God Of football

Chapter 916: Not Many Can Do.

The Yokohama trainers jogged onto the pitch with their bags, kneeling next to Inoue while Timber stood a few steps back, waiting to see if the winger would sit up.

The crowd murmured in different pockets, some unsure and some just waiting for the replay.

On the broadcast, the analyst chimed in before the slow-motion even rolled.

”That looked clean to me. Timber reads the move early. There’s contact after the ball’s gone, but that’s just momentum. Nothing malicious in it.”

The replay reached the stadium screens, and the first reaction came from the away section, half a groan, half a sigh of relief when Timber’s touch on the ball showed clear as daylight.

”That’s as clean as you’ll see,” the commentator said. ”No foul there. Unfortunate for Inoue if he’s taken a knock.”

Saka jogged over to Timber, lowering his voice.

”You didn’t touch him, right?”

”Not before the ball. Maybe after, but barely.”

Timber kept his eyes on the trainers working.

”Alright,” Saka said. ”Looks like he twisted something.”

On the pitch, Inoue finally let the medics help him sit up.

He pressed his lips together, trying not to show too much pain, and Timber crouched down beside him.

”You good? Didn’t mean anything by it,” he said.

Inoue nodded once, even though he couldn’t understand what Timber was saying, but he could feel the concern.

Still breathing through whatever sting he’d picked up, he gave a small gesture that he’d try standing.

The referee hovered nearby, keeping order as the fans steadied again, waiting to see if Yokohama’s winger would continue, and he did, as the medics finally stepped off the pitch, their bags tucked back over their shoulders, and the fourth official signalled for play to resume.

Near the technical area, Hideo Oshima let out a slow sigh.

As the two medics approached, he leaned toward them.

”What’s he saying?”

One of them wiped the sweat off his forehead.

”Nothing serious from what we can tell. Pain from the impact, maybe a twist. Hard to be certain without a proper check after the match.”

”Could be something deeper?” Oshima asked, keeping his voice even.

”It’s possible,” the other medic said.

”Right now, he can move fine. He said he wants to keep playing, so we’ll monitor him.”

Oshima nodded. ”Alright. Keep an eye on him. If anything changes, let me know.”

They stepped away, and he shifted his focus back to the pitch just as Suzuki picked up the ball on the touchline.

The crowd was still settling after the stoppage, a mix of applause for Inoue standing again.

Suzuki looked down the line, checked the runs ahead of him, and tossed the ball back into play as it came off his hands smoothly, floating into midfield with purpose rather than desperation.

A few minutes after the game resumed, the commentary cut through the low hum in the stadium again.

”Every player wants to stay on the pitch, but sometimes the body has the final say. Unfortunately, he can’t continue.”

The cameras almost followed the words as the lens drifted toward the far touchline, where Kenta Inoue was walking off, boots dragging just a little, shoulders set in that familiar mix of disappointment and acceptance.

The crowd picked up on it and began to clap, a warm wave rolling down from the upper tier to the pitch.

”He’s been checked and cleared of anything serious,” the commentator added, ”but it looks like he isn’t in a condition to keep going. He tried to walk it off, but the staff have decided to pull him off after monitoring for a while.”

Inoue gave a small bow toward the stands as he reached the sideline, then disappeared behind the bench area.

Standing beside the fourth official was Shuu Takeda, already stripped and ready, his face calm but focused.

On screen, his name flashed next to the substitution graphic.

”Yokohama fans shouldn’t be too worried, though,” the co-commentator said.

”Shuu Takeda is coming on. Bit of a surprise that he didn’t start today, but he gets his chance from the eighteenth minute.”

Takeda stepped onto the field and walked straight to Takuya Kida.

There, he handed the small folded note to his captain.

Kida opened it, scanned it, and nodded once towards the touchline before tucking it into his socks.

Takeda turned afterwards and then jogged down the flank, settling into the space Inoue had just left behind.

After the match got back on, Yokohama finally found a stretch of possession after being played through for the past minutes.

”First real spell on the ball for them in a while. Aziangbe sees Takeda free here on the left.”

Shuu took his first touch with a coolness that made the crowd murmur.

He shaped his body like he planned to ride the touchline, shoulders open, stride measured, but then he switched everything at the last moment.

He nudged the ball inside with a quick flick of his instep, slipping past Zubimendi before the midfielder even reacted.

One stride later, Takeda directed a low pass back toward the lane he had just abandoned.

Timber had started shifting inwards, expecting the play to fold through the middle.

But that one touch flipped the rhythm.

Suzuki burst into view like he had been waiting on that exact cue, racing behind Timber and meeting the pass on the run as the stadium noise sharpened into something closer to anticipation.

Suzuki whipped an early ball across the goal.

It carried pace and dip, forcing Raya to track it a little longer than he liked.

”Dangerous ball. Raya’s got to deal with this,” the commentators said eagerly, and he did.

Raya stepped forward decisively and gathered it cleanly, but that wasn’t it.

He didn’t pause.

He spun and launched the ball straight into midfield as if the pitch was tilted downhill in Arsenal’s favour, where Rice met it first, cushioning it toward Izan.

The latter’s first touch drew one Yokohama shirt toward him, then another, then the third, who thought he had him boxed.

He slipped through them all with a tight shift to his left, his stride lengthening only when he felt the space open.

Martinelli recognised it instantly and drifted inside, pulling a defender out of the lane like a door being opened for him.

The crowd rose, not suddenly, but little by little, like something pulling them to their feet inch by inch.

Izan clipped the ball backwards with the outside of his foot, a little gesture that didn’t feel showy.

Then he leaned over the ball and struck through it with full conviction.

His body snapped into perfect balance, shoulders square, eyes locked, the sound of his boot meeting the ball cutting through the whole stadium.

And the ball took off like it had been hit by someone who knew exactly what he wanted out of it.

”Hold on. This is moving fast!”

The ball kept rising, then dipped sharply, cutting through the air with a sting that made the entire stadium rise in a single motion.

”Keeper’s in trouble here. He’s in real trouble!”

The players around the box froze for a second, each one turning into a spectator.

Every Yokohama defender half-stepped and stopped, waiting on their goalkeeper like people waiting on a door to open.

The keeper took three hard steps across the goal and then launched himself full stretch, both arms out, fingertips reaching for a ball that refused to give him even a hint of mercy.

But he didn’t get close.

The ball smashed into the back of the net with a sound that didn’t fade.

It echoed, rolled, and then burst into the roar of tens of thousands of voices reacting all at once, and the commentary barely kept up.

”Staggering. Ruthless and Clinical. Not many would have the guts to try what he just did, but he just did it. At the peak of his powers, this is what the boy from Valencia can do!”

The crowd didn’t settle even after the ball rolled out of the net.

It kept rising, wave after wave, some fans grabbing their heads, others jumping before they even processed what they had seen, while Izan just jogged toward the corner flag with the same calm he had shown tracking through midfield.

His hands lifted slowly into the air, palms open, as if he was acknowledging the noise rather than asking for more.

And then his head dipped once.

Then again, the stadium kept roaring behind him.