God Of football

Chapter 952: Favourite Opponents.

Back at Old Trafford, the referee checked his watch as the players drifted into their last positions of the half before letting his whistle sound as the ball rolled toward midfield, the crowd settling for a moment.

”And that brings the first half to a close. Arsenal leads by three, and the story so far is impossible to ignore. Izan has lit up Old Trafford yet again, and this is getting detrimental for Manchester United by the minute.”

Arsenal walked off together, their shoulders relaxed, knowing the job was only half done.

Izan wiped his face with his shirt as he mixed with the other players heading down the tunnel.

United’s frustration lingered in the air behind them, but Arsenal barely glanced sideways.

The tunnel narrowed, sound bouncing off concrete as boots echoed forward.

A few stewards nodded them through, cameras catching brief flashes of faces before the squad disappeared into the away dressing room.

Inside, the players dropped into their seats, stretching out legs that had already done serious damage.

Arteta waited until everyone was in before stepping forward.

”Good,” he said finally, clapping his hands once. ”Very good.”

A few smiles crept in, but no one spoke.

”We stayed compact, and it is a very good materialisation of what we’ve worked so hard on,” he continued, his tone calm rather than animated.

”But listen to me. Nothing changes. Do not try to fix what isn’t broken.”

He let that sit.

”It looks like the job is already done, but as I always say, there is no certainty in football.”

Arteta took a step back, hands resting on his hips.

”If we keep doing what we’re doing, the game stays where it is.”

He nodded once, satisfied that his men had gotten his message and with that, he turned and left them to it, waving Gabriel Heinze over as the duo made their way out of the dressing room.

.....

The second half began with a sense that Arsenal were not done.

If anything, they returned sharper, quicker to every loose ball, more deliberate in how they moved United around.

The opening minutes passed quickly and intensely, but not the kind Old Trafford wanted.

Arsenal pressed in waves, not frantic, just precise, each run cutting off another option until United were forced to play where Arsenal wanted them to.

Commentary picked up on it quickly.

”Arsenal have come out exactly how you’d expect a champion to,” one voice said. ”No let-up, no easing off.”

The fourth goal felt inevitable long before it arrived.

It started with patience, Rice recycling possession under pressure before slipping the ball wide to Saka.

The winger took a touch to settle himself, lifted his head, and spotted Gyokeres already leaning toward the near post.

The cross was flat and fast, the kind defenders hate, and Gyokeres met it with force rather than finesse, driving it past Bayindir before the keeper could set his feet.

”There it is,” came the call from the broadcast.

”Gyokeres joins the party, and Arsenal are running riot at Old Trafford.”

The Arsenal fans in the stadium erupted at that, celebrating their team’s fourth of the night.

United barely had time to regroup before the damage worsened.

Five minutes later, Izan drifted into space between the lines, drawing two shirts toward him without ever looking rushed.

He slipped the ball into Saka’s path with a perfectly weighted pass, splitting the back line as if it had been sketched on paper, and Saka didn’t hesitate.

He slipped past Dorgu, pushing the ball into his weaker foot before guiding it past Bayindir.

”Five,” the commentator said, disbelief edging into his voice. ”Five for Arsenal, and this is getting more damaging by the second for Manchester United. They do not have a solution, and Amorim is livid.”

At that point, the game changed tone.

Arsenal eased into control mode, less about hunting another goal and more about denying United any sense of relief.

They dropped into shape when needed, pressed in short bursts, and kept the ball moving just quickly enough to drain the clock and the belief out of their opponents.

United, for their part, became cautious, almost conservative.

The ambition faded, replaced by damage limitation.

The crowd quieted into a low murmur, reacting only when Izan touched the ball, a mix of dread and reluctant admiration following his every move.

Each time he turned, players backed off, wary of being the next name on a highlight reel.

As the clock ticked past the seventy-minute mark, Arteta made his move.

Martinelli was withdrawn, and Madueke came on with fresh legs and clear intent.

Within minutes, he was involved, combining sharply with Izan down the left.

A quick one-two pulled United out of shape, and when Madueke tried to burst past his man, he was clipped just outside the box.

The whistle went, and almost immediately, a roar erupted from both sides, one making their feelings clear about the foul and the other, Arsenal fans embracing it because they knew what they were in for if anything Izan had shown before was to go by.

”This could be interesting,” the commentary noted. ”Izan over the ball. His first free kick of the season.”

He stood still, eyes fixed on the goal, barely acknowledging the wall being built in front of him, and when the whistle sounded, he moved.

The run-up was short.

The strike, though, was not.

The ball rose, dipped, and screamed past Bayindir’s outstretched hand, kissing the net with a finality that left no doubt.

”Oh my word,” came the reaction. ”That is outrageous. Six for Arsenal, and Izan has four.”

Arsenal players rushed toward him while Izan allowed himself a brief smile, raising his arms to the away end as the commentary continued, almost breathless now.

”It’s going to be a very long season for the rest of the Premier League if this is the level Arsenal are starting at.”

The final minutes passed without incident, Arsenal content, andUnited resigned.

The Manchester faithful, battered, beaten and downcast, began making their way out of the stadium before the final whistle came.

Most fans would have left, but they still held onto a glimpse of hope that something, anything, even a consolation, could happen, but it was all for nought.

Eventually, the whistle sounded, bringing the game that had become painful to watch for the home crowd to an end.

”There it is. The final whistle, and I must say, what an excellent display by the Gunners. Away from home, they have conquered Old Trafford, leaving Manchester United battered and possibly with some psychological trauma.”

On the pitch, Izan and the rest of the players had made their way over to the away end, applauding the fans who, in turn, reciprocated the gesture, chanting Arsenal chants without much resistance because the home crowd were too far gone to even put up any resistance.

Just after that, the stadium speakers crackled to life just as the players began to drift toward the tunnel, red shirts exchanging quiet words, a few exhausted nods, the noise from the away end still rolling down from the stands.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, his voice carrying across the pitch, ”your Man of the Match... Number 10, Izan Hernandez!”

The response was immediate.

A surge of sound from the Arsenal supporters, sharp and proud, cut through the heavier silence elsewhere.

The broadcast camera found him at once, standing near the centre circle as the referee approached with the match ball tucked under his arm.

Izan accepted it with both hands, turning it slowly.

He then nodded his thanks to the referee while the commentary came on the broadcast.

”Fitting, really,” one voice said.

”Four goals, one assist, and complete control from start to finish. Manchester United had no answer for him tonight, not that they have ever had for him in the past. And interestingly, this is Izan’s 12th goal in 4 matches against the Red Devils.”

”A very ridiculous stat if you think that last season was his first time playing against the Manchester Club.”

Another came in, calmer but no less emphatic.

”He’s been the bane of them this evening. Every time United tried to step out, every time they thought they could settle, Izan was there. Between the lines, in the box, from distance. Everywhere.”

Around him, teammates offered pats on the back, brief words exchanged in passing.

Izan glanced up toward the away end, lifting the ball slightly in acknowledgement.

The noise swelled again, a chant starting from the corner and rolling across the stand in waves.

The camera stayed with him as he turned and began the walk down the pitch, boots sinking lightly into the turf, the floodlights catching the sheen of sweat on his face.

Ahead and near the touchline, a small podium had already been set up with Microphones and the like being adjusted while a presenter stood, checking notes.

The latter then glanced up after he saw Izan nearing before the latter finally came to a stop, with the staff approaching him almost instantly before handing him a microphone.