God Of football

Chapter 856: Light Work.

Four days later, the lights over the Camping World Stadium burned like molten stars.

The air had weight to it, something that was well represented in the quarter finals or the last eight of any sports.

Red and white flags rippled along one half of the crowd, green and maroon along the other, the sound of both sets of supporters building and breaking like the tide.

This wasn’t just another game; it was a collision of stories, Arsenal, ruthless and reborn, against the dreamers from Rio who’d danced their way into history.

The camera panned across the Arsenal lineup, catching the faces of players in their final warm-ups.

Izan stood near the halfway line, his eyes fixed on the far stand as he adjusted the body tube and sleeves beneath his shirt.

You could almost see his pulse in his jawline, the same quiet fire from Wembley, from Madrid, from Munich, from every stage he’d been told was too big.

”Kickoff is seconds away here, once again in the Camping World Stadium,” the commentator’s voice hummed through millions of screens.

”Arsenal in red and white, Fluminense in their traditional stripes... this is it, the Quarter Finals of the Club World Cup.”

When the whistle blew, Arsenal sprinted into rhythm.

From the first pass, it felt like they were playing on instinct, each movement synchronised, the ball spinning through midfield like a magnetised current.

Izan, once again on the right, hugged the touchline.

The first few minutes were a duel between him and Thiago Silva, the defensive veteran, trying to cage him in.

But the 17-year-old phenom was no match for an ageing defensive legend.

Ten minutes in, it came.

A misjudged touch in midfield saw Rice snapping in to recover, and in that moment, Izan was off.

With a burst of pace, he went past the left back, Juan Freytes, the crowd fracturing into disbelief.

”Oh, he is away again,” the commentators croaked as the ball fell into Izan’s stride.

As the ball settled beneath his feet, he didn’t even look up before sliding a low cross across goal, and there was Jesus, deprived a bit of game time, ghosting between two defenders, tapping it home.

”And Arsenal strike first! Gabriel Jesus with the finish, but the credit belongs to the teenager again, Izan, electric on that right flank!”

The celebration was restrained, a fist bump between the two and then a few nods to the bench as the rest of the players on the field approached the two men who had combined to draw first blood for their team.

Arsenal 1, Fluminense 0.

Once the game restarted, Fluminense tried to respond, their passing and movements on the pitch falling in sync, their crowd still singing.

But every attempt to build was met by that same pressing wall, that same sense that Arsenal were a second ahead in thought and movement.

And then, twenty-five minutes in, came the moment that broke them.

Odegaard picked the ball deep, waited for Izan to make his move, and when he did, the pass was perfection.

Izan took it in stride, shoulders dropping, defenders collapsing on him, before shaping to shoot.

”Not again,” Thiago Silva uttered as he lunged to block the shot from Izan, but what came was a cut back instead, drawing two men away before rolling it into the path of Martinelli, arriving like thunder, before smashing the ball into the back of the net with his left, the same place the keeper stood.

The Arsenal crowd roared, cheering at the attacking display their team were putting on for a team that had been known to be playing unattractive football a year ago.

Before they got that demon of a player.

”Two-nil!”the commentators called.

”Arsenal slicing through again, Martinelli with the finish, but Izan’s composure there... my word, he’s playing this like he’s done it for ten years! What a sight this kid is.”

The camera caught Izan in the aftermath, smiling faintly as he jogged back.

There was no over-celebration, just quiet satisfaction.

Behind him, the Arsenal fans were losing themselves completely, the flares in the away section glowing red in the night.

By the half-hour mark, it wasn’t just domination. It was artistry.

Every touch, every press, every switch of play looked like the end for Fluminense’s midfield, which looked dazed, like they’d been dropped into a current they couldn’t swim against.

Then came the third, the one that felt inevitable.

It started from the back, with Raya clipping a pass to Saliba, who fed it into Mikel Merino, who, with a quick turn, found an outlet in Izan.

And again, the young winger didn’t rush it;he slowed down, inviting pressure, luring Fluminense out of their shape.

Then, with a defence-splitting pass, he sent the ball to Martinelli, who was already on the go down the left flank, with the Brazilian cutting inside, and going for the shot, which was saved by the Fluminense keeper, but the latter couldn’t stop the follow-up by Mikel Merino on the overlap.

3–0.

And the stadium roared, not just the Arsenal half, but neutrals too.

They too knew brilliance when they saw it, even if they weren’t avid fans of the game they were watching.

”Three for Arsenal! Mikel Merino finishes it, Odegaard’s touch divine, and Izan once again the spark that started it all! What a performance from the Gunners, this is football of the highest order!”

Down on the pitch, Fluminense players stood scattered, hands on their hips, unable to piece together what had just hit them.

Arsenal were relentless, not arrogant, not reckless, but in total control.

The half wound down with Arsenal still moving the ball, almost teasingly now.

The Brazilian fans tried to lift their team, chanting louder, but it sounded distant, like something happening on another planet.

When the whistle finally came, the scoreboard read Arsenal 3 – 0 Fluminense.

The commentary resumed, steady but almost sympathetic.

”And that’s the half here in Orlando. Fluminense came into the game off an exceptional victory against Inter, but 45 minutes later, it’s Arsenal three goals to the good, and unless something extraordinary happens, Fluminense’s fairy tale might just be reaching its final Chapter.”

As the camera cut to Izan walking down the tunnel, the commentary softened, the tone shifting from analysis to awe.

”Izan, two assists, a pre-assist for the third, and a first half that’s been nothing short of sensational. This young man is making football look effortless, and I am here for it.”

”You can talk about tactics, about systems, but sometimes it’s just about a player who sees the game differently. Arsenal have one of those tonight.”

The crowd stayed on its feet, some clapping, others shaking their heads in disbelief as the last of the Arsenal and Fluminense players entered the tunnel.

...

The stadium noise throbbed above them, but inside Arsenal’s dressing room, it was calm.

”Settle down, lads,” Arteta said as he took a piece of board from Cuesta.

”Lovely first half display, guys. We are almost in the Semi-Finals. It’s ours to lose from here on out, so let’s not, okay?” he said, causing the players to chuckle.

Away from them and inside the Fluminense dressing room, the contrast was stark.

Renato Portaluppi stood in front of his players, his hands on his hips, gaze sweeping slowly from one exhausted face to another.

Sweat still clung to their necks, their chests still heaving.

He tilted his head slightly, half a wry smile on his lips.

”Don’t give me that look,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

”You think it’s over already? You think three goals in forty-five minutes means you stop believing? If they can do it, why can’t we?”

No one looked up.

Some players stared at the floor, others at the wall, their thoughts miles away.

Renato took a step forward, sighing softly.

”Forty-five minutes,” he repeated, slower this time, almost like a whisper.

”That’s a long time in football. Too long to give up. Too long to feel sorry for yourselves.”

He dragged a small stool from the corner, the legs scraping against the floor, and sat down, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the room.

”You’ve seen what they can do,” he said.

”We are fighting a losing battle, and yes, they’re ahead. Three goals. But that’s exactly why they’ll ease off. They’ll think it’s done. They’ll think about their semifinal already.”

He leaned back slightly, glancing around, making sure every player was listening.

”And when they do,” he continued, voice quiet but sharp, ”that’s when we play our game. That’s when we run harder, hit sharper, think quicker. That’s where our triumph is hiding, in the moments they think don’t matter anymore.”

Renato exhaled, the faintest hint of relief crossing his face as he saw his players nod.

He stood again, brushing his hands together as if dusting something off.

”Arsenal are good,” he said, looking toward the door, ”but they’re not untouchable. No team is. They’ll make changes to rest legs to save energy for the Semi-Final, which they think they’ve already qualified for, but we don’t need that. We will kill ourselves for the trophy if we have to.”

Renato turned toward the door, his voice low but cutting through the noise as he spoke one last time.

”Three goals or not, gentlemen, the story isn’t theirs yet.”