God Of football

Chapter 976: A Long Game?

After Izan released the ball subsequent to the earlier surge, Timber went hunting for a loose ball he had created himself, and his heavy touch drew pressure instantly.

He stretched, scraped, almost fell, and somehow nudged the ball free with the outside of his boot.

It was messy, a kind of play that usually ended with a whistle or a turnover.

Before anyone could call for it, Izan was already moving.

He had already anticipated what could happen with Timber, and that helped in reclaiming possession as he took the ball cleanly and immediately felt bodies around him.

Some distance away before, but now suddenly breathing down his neck, Rodri leaned in from one side.

In the same situation, Reijnders closed the space from behind while O’Reilly slid across to box him in.

To anyone watching, the situation might have looked dire at the moment.

Three shirts, tight and aggressive as the commentator’s voice rose.

”City collapse on him here...”

But at the last second, Izan stopped.

Stopped so suddenly and so still, he could have passed for a mannequin.

For a split second, the ball stayed still under his sole and his control.

The three City players did not.

They jabbed and poked, legs tangling, each trying to win it off the other.

The ball ricocheted between shins and studs like a pinball trapped in a phone box, until it slipped loose from the little cage they had made, but by then, Izan was already gone.

He burst right, the change of pace sharp enough to pull a breath from the crowd and caught up to the loose ball.

From there, the object of matter stayed glued to him as he drove down the flank, head up and galloping like a wild horse.

”He’s away here, Izan down the left...” The commentary scrambled to catch up, voices overlapping as the move stretched the pitch open.

He curved his run inward, carrying the ball across the edge of the box without easing off, and City shirts dropped fast.

One step too close and he’d shoot.

One step too far and he’d slide someone in.

So he drew his leg back, waiting for whatever run he could get, but at that moment, it seemed all his teammates had been turned into audiences, same as the fans, waiting for him to pull off one of the crazy antics he usually did.

Away from Izan’s thoughts, and seeing the hanging leg right in front of him, Dias bit.

Izan brought his leg down, completing the transition to the fake shot, but like he had already been half-expecting it, the defender redirected and slid across his path, toe outstretched, just enough to nick the ball as Izan’s leg also went through it.

It slowed and popped up slightly like it had lost its sting.

For a heartbeat, the chance looked gone, only for it to begin falling like Izan had applied a patch to the ball halfway.

Donnarumma reacted late but well, springing across his goal, fingertips brushing the ball and lifting it over the bar.

The save earned its noise, a collective intake followed by applause and a ripple of relief through the City end.

”What a save,” the commentator said.

”Beautiful deceit by Izan, but Donnarumma is equal to that. And Arsenal might be in for a long night if Donnarumma keeps doing that.”

Izan was already at the corner flag after his effort had been saved.

He set the ball down and rolled it short to Rice before City had finished organising.

Rice took one touch, looked at the box, but then fed it straight back like he wanted no part in whatever was coming.

And the, whatever, that was coming was Khusanov, who launched himself forward, charging like he was trying to erase the space altogether.

Izan waited until the last possible moment, then scooped the ball just over the defender’s outstretched foot.

It dropped perfectly behind the Uzbek and in front of him after he moved past the latter, just inches from the touchline.

The crowd rose again, but not the Arsenal crowd as Khusanov recovered from his slouch and tried to lean him out of play, shoulder into ribs, using every ounce of his weight, and Izan did not step aside.

Even though Izan looked and was some centimetres taller than the former, all around the stadium thought it might be a matchup, a reckless spur of adrenaline, but it was not recklessness but rather forgetfulness.

Fans forgetful of how their star player had always seemed to go down under crunching and egregious tackles, but always stood back up and the moment the two forces met, the fans remembered.

The solid clash sent the defender down with a grimace that said he knew exactly what he had run into.

A fucking boulder.

Gasps flew about the Emirates as Izan moved forward, and from that angle, everyone expected the pass.

A cutback, something sensible like Izan ever did something like that.

And so he didn’t this time either.

Izan, without even looking at the goal or glancing at the keeper, leaned to the left and opened his body.

Before most could comprehend, the ball shot forward in a disgusting curl and from the most disgusting of angles.

It rose fast, bent hard, and kissed the roof of the net before Donnarumma could even set his feet, and for the second following that, the stadium did not know how to react.

It was only when Izan rose from his bottom that the Arsenal fans roared like something breaking loose.

Izan vaulted the advertising boards without thinking and disappeared into the crowd.

Arms grabbed him, hands on his shoulders and back, holding him upright rather than pulling him down.

Faces were close, shouting, laughing, and disbelief written everywhere, even though disbelief, was standing in their midst.

On the big screens, his image filled the stadium.

Hair tied back, loose strands falling over his face, and his chest heaving as he shouted something lost in the noise.

The broadcast cut briefly to the bench after that to Arteta, who stood still, lips pressed together, and a hand running once through his hair before dropping to his side.

He did not smile, but his eyes gave him away.

”Well,” the commentator said, a note of disbelief creeping in, ”I think Izan has just made me eat my words.”

The camera found him again as he climbed back over the boards.

He turned to the away end once more, lifted both arms high, held them there for a beat, then lowered them slowly, turning back and jogging with his mates towards their half of the pitch.

”Well, do I even have to say anything about that?” the analyst came from beside the commentator, but all he got was the shake of a head.

Around him, the game tried to restart, City players pointing, talking sharply among themselves, trying to figure out who was at fault, but a bellowing shout from Pep Guardiola, on his touchline area, made them keep quiet, as the ball was punted forward to Erling Haaland, who already stood at the centre-half.

And while the noise stayed high, restless and alive, Izan took his place again and waited for the whistle to restart the game.

A/N: Extremely sorry guys. This Chapter was only 1200 words. I went down with a bad fever the day before and that was why I wasn’t even able to release the Chapter for this book in time. I am still heating up, even though I was fine the whole day and was able to get a Chapter in for the Harbinger of Glory Novel. But it is currently 11, getting to 12 and I have started heating up again. I hope I wake up feeling stronger but sorry if I am not able to release for any of the books. Thank you for understanding and have fun reading this short one because I might blow up from how hot I am if I go any further.