God Of football

Chapter 956: Questions At Anfield.

Up in the VIP lounges, Hori leaned forward in her seat, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on the pitch as the teams settled into their positions.

The noise around them pressed in from every side, chants bouncing off concrete and steel, but she barely seemed to notice, mainly because she had on that scrutinising look of hers before she shook her head once, sharp and irritated.

”Someone on Liverpool’s sporting side should be fired,” she said flatly.

Miranda turned toward her, one eyebrow lifting.

”That’s a strong start for a game that hasn’t even begun. Fired for what, exactly?”

Hori didn’t answer straight away.

She tipped her chin toward the pitch, where Izan stood among his teammates, waiting for the whistle.

”For that,” she said.

Then she exhaled, as if she’d been holding it in for a while.

”I watched this pundit show yesterday. They were breaking down Liverpool’s spending. Four hundred and fifty million pounds. That’s what they’ve put in. Five hundred and twelve million euros if you want it neat. Or six hundred million dollars if you really want to feel sick about it.”

Miranda let out a low whistle.

”That much?” she said with a little smile as if she wasn’t informed about that, while Hori ignored her feigned reaction.

”So tell me why, after everything my brother did last season, nobody thought maybe it was worth pushing a bit further. Just a bit. If you’re already spending that kind of money, why not go the extra mile and make it uncomfortable for Arsenal? Why not actually try to tilt the balance?”

Miranda laughed, the sound swallowed quickly by the crowd.

”Because clubs don’t just throw the entire plan away for one player. No matter how good he is.”

Hori shrugged, unbothered. ”PSG did it for Neymar.”

”That was different,” Miranda said.

”Different time. Different market.”

”And this is different, too,” Hori shot back.

”My brother’s doing this at his age. Not in flashes. He’s been doing it consistently. Against everyone.”

Olivia, who had been listening quietly, nodded along, a small smile tugging at her lips.

She leaned in and bumped Hori lightly with her shoulder.

”They just can’t see the vision like you do.”

Hori smiled at that, the edge in her expression softening for a moment.

”Honestly, they should hire me,” she said.

”I’d at least ask the question.”

Miranda shook her head, still amused.

”You’d bankrupt them in a week.”

”Worth it,” Hori replied without missing a beat, ”At least, if the player is Izan!”

She looked back down at the pitch, where the game had now kicked off.

”All that money,” Hori went on, quieter now, almost to herself. ”And I still don’t see how they win this.”

Olivia followed her gaze. ”You don’t think it’ll even be close?”

Hori didn’t hesitate.

”They might come out fiery, trying to get something early, but no! Not tonight,” she said, watching as the ball went to Kerkez, one of Liverpool’s new additions on the left.

”And certainly not as long as my brother is at this club.”

The chant surged again, louder this time, while Hori settled back into her seat, eyes locked forward, certainty written plainly across her face.

....

And just like Hori had said, Liverpool came out with intent that bordered on aggression.

From the first whistle, Arsenal were nudged backwards, then pushed, then forced into their own half as Liverpool sprang forward in waves.

Anfield rose with it, noise rolling down toward the pitch, urging every red shirt to step five yards higher.

”There’s no easing into this one,” Drury’s voice cut through on the broadcast.

”Liverpool have come to test Arsenal early. To ask questions straight away.”

The first real jolt came through Cody Gakpo.

He picked the ball up deep on the left, turned smoothly, and suddenly there was space.

His stride lengthened, confidence flowing through him as he surged forward, brushing past the first challenge.

Timber tracked him, then Saliba shifted across, but Gakpo kept going, head up, legs churning and dragging the crowd and the momentum with him.

”That’s a blazing run from Gakpo,” Drury said.

”Purpose in every step, but what is next?”

It did not end in a shot, not quite.

A heavy touch finally carried him a yard too far, and Raya quick off his line, smothered the danger.

The applause began raining down on the pitch, at the run by Gakpo, because although it hadn’t ended quite the way they expected, it had set the tone.

Raya, with the ball in his hand, waited for his mates till they were resettled before he smashed the ball into the middle of the pitch and at the heart of it all, Izan felt the squeeze immediately.

Gravenberch stayed tight to him, shoulder brushing shoulder whenever he tried to drift into space while Mac Allister hovered just off his blind side, cutting off angles, stepping in front of passing lanes.

Every time Izan checked his shoulder, there was red nearby.

Every time he dropped deeper, one followed.

It looked and was suffocating.

”Not a second to breathe for Izan,” Drury noted. ”They are determined to make him work for every touch tonight.”

Izan adjusted slowly with subtle things only players like him did.

A delayed run.

A glance that suggested one thing before doing another.

Still, Liverpool’s midfield snapped into challenges, keeping the ball moving quickly when they won it back.

Then Wirtz collected the ball near the centre circle.

Rice stepped up first, timing his challenge well, but Wirtz dipped his shoulder and slipped past him with a delicate touch.

Zubimendi followed, reaching, but Wirtz rolled the ball away again, gliding through the narrow gap between them.

”That is outstanding balance,” Drury said, admiration clear. ”Wirtz dancing through traffic.”

He carried it just long enough to draw defenders, then slid the pass out wide to Salah on the right.

Salah took it in stride, cutting inside, eyes already on the space ahead and the space on Raya’s right, but before anything could materialise, Calafiori stepped across.

The tackle was brave and clean in intent.

He got a solid touch on the ball, poking it clear, but his momentum carried him through Salah’s path.

There was contact, and while Salah stumbled, the Anfield exploded.

Boos rained down instantly while the Kop roared for the whistle, but the referee waved play on, firm, unmoved.

”Oh, that’s a decision that will not go down quietly,” Drury said. ”Calafiori wins the ball, but clips Salah in the process, and the referee says play on.”

Just a moment after this incident, Mac Allister peeled away from Izan after Szoboszlai stepped in to cover.

The Argentine accelerated through the centre and crashed into Calafiori as the defender tried to recover his footing.

It was not subtle.

It was not gentle.

It was a foul everyone saw coming a second before it happened.

The whistle went this time.

Ironically, the same fans who had been screaming moments earlier barely cared now.

They applauded the aggression, the intent and the disruption.

”Well, they are pleased now,” Drury said as the crowd began another wave of chanting.

As Calafiori sat up on the turf, Izan jogged over and offered a hand. Calafiori took it, grimacing, then nodded his thanks.

”You good?” Izan asked quietly.

”Yeah,” Calafiori replied, brushing grass from his shorts.

Behind them, Mac Allister smirked before raising his voice.

”Welcome to Anfield.”

”Why does this good guy want to be a gangster?” Calafiori said, causing Izan to chuckle as the latter helped the Italian defender off the ground.

Izan then turned back toward his position as the free kick was set.

Rice stood over the ball for a moment longer than needed, hands on hips, letting Liverpool’s line settle, just enough to sell the idea of a delivery into the box.

Instead, he rolled it five yards to Zubimendi.

It was simple, almost casual, and that was the point.

Zubimendi did not hold it and also rolled it straight into Izan’s path after the latter got away from Gravenberch using the pause in play.

”Clever. That’s very clever movement.”

Izan met the ball with a single touch, cushioning it forward and then looking towards his right, back turned towards the Liverpool half, where Rice had continued his run, pulling a man with him, and Izan fed him the return pass before drifting into the pocket Rice had just vacated.

The exchange was clean, ending with Izan getting it back again.

As Izan carried it left, Martinelli read the cue instantly.

He tucked inside, dragging his marker with him, compressing Liverpool’s back line, and Gyökeres followed suit, occupying the centre-backs, making the box feel crowded and tense.

Izan slowed, easing off and forcing the defenders to make a choice, and so, Szoboszlai, playing in the right back role, stepped up, aggressively reaching in.

Izan nudged the ball past him with the outside of his boot, causing Szoboszlai to grab at his shirt, fingers stretching fabric, but Izan barely broke stride.

He shrugged him off the next second, his balance never wavering.

”That’s strength as much as skill,” the commentator said. ”He’s not going anywhere.”

Szoboszlai lunged, sliding past as Izan faked the cross and for a split second, the Hungarian was gone, momentum carrying him away.

Izan lifted his head, took in the picture, and clipped the ball high toward the far post, where Madueke had held his position perfectly.

In Saka’s place tonight, but making that space his own, he ghosted in behind his marker and met the ball with his forehead, directing it down and back across goal.

The reaction was instant.

”Ohhh! It might be in here,” the commentator shouted as Alisson exploded into motion, springing across his line, fingertips clawing the ball away.

It spun loose, dangerous, before Van Dijk stepped in and thumped it clear with authority before Anfield roared in relief.

”That was almost a first for Arsenal,” Drury came through as Izan peeled away toward the corner.

”Just a moment’s slip and they almost got punished. Arteta and Arsenal will be thanking their stars that Izan didn’t go to Liverpool when the latter club had been so keen on signing him.”