God Of football

Chapter 939: Can I Get A Goal?

”He’s gone for it!”

The commentary barely had time to breathe before the roar in the stadium surged.

The ball tore through the air with a pace that made it look alive.

It skimmed past shirts and legs, rising and dipping with a strange, violent grace, and for a moment, it looked destined for the back of the net, lik2-0e it would burn straight through the goal.

”Oh, that is a go-!” Drury went ahead as Vicario reacted a fraction late, as if he hadn’t believed Izan would even try it.

Then by some sheer force of instinct, he dragged himself upward and threw himself across the line, stretching every inch of his frame.

His fingertips caught the ball at the last possible moment, nudging it onto the underside of the bar with a sound that echoed like a struck drum.

Gasps burst from every corner of the ground as a few Arsenal fans had already thrown their arms up, only to freeze mid-celebration.

”That is an astonishing save,” Beglin managed, almost tripping over his own words.

The ball bounced straight back into danger as bodies reacted to the ball, but Gyokeres reacted before anyone else, pouncing with a striker’s hunger.

He leaned into it as he struck, powering a shot from barely six yards out.

The Arsenal end surged to its feet again, a whole section ready to explode.

”Gyokeres! Surely!” Drury came through, but Vicario somehow recovered.

He twisted on the ground, planted a foot, and sprang into the second effort with a desperation that made the moment blur.

His palms snapped the shot upward, killing its speed and popping it into the air before a player in navy shorts and a white shirt hooked it clear.

The noise that followed was split between disbelief and pure, electrified tension.

”A double save of outrageous quality! Vicario singlehandedly, keeping Tottenham alive!”

The camera cut straight to Izan, who slowed to a jog with a crooked smile.

His tongue stuck out slightly while he kept nodding to himself.

Saka darted after the cleared ball, already reaching down to scoop it up for the throw.

His movements were quick, sharp, as if the near goal had poured fresh urgency into his veins.

”Bukayo!” Timber called from the left as Saka held the ball over his head, and with the latter heeding and tossing the ball to Timber, who in turn sent it back to Saliba.

Tottenham reacted as if the double save had been a wake-up call.

Their line surged forward in one sharp movement, voices rising over each other as they hunted in packs.

”Up! Up!” Romero barked.

”Show him inside!”

”Press the ball!”

Boots clattered on the turf as they closed in while Arsenal tried to play through it, but touches felt a bit rushed on occasion.

Gabriel flicked it away under pressure, Rice took a single touch before shovelling it back to Saliba, and even he had to stab a pass into midfield before Kudus arrived at his shoulder.

”Man on! Man on!” Rice yelled as he dropped deep, barely clearing it to the flank when Bentancur lunged in.

Tottenham’s press snapped at Arsenal’s heels, before winning the ball, after Rice held onto it for too long.

”Tottenham suddenly have life in this fixture,” Drury noted as Kudus drove down the right, before cutting inside, but his run was short-lived after Zubimendi slid in, clipping him to the ground but ultimately winning the ball back as the Ghanaian winger waved towards the referee while on the ground.

The referee, though, just waved play on and through the chaos, Izan received a short pass near the halfway line.

The press didn’t reach him.

Not immediately.

Maybe it was instinct.

Maybe it was the way he cushioned the ball, how he let it settle before lifting his head.

A murmur moved across the Tottenham end, swelling into a chant, raw and harsh and full of edge.

Izan heard it.

Everyone did.

Then he slowly turned with the ball at his feet, facing the wave of white shirts forming in front of him.

He started walking.

Not jogging but walking.

The chant rose again from the Tottenham crowd, louder this time, and yet the Tottenham midfield hesitated.

Their step forward paused, and only moved after Van De Ven bellowed at them from behind.

”Don’t back off! Press him!” he shouted, voice cutting hard across the pitch.

But Izan had already shifted his weight.

His walk became a glide, and his glide became a jog.

He tightened his touches, rolling the ball under his sole with a softness that didn’t match the pace of his feet.

Stepovers flickered in quick succession, each one faster than the last as Pape Matar Sarr closed in, but it was too fast for the Senegalese, who was thrown one way while Izan went the other.

Izan tilted his body one way, then snapped the ball the other in a half-elastico that sent Romero momentarily the wrong direction.

A ripple went through the stands as Palhinha lunged, but his legs only brushed air.

By now, the entire end behind the goal was on its feet.

And the chant shifted into one clear, thunderous demand.

”Shoot!”

It rolled over him like a dare, and so he took it.

He pulled his left leg back, leaned over the ball, and struck it clean.

The sound was sharp, almost metallic, as the ball flew off his boot with a violent rise, bending just enough to stay inside the frame.

”A second time!!!!”

Vicario didn’t move until it was too late, and by the time he flung himself sideways, the ball had already ripped past his glove and into the top corner.

The Arsenal end broke open in a roar as red shirts scattered in celebration and Drury’s voice found the moment with breathless urgency.

”Oh, that is outrageous. He is a stone-cold killer with the ball at his feet. Izan has put the ball into the back of the net, with his second shot of the game, and there aren’t many in this game, past or present, that can boast about scoring a goal like that.”

Izan, the culprit, jogged toward the corner flag with a steady, almost casual pace, weaving past his teammates as they tried to grab him.

He raised a hand to wave them off, more amused than anything before he stopped near the flag, turned toward the Tottenham section, and pointed directly at them.

Then he stuck his tongue out, a small teasing flick, before lowering his hand.

The noise that followed was a mixture of fury, awe, and admiration, all tangled together in a stadium that had just been struck by something uncanny.

Saka caught up to him first, looping an arm around Izan’s neck and dragging him a step backwards before he could finish teasing the home crowd.

”What was that?” Saka said, half laughing, half scolding.

”Why’d you celebrate like that when you don’t usually join the banter?”

Izan shrugged, still catching his breath.

”I don’t know. Felt right in the moment. And we are playing against Tottenham, remember?”

Saka shook his head with a grin he couldn’t hide as Izan tried to free himself from the arm around his neck but failed.

”You’re going to get us all chased out of here. Anyway, set me up for the next one. I want mine too.”

Izan raised a brow. ”Your celebration?”

”Yeah. Let me have my turn.”

Saka nudged him with an elbow, still hanging an arm over his shoulder as they walked back toward the centre line.

A few metres away, Kevin Danso had stopped where he stood, watching them with a completely blank stare.

He had heard every word.

Saka asking for the next goal like he was ordering something off a menu, and Izan agreeing without the slightest sense of pressure, as well as the both of them strolling back into position as if they weren’t in the middle of a derby that also doubled as the European Super Cup final.

Danso blinked, stunned at how easily they treated the moment, how casually they joked and treated the scoreline and the game they were fighting to keep in it.

They looked like two friends messing about in a park, not players who had just punched Tottenham in the ribs.

”No, that is not happening. Not on my watch,” he muttered as he began walking into his defensive position.