God Of football

By the next morning, the sun over North London broke clean and soft, as if the weather didn't yet know the war that was about to be waged beneath it.

The roads leading toward the Emirates grew tighter with foot traffic, banners unfurled, and the red of Arsenal began to flood the scene. Murmurs turned to chants.

Chants turned to songs.

Songs into mantras that were being echoed around

"Here they come," a puny voice said, causing the fans around to turn towards the blacked-out Arsenal bus that was approaching.

…The blacked-out Arsenal bus rolled slowly up the drive, headlights cutting clean lines across the swelling tide of red and white.

Security formed a tight lane, arms stretched, radios crackling, but the fans pressed forward anyway—safely, urgently, wanting to see them, to feel that surge of hope manifest in flesh and sweat and resolve.

The bus pulled into the parking area behind the East Stand, brakes hissing softly, engine humming down to silence.

For a beat, everything outside paused.

Then the door opened.

The coaching staff, led by Arteta, descended one after the other, but Gabriel was the first player down.

He stepped onto the pavement like a man already in the match, nodding once to the crowd before raising a fist.

Cheers erupted after he pumped his fist once in the air and then Saka followed next, giving a wide grin as he high-fived two kids leaning over the railing, one of them wearing his shirt backwards with marker scribbles across the back: Starboy Energy.

Behind them, Merino, Rice, and Nwaneri—all eyes up, not rushing, not smiling too wide.

Focus sat heavy in their expressions, but they still gave small waves, fist bumps, and silent acknowledgments to the noise.

Then came Izan.

He stepped down last, hood up, headphones still resting around his neck, phone in hand.

For a moment, it looked like he didn't see the crowd.

But he did.

He raised his hand without looking, palm open, a gesture that felt almost like a benediction.

The crowd responded like a single body, voices rising, flags whipped into movement, camera flashes popping through the filtered daylight.

"Let's go, Izan!" someone shouted above the din.

"Bury them, boy!"

Another: "You're in your house now!"

Izan looked up for half a second—just enough to make eye contact with the front row—and nodded.

Then he turned and followed the others through the barricaded walkway, boots thudding quietly against concrete, the sound of fans trailing behind him like smoke.

A steward opened the door to the tunnel.

Just the white walls of the Emirates inner corridor, humming with hidden tension.

The scent of fresh paint, leather polish, and pre-match anticipation settled in his chest.

He kept walking, past the familiar murals, past the matchday staff, past the cameras.

The deeper he went, the quieter it became.

Until only the game remained.

Waiting.

"Warmups are in Ten. Get changed and go out for some stretching and running," Cuesta's voice rang through the room as he turned towards one of the analysts.

The players quickly began, switching their tracksuits for their training gear before heading out of the room.

The tunnel narrowed as they approached the pitch—concrete turning to shadow, cleats clacking against the hard floor, the quiet rhythm before thunder.

Izan walked alone, trailing behind a few of his teammates.

The low hum of the Emirates outside was growing louder with every step.

Just before the bend toward the light, he spotted someone standing still.

Waiting.

Alexis Mac Allister.

Arms crossed with his shirt over his shoulder, and a calm expression that felt just a little too calculated.

"Been a while," he said, pushing off the wall.

Izan slowed his walk, a smirk on his face as he turned towards the former.

Mac Allister took a step closer, voice cool.

"But this isn't Miami. No friendlies today. And you're not in training gear. You're standing across from grown men now."

Izan tilted his head, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"Didn't look like grown men when I walked past you last July."

Alexis smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

"You're good," he said.

"But this isn't one of those nights where you cut through open space and get applause. This place will squeeze you. We'll squeeze you. And all that talk about being 'next'...?"

He shrugged, letting it hang.

"Let's see what you do when your first touch isn't clean. When the ball doesn't bounce your way. When the crowd stops cheering and starts waiting."

Izan stared at him. Still. Breathing slow.

Then he stepped forward, just once, closing the space between them slightly, voice low.

"I don't need open space," he said.

"I make space. And you? You've played in tougher places, yeah. Boca. Brighton. Big atmospheres."

He smiled faintly now, like a wolf indulging a cub.

"But I might just change your perspective on how you see the world after this match. You'll wish I stopped after the first run."

Alexis blinked, smile slipping for just a second.

"You'll see," Izan added, slipping the bib over his head as he turned away.

"Like you said, this is not pre-season anymore."

He walked on.

A shake of the head and then a quiet, dismissive chuckle.

Behind him, Mac Allister remained still, gaze hard, chewing on the words like they'd stung deeper than he expected.

Izan stepped into the light, and the Emirates swallowed him whole.

Warm-ups were already in full swing.

He jogged across the pitch toward the first passing ring, clapping hands with Saka as he joined the formation.

The ball zipped toward him, and with one soft touch and a flicked heel pass, he dropped into rhythm like he'd never left it.

And in the tunnel behind him, Mac Allister finally turned to follow—but the moment had already slipped away.

.....

High above the pitch, in a glassed-in booth perched over the halfway line, the matchday broadcast was in full swing.

Three commentators sat side by side, mics clipped on, monitors flickering before them, each of them tracking the warm-ups below with trained eyes.

Their voices threaded seamlessly over the footage being broadcast across the country.

"…and you can see there the Emirates in full voice already," said Peter Wallace, a seasoned voice in Premier League coverage.

"This is a fixture that never plays out quietly, but today feels like something else entirely."

"Absolutely," chimed in Marsha Cole, her tone sharp, clipped, but steady.

"This match would have been just a big match, but with City winning their match yesterday, there's a psychological weight added here. Arsenal edged Liverpool in pre-season, 3–2. But that was July. That was under the Miami sun, empty stakes, and open substitutions. Today's a different theatre."

"Very different," added Dion Bennet, the youngest voice on the panel.

"That pre-season win gave Arsenal belief, yes. But Liverpool didn't forget. Slot's made it clear—they're not showing up to clap for anyone."

The camera cut to the pitch.

There was Izan, juggling the ball casually in midfield during a break in passing drills.

He flicked it over his head once, caught it on the bounce, then rolled it forward and slotted it smoothly into Saka's stride.

The studio lights in the booth caught a little extra glow on the broadcasters' faces as the monitor zoomed in on him.

"Sixteen," Peter said like he still couldn't believe it. "Sixteen years old and central to a title-challenging side. It doesn't feel real until you see it."

Marsha crossed her arms, eyes fixed on the screen.

"He's not just a piece of the system. He is the system when it clicks. If Arsenal win tonight, make no mistake—he'll be the reason."

"You think it's that simple?" Dion asked.

"Look at what he's done already," Marsha said.

"Liverpool's midfield has experience, strength, discipline—but they don't have anyone who can match his change of direction over three steps. He doesn't run past you. He slips around you. That's the kind of player who breaks games open when everything else is locked tight."

Peter leaned in. "And let's not forget the Ballon d'Or noise. The shadow of that award is hanging over this match, too. He's not just playing for three points tonight."

"No," Marsha said, voice low now. "He's playing for a seat at history's table."

Izan turned just then, facing the camera for a second without meaning to—expression unreadable, jaw tight, eyes scanning the stadium like he was measuring its weight.

The feed cut back to a wide shot as the hosts prepared for the national anthem sequence.

"And we're moments away from kickoff," Dion said, almost under his breath.

"Strap in," Peter added. "This one's going to say a lot more than the scoreboard."

A/N: Okay, so here is the 300 powerstones bonus chapter. I just woke up and decided to whip this one up for you so see you in a bit with the last chapter of the day. Have fun reading and don't forget to check out my novel Harbinger Of Glory. Book's in the author's thoughts section.