God Of football

Chapter 866: Second Death.

”Chelsea to restart now,” the commentator said, voice steady but carrying the tension that had built since Izan’s goal as Liam Delap rolled the ball backwards from the centre circle, the noise still thick around the MetLife.

You could hear the chants echoing from both ends, blue and red clashing in sync, as Joao Pedro dropped deep to collect.

Chelsea weren’t wasting time.

Pedro took one quick touch, then spread the ball diagonally toward the left, finding Nkunku hugging the sideline before the Arsenal structure could fall into place.

The Frenchman’s first control was perfect, drawing a small roar from the Chelsea end as he turned sharply towards his opponents.

”There’s Nkunku now,” the co-commentator said, the hum in his tone rising.

”He hasn’t been as active in the past 15 minutes like he was at the start of the game, but maybe we can see something here.”

Nkunku dipped his shoulder, testing White once and again, and then drove inward.

The crowd reacted instantly, the volume lifting with every step he took toward the box.

”Go on, Nkunku!” someone shouted from the stands, voice lost in the growing wave of noise.

He slipped past one challenge, White’s outstretched leg grazing the ball but not enough to stop him, and then twisted around another as Saliba came in to cover.

For a split second, space opened up for a shot as Raya came into view for the Frenchman.

The Chelsea fans leapt from their seats, already sensing danger.

But just before he could get his shot away, a blur of red came sliding across his line.

Gabriel’s block was clean and powerful, sending the ball spinning free toward the edge of the area.

”Big tackle from Gabriel!” came the call from the broadcast booth.

”Chelsea thought they had something there.”

Declan Rice was the first to react, striding toward the loose ball, ready to clear it upfield.

But Cole Palmer, quick and clever, stepped across him, his body wedging between Rice and the ball.

The contact was soft but enough to send both off balance.

The referee’s whistle followed almost instantly.

”Free kick,” the commentator confirmed.

”Chelsea have a chance here, just outside the box. Palmer using all his guile there, and Rice doesn’t seem to like it.”

Rice turned, arms slightly out, voice raised as he walked toward the referee.

”He’s done that on purpose, ref! Every time, he’s not even going for the ball!”

His tone wasn’t angry, more exasperated, but the referee had already made up his mind.

He gestured once toward the spot of the foul and then pointed back toward the wall that was supposed to be formed.

Izan jogged back from midfield, glancing briefly at Rice as he passed.

”Forget it, Dec,” he said, calm but focused. ”Let’s just get set.”

Palmer and Enzo Fernández stood over the ball, heads close together, talking quickly as the crowd behind the goal rose to their feet, already fantasising about what they could be from the free kick.

”Interesting setup here,” the co-commentator murmured.

”Palmer’s shaping like he might go over the wall, but Enzo’s got that short run-up. Arsenal have everyone back.”

The referee knelt briefly, adjusted the ball with one hand, then blew his whistle and backed away.

Palmer and Enzo exchanged one last look as Enzo stepped aside, but then Palmer moved before the routine could be finished.

He went for placement rather than power, lifting the ball delicately over the shorter side of the wall, where Ødegaard had ducked slightly, trying to avoid blocking his keeper’s view.

The ball dipped fast, curling toward the near post, where the crowd behind the goal roared because a blue shirt zoomed towards the ball.

”Delap’s in!” the commentator shouted as Liam Delap darted into the box, having peeled off Calafiori.

He swung a leg at it, connecting with a firm volley that seemed destined for the roof of the net, but Raya was there.

The Spaniard read it perfectly, diving to his left and pushing the ball out with his fingertips.

It skipped across the wet turf, spinning toward the opposite flank, sending the numbers chasing again.

”Raya keeps it out! Massive save from the Arsenal keeper!”

Calafiori didn’t wait for it to settle.

He darted across, reached it before Nkunku could, and drove it out for a throw-in, just to be sure.

The Chelsea end groaned a bit, irked that their team hadn’t been able to level it, but what they were seeing were already positive against a team that had been battering most like Arsenal, so they rallied further behind their men.

”What a save,” the co-commentator said, exhaling. ”That’s world-class. Delap couldn’t have struck that any cleaner, and Raya still manages to react.”

The camera panned toward Gusto, jogging over to take the throw-in, rallying the fans more in the process.

He grabbed the ball off a nearby ball boy, rolling it between his hands as he looked toward the touchline, waiting for movement ahead of him.

In the background, the blue section of the crowd was already picking up a chant, trying to will their team on.

Arsenal’s fans answered with one of their own, voices clashing and blending under the New Jersey night sky.

”Still 1–0 to Arsenal,” the lead commentator said, his tone steadying.

”But Chelsea showing they’re not going quietly. They’ve got the quality to turn this around, and they’re knocking hard already.”

As Gusto lifted the ball above his head, ready to hurl it down the right flank, the camera zoomed in briefly on Izan standing in midfield, watching, mouth slightly open as he barked an order toward his back line.

The throw came long from Gusto, bending high into the box.

It hung there, twisting under the lights, and for a split second, David Raya hesitated, one step forward, one step back, unsure if to claim it or hold.

And that half-second was enough hesitation for Levi Colwill, who rose above everyone, powering a header through the crowd, but his effort, unluckily, smacked off the side of Calafiori’s head, looping awkwardly toward the corner flag.

Another Chelsea throw or corner it seemed as the crowd behind the goal lifted their voices.

But Izan wasn’t having it.

He darted after the ball, body low, legs pumping.

His studs caught the turf just in time for a desperate slide, the sound of boots scraping grass echoing faintly beneath the noise.

Somehow, he hooked it back before it crossed the line.

”Brilliant recovery from Izan!” the commentator shouted over the hum of anticipation, his tone rising with the tempo.

João Pedro, who had also moved after Izan, was already closing him down, fast and lean, his eyes locked on the ball.

Izan, who had already spotted the former, turned to face the incoming threat as the Brazilian lunged, stretching out to block, but Izan scooped the ball delicately over his challenge, the flick smooth and confident.

Gasps rippled through the stands at the move by Izan, as Joao Pedro, because of the slick grass, slid further towards the adboard.

Izan, on the other hand, was up in an instant, dust flying from his boots as he steadied the ball under further pressure.

On his right, Declan Rice was calling for it just inside, gesturing with his hand.

Izan saw him and slid a pass his way, short, clean, perfectly weighted, before moving sharply again.

Rice, making up his mind before the ball came, didn’t linger on it and moved into the touch, sending it back toward the flank before any of the players positioned around him could pressure for the ball.

The movement was so smooth that the Chelsea players took a moment to realise where the ball was.

And where the ball was, Izan was too, again and already in stride.

The ball met his feet as though drawn there, and with space in front of him, he took off down the left.

The crowd reacted immediately, their voices rising higher and higher as if they were trying to will Izan forward with every chant they conjured.

And as if it had an effect, Izan’s stride lengthened while his shoulder dropped, and suddenly Arsenal were in motion, streaking up the pitch with intent.

From what had been a half-chance for Chelsea, it turned, just like that, into an Arsenal counter.

The noise followed him, thick and rolling, as the red shirts surged forward.

But for a moment, it was just Izan and the ball.

And then, he switched it out further wide, a trivela, switching the ball to the other side of the pitch, where the ball rolled loosely until Saka, rejuvenated, swooped in and scooped up the ball like a falcon does its target.

”Bukayo, with the wind behind him goes past another,” the commentary came as Saka neared the byline, where Havertz, onside but now ahead of the Chelsea defensive line called for the ball, and so Saka heeded, slipping the ball into the box, but his pass went behind the Chelsea defensive line, and appearing there was Izan, leg’s poised and leaning forward like a harpoon and came like it too.

”IZZAAAAANNNN!!!!!!”

The commentary roared, but the ball was in the back of the net before they could finish.