God Of football

Chapter 959: Slot, At A Loss.

The whistle brought a kind of relief.

Around Anfield, bodies dropped back into plastic seats like puppets whose strings had been cut off.

Hands went to faces while a low, restless murmur replaced the roar that had been filling the stadium a while ago.

It had been too much. Too fast. Too suffocating.

Arsenal, led by Izan, had played the half as if mercy was not part of the plan.

Liverpool had survived moments they should not have.

On another day, with another turn of luck, the scoreline would have already been humiliating.

A man a few rows up shook his head slowly, both hands planted on his knees.

He looked like someone trying to process bad news, but he wasn’t faring any better than the other fans.

”This is ridiculous,” he muttered, more tired than angry.

He stood, tugged his jacket straight, and stepped into the aisle.

People barely noticed him passing.

He took the stairs toward the concourse two at a time, not in a rush but just unable to sit through the break.

Down on the pitch, the final traces of the half faded.

Arsenal players walked toward the tunnel, clapping once toward their end while nodding to each other.

Liverpool’s players followed more slowly.

Some stared at the ground.

Others looked straight ahead, faces set, trying to keep whatever frustration they felt from spilling out.

Inside the dressing room, the air was thick almost immediately.

Boots hit the floor.

Tapes came off wrists with a bit more aggression, while someone slammed a bottle back into the crate harder than necessary.

No one raised their voice.

Arne Slot came in last, closing the door behind him and then clapping once.

He stood there, hands at his sides, eyes moving slowly across the room.

They looked back as Slot opened his mouth, then closed it again.

For a moment, it seemed like he might start with anger, with urgency, with instructions fired out to fill the space.

Instead, he took a breath and nodded once, almost to himself.

”All right,” he said quietly.

He stepped forward, resting a hand on the table in the centre of the room.

”We knew this would be hard,” he continued. ”But that first half, we made it harder than it needed to be.”

”They are finding space too easily,” he said, sighing slightly at the end of his words, because he knew it wasn’t the fault of his men.

”And when we get near them,” he continued after a while, ”We are arriving late. I know that you are doing all you can, but I am sorry. That is not enough!”

He glanced at Gravenberch, then at Mac Allister.

”We cannot keep chasing shadows. Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you can foul if you can’t stop the player.”

Everyone knew who he meant.

Slot straightened and folded his arms, and for the first time, something like uncertainty crossed his face.

The face of a coach turning options over in his head and finding each one came with a cost.

”We’ll change a few things,” he said. ”Not too much because I still think we are doing well when we have the ball despite not scoring, and I do not want that to change with defensive reinforcements.”

He looked around, seeing his men a tad more tired than before he started his speech.

”Get your breath. We go again.”

That was all.

Slot moved toward the corner of the room and leaned against the wall before slipping out with his assistant coach while his players began to stir behind him.

....

[On the broadcast]

”Welcome back to Anfield,” Peter Drury’s voice rolled in as the picture returned for those watching at home.

”If you are only just joining us, it is Arsenal two, Liverpool nil, and there is a sense this evening still has plenty to say.”

The tunnel emptied again, red and white with maroon spilling onto the pitch under the floodlights.

The camera swept low across the grass, then lifted, finding faces, hands, flags, before settling on Izan.

He had shed the compression undershirt and the sleeves.

Bare arms now, taped wrists, shoulders loose.

It was a small change, but deliberate.

Fewer things to grab and a lesser chance of pulling a shoulder or getting injured somewhere else.

He rolled his shoulders once, flexed his fingers, and glanced upfield.

Gyökeres walked beside him, already pointing, thumb jabbing toward Liverpool’s half.

He spoke quickly, not shouting, just enough for Izan to hear.

”Early,” he said, gesturing again. ”If it’s on.”

Izan smiled, brief and knowing, then nodded before the duo split as they reached the centre circle.

Drury picked it up again on the broadcast.

”Arsenal, as they were before the break, look in no mood to settle. Gyökeres over the ball. Izan hovering just behind him.”

The referee checked his watch, raised the whistle, and the stadium leaned forward.

The sound cut through, sharp and final as Gyökeres rolled the ball back to restart and Izan hit it first time.

Not a hopeful clearance, not a safe touch.

He drove it flat and hard into Liverpool’s half, angling it toward Szoboszlai’s side, forcing a decision.

Liverpool barely had time to breathe.

Red shirts scrambled back as Arsenal poured forward, wave after wave.

Only three Arsenal players held their positions deep; everyone else was squeezing the pitch, closing space, compressing the game until it felt like the touchlines were creeping inward.

”Straight onto them,” Drury observed. ”No easing back into this at all.”

Szoboszlai tried to clear under pressure, swinging through the ball as Martinelli arrived like a shadow at his shoulder.

The contact was messy, and the clearance deflected with the ball spinning out of play to give Liverpool the throw-in.

A groan rippled through the home crowd as Arsenal clapped, already resetting.

”That,” the analyst added, ”is the tone set inside thirty seconds of the restart.”

The throw came quickly with Szoboszlai hurling it himself, looking down the line for Salah, trying to release him early before Arsenal could lock the side down again.

The pass was ambitious, rushed, and Calafiori read it cleanly.

He stepped across, rose just enough, and met it with his forehead, not clearing long, not panicking.

He cushioned it back inside, exactly where he wanted it, as the ball dropped at Izan’s feet.

He took it on the laces, deadened the bounce with a single touch, head already lifting as the noise swelled again.

Liverpool shifted toward him instinctively, bodies turning, lines bending as Van Dijk barked at Konate not to step forward as Drury’s voice softened on the broadcast.

”And there he is again. Arsenal’s conductor, right on cue.”

Izan steadied himself, boot resting lightly on the ball, the game pausing for a fraction of a second around him before he lunged with the ball towards the left, pulling numbers with him.

”There he is, moving like a magnet of men,” Drury said, as Izan feinted one way and then slipped past Gravenberch’s slide.

The fans behind the goal rose to their feet expectantly, even though Izan hadn’t even yet gotten within 20 feet of the Liverpool box.

But it was for right measure because even though it was far out, the moment Izan drew his leg back, they all reacted to it like it was the most dangerous action on the pitch, leaving space outward for Madueke who bursted inwards but the touch he got on Izan’s pass took the ball further away from him, causing the move to break down before anything even came of it.

”That might have been the move,” Drury called as Madueke turned to face Kerkez, but before he could decide on what to do, the Hungarian left back snatched the ball from the feet of Madueke, causing the latter to immediately begin chasing, but by the time he could slip an arm over the shoulder of the Liverpool left back, Kerkez had already slipped the ball to Gakpo.

Drury was already drawing breath to follow Gakpo’s run, his voice lifting as the Dutchman opened his body to receive the pass, when something, a player in white, flashed across the frame.

Izan came from nowhere with a perfectly timed tackle.

He slid in low, one leg extended, toe first, and clipped the ball cleanly away before Gakpo could even think about turning.

The contact was soft enough that the ball stayed in play, skidding across the turf and rolling neatly into Zubimendi’s path.

The stadium roared again, louder this time, a sound of recognition more than surprise.

Zubimendi took one touch, calm as ever, and Izan was already back on his feet, spinning away from the tackle and pointing sharply into the right half space.

”Lemme have itt!!,” he barked, the word short and sharp, more command than request.

Zubimendi did not hesitate.

He slid the ball into him with the inside of his boot, firm and precise, and Izan received it on the half turn, taking a touch and then another to roll his body across the ball, and Alexis Mac Allister was suddenly reaching for air.