it was nothing.

The move ended with him cutting across the box and curling a shot from twenty-five yards, forcing Ederson into a full-stretch save, the Brazilian tipping it over with the edge of his glove.

”Izan again!” the commentator barked over the replay. ”He’s tearing up that flank. City can’t live with him!”

You could see it too, in Guardiola’s face, the arms folded tighter than usual, in Reijnders glancing at the bench for help, in the restless shouts from Ruben Dias trying to reorganise the line.

Arsenal weren’t just attacking, they were suffocating City.

Calafiori and Martinelli pinned the opposite side, forcing the blue shirts deep, while Havertz and Nwaneri interchanged any chance they could get, with both drifting between lines and drawing markers out of shape.

The ball moved fast, crisp, precise and for once, Pep’s men were the ones chasing shadows.

Then came a reminder of what they could still do.

Around the twelfth minute, Rodri intercepted a loose pass from Nwaneri, lifted his head, and spotted Haaland making that terrifying diagonal run.

The pass, perfectly weighted and timed, sliced through the middle like a knife.

Haaland, the subject of attack, muscled between Calafiori and Gabriel, shrugged the latter off, and hit it early, just as it settled at his feet, but his effort whistled past the post, maybe an inch wide, as the Arsenal fans, who had been enjoying the early attacking display by their team, exhaled.

”And that’s all it takes, isn’t it?” the co-commentator said, voice edged with laughter.

”Arsenal are the ones at the helm of this game, but switch off for a second, and players like Haaland are going to remind you you’re still in danger.”

Raya jogged across his line, clapped his gloves together once, and bent to collect a ball from the boy behind the goal.

He straightened, scanning the field, where Rice was signalling for it near the halfway, head high.

A quarter of an hour gone, that’s what the commentator said, though it hardly felt like it.

The match had been both fast and slow, as if every minute stretched and folded into itself.

Raya took a step back, scanned the pitch, and sent his boot through the ball.

It cut through the air and dropped into the centre circle, where bodies collided, elbows, shoulders, shouts, all legal, until someone drops to the floor.

City, with their five against Arsenal’s three, managed to muscle through as Reijnders nudged a short pass into Gundogan’s path, and suddenly, blue shirts were flowing forward.

The tempo returned, one touch, another, then a third, like a line of dominoes tipping in perfect sync.

”City settling now,” the voice from the gantry murmured. ”They’re starting to move it, starting to find the gears they’ve been missing since the start of the game.”

The passes grew crisper as Bernardo dropped deep, dragging Rice out for half a second before slipping it sideways to Rodri.

The Spaniard didn’t need to look.

He already knew where he was sending the ball.

The Spaniard with a singular touch poked it to Aït-Nouri, who was peeling wide, before gesturing towards Reijnders on the far end to stretch their opponent’s setup.

The full-back took it in stride and shaped to swing a switch toward the opposite flank.

But just as the ball left his boot, something flickered in the periphery, a blur of red cutting through the passing lane.

And it was always going to be Izan, a player who loved to spur onto the opponent and win the ball.

He leapt, body twisting midair, cushioning the ball down with the inside of his leg as if gravity answered to him.

It was audacious, and that was just three words.

The ball dropped neatly at his feet; as the City midfield began collapsing, but his next thought of action saw him smack the ball back toward Rice before he spun on his heels, already bursting into space again.

”Brilliant read from the youngster!” the commentator’s voice rose, sharp and alive now.

”And Arsenal might be in here—Rice has spotted the run—”

The camera followed the ball leaving Rice’s boot, arcing forward into open grass, and the roar of anticipation began to swell once more.

The ball split through the middle third like it had somewhere urgent to be, skipping across the turf and drawing Izan into a sprint that made the crowd rise instinctively.

He was gone in an instant.

Gvardiol lunged, yet caught nothing but air; Reijnders tried to close the gap, yet every stride Izan took seemed to stretch the field wider, as if the pitch itself was tilting to help its master.

The roar from the stands rolled forward, trying to comprehend the superhuman pace on display.

”He’s away again! Izan, look at the pace!” came the commentator, his voice cracking with the surge of the moment.

The City defenders backpedalled, panic flashing in their eyes as Izan’s boots drummed against the grass.

He ghosted past Gundogan, skipped inside a desperate lunge from Dias, and then there was nothing between him and Ederson but open green.

For a heartbeat, time slowed at least to the watchful eyes from the stands.

Izan shifted his weight left, opening his body like he was about to curl one to the far post.

Ederson read it and dropped low, hands twitching, knees ready to spring.

But the shot never came, at least, not the one he expected.

With a quick flick of his other foot, Izan stabbed the ball forward instead, sliding it neatly through Ederson’s legs.

The Brazilian froze, eyes widening as the ball slipped under him, rolling calmly and steadily before agonizingly rolling towards the net.

A single, stunned second passed before the stadium erupted, without the ball even passing the goal line, because there was no way Ederson was getting to it.

”OH, WOULD YOU BELIEVE THAT!” the commentator roared, his voice swallowed by the rising chaos, before answering himself, ”YES, I CAN! BECAUSE IT IS NONE OTHER THAN THE BOY ON TOP OF THE WORLD”

”THAT IS ABSOLUTELY MAGICAL!”

The Arsenal bench burst to their feet, hands in the air, players spilling toward the touchline while Arteta turned, his lips breaking into a grin he couldn’t hold back.

Behind the goal, red shirts in the stands were already jumping, scarves swirling, noise shaking the Florida night.

Ederson could only glance back, helpless, watching the ball nestle softly into the netting, a perfect, cruel little finish.

And as Izan slowed his run, arms spread wide and hair whipping in the wind, the cameras caught his smirk before his teammates engulfed him in a wall of cheers and flying arms.