God Of football

Chapter 905: They Already Know.

Arteta applauded from the sideline, his palms coming together in sharp, satisfied claps.

He said nothing, but the small smile on his face said enough.

Izan drifted forward into the central attacking space, settling behind Havertz as AC Milan rolled the ball from their box towards the kick-off spot.

He scanned the pitch once, shoulders relaxed, already thinking about the game after the restart.

The broadcast followed his movement immediately.

”Look at him,” one commentator said.

”He scores a goal like that, and the first thing he does is step higher. He wants the ball again. This is one of the things that makes him different. The hunger for the ball time and time again.”

”Izan operates like the game belongs to him,” the other replied. ”Milan cannot allow him this freedom.”

When Milan restarted the match, their midfield barely had time to exchange passes before Izan came storming in again.

He pressed with intent, not recklessly, just enough to push the Milan player toward the wrong foot.

The moment the touch came loose, Izan darted between the two midfielders, poked the ball cleanly away, and spun into space with a burst of energy that lifted a wave of cheers around the stadium.

”There he goes again,” the commentary said, almost laughing. ”He wins the ball and suddenly Arsenal are alive.”

He carried the ball up the pitch before shifting it quickly to his left, where Rice suddenly stepped forward to support him, expecting a one-two, but Izan looked wider and threaded a pass across the field to Martinelli, who was already sprinting down the wing.

The crowd rose again, sensing danger as Martinelli gathered the ball and shaped his body to deliver a driven cross into the box, but Malick Thiaw lunged in at the last second and blocked it out of play.

”Good idea from Martinelli,” a voice from the commentary said.

”And fantastic vision from Izan to even see that pass.”

Arsenal reset from the throw and kept the pressure on, but Milan could not find a moment to breathe.

The next attack came through the centre of the pitch, which was now also partly occupied by Zinchenko, who had now inverted, with the latter playing the ball into Rice, and Rice chipped the ball forward to Izan, who controlled it with a soft chest touch that brought a fresh stir of excitement from the fans.

He had a defender tight at his back, but rolled the ball to his right foot and shielded it neatly.

Two Milan players closed in, but Izan held steady, slipped away with a quick pivot, and then flicked a pass through the line for Havertz running off the shoulder.

Havertz took a stride toward the box and tried a low cutback, but Tomori intercepted it and cleared.

Still, the crowd clapped and whistled in appreciation.

It was not a goal, but they knew quality when they saw it, while the commentary, on the other hand, stayed animated.

”Milan forced to the back foot here and it is getting more and more dangerous for them,” one commentator said.

”I am not saying they should mark him, but they are affording him too much freedom even when Arsenal don’t have the ball”

”And Milan know it too,” the other continued.

”Look at how many shirts jump toward him the moment he opens his body.”

Arsenal recovered the clearance almost instantly, and the third wave began.

This time, the buildup moved down the right, where Ben White pushed forward and passed to Saka, who turned sharply past Davide Bartasaghi, rolling the ball under his foot before nudging it toward the inside channel, where Izan arrived at the perfect moment.

He dropped his weight, glided past the first midfielder with a slight shift of his hip, and then he snapped the ball between another pair of legs.

The stadium filled with delighted shouts and applause, a full reaction to the skill more than the progression itself.

”Listen to that,” the commentator said. ”They came here for football, and this is what they want to see.”

Izan continued his run, gaining speed as the defenders stumbled back.

He shaped his body like he might shoot again, and Terracciano adjusted himself in goal, while his defenders braced.

But instead of striking, Izan cut to his left, drawing a defender out of position before feinting another pass.

The moment he lifted his foot, a Milan player lunged from the side, clipping him at the ankle and sending him down to the turf, and the reaction was instant.

Fans leapt to their feet and roared at the foul on Izan, but it wasn’t for a card but rather a celebration of the foul itself because they already knew what it meant.

”That is a very dangerous place to foul him,” the commentator said as the referee jogged over.

”You cannot do that with Izan around. He scores from these situations like it is nothing.”

”It is almost always a goal when he stands over the ball,” the co-commentator added.

”And this one is right in his range, not that he has one, as demonstrated by his free-kick goals from impossible angles.”

The referee pointed to the ground, marking the spot while the Milan players complained, waving their hands, trying to argue that Izan had gone down easily, but the replay on the stadium screens showed the contact clearly.

A cheer went up when the replay froze on the moment his foot was clipped.

Izan sat up slowly, brushing pieces of grass from his arm before getting to his feet.

He did not yell or glare at anyone.

He just dusted himself off and walked calmly toward the ball as he always did, while the crowd watched every step.

”He’s not complaining. Not that he ever has,” the commentator whispered as if trying not to break the tension.

”He is completely unfazed by anything.”

All eyes settled on Izan as he reached the spot, placed the ball on the grass, and gave it a small tap to adjust the angle while the referee fiddled with the Milan wall.

The referee stepped back from the wall once he was satisfied with the spacing.

He took one last glance at the Milan players, then jogged away from the scene with quick, sharp strides.

Izan stood behind the ball, hands loose at his sides.

He took a slow breath before stepping back, counting his strides with small glances at the grass.

Then he looked up.

First at the wall.

Then at Terracciano.

Then, at the referee as the whistle rose toward his mouth.

The sound cut through the stadium, and everything else fell quiet.

Izan moved with a calm, controlled run-up as the crowd held its breath.

His right foot struck the ball cleanly, and the thump echoed just enough to be heard under the silence.

The ball leapt upward, spinning with that sharp curl that only comes when the technique is perfect.

It climbed above the wall, drifting from right to left, and even before it descended, a few fans behind the goal lifted their hands like they already knew what was coming.

When it finally smashed into the top corner, the stadium burst open.

GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL

Noise poured down from every level, shaking the seats while Izan was already turning, pushing off into a run toward the corner flag.

He slowed just enough to angle his legs, then slid on the grass with a smooth glide that carved a line behind him.

His arms spread wide, head slightly back, a grin breaking across his face as his teammates reached him a moment later.

Rice tackled him from the side in a playful burst of energy, Martinelli jumped on his back, and Havertz grabbed him around the shoulders while laughing.

Even the bench, though it was pre-season, was on its feet because the goal was one you celebrated even in training.

The commentators, on the other hand, hardly got the chance to finish their own reaction.

”That is outrageous,” one of them said, almost stumbling over the words as the replay flashed.

”He puts that in the top corner like he’s placing it on a shelf. No hesitation at all, and this is just one of the many things this boy can do and has become known for.”

”And he celebrates this one,” the other added.

”You can see how much he enjoyed that. You score a free kick like that, even in pre-season, you let yourself feel it.”

The Arsenal fans kept roaring long after the replay looped again, and Izan stayed in the huddle of teammates, pulled in from every angle, his smile refusing to fade.

On the touchline, Arteta turned towards Carlos Cuesta, who now had a wry expression on, before moving towards Arteta.

”I am going to need a player like Izan,” he said, causing Arteta to chuckle as the latter turned to look at the corner flag where the players were now returning from.

”I do not think you will find a player like Izan even if you search other novels!”

”What do you mean by that?” Carlos Cuesta asked, but Arteta just smiled knowingly before turning his attention back to the pitch.