God Of football

Chapter 523: He’s That Guy

The locker room was still.

Laced boots tapped softly on the tile.

Players leaned over bags, adjusted tape, and checked shin pads.

Shirts hung pressed and untouched, names gleaming on backs like banners before a battle.

Every breath measured. Every thought tuned towards the oncoming battle.

Arteta stood near the tactics board, arms behind his back.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t pace.

“You don’t need new words today,” he said, voice even.

“You already know what’s in front of you.”

Eyes lifted toward him.

“You know what it means to play for this badge. What it takes. And what it says when you do it right. Not just for the table. Not just for the fans. But for yourselves.”

He let that sit for a second.

“Go out there and win the three points for yourself.”

At that moment, a knock came at the door.

One of the backroom staff stepped in, holding a black box with the Adidas logo printed in clean matte white.

He carried it across the room and set it in front of Izan’s spot on the bench.

“Delivery came fifteen minutes ago,” he said.

“Straight from Germany.”

Izan looked down at it. No reaction on his face.

He flipped the lid open.

Inside—custom boots, matte black with deep red streaks curling around the heel like smoke, with the familiar HIM engraved behind it.

A small card lay on top, handwritten in sharp silver ink:

“For your pride.

—A”

He didn’t say a word.

Just picked up the boots and began to undo his laces.

But of course, Saka saw.

“Oi, what’s this?” he said, leaning over. “New drop?”

Izan shrugged.

Saka squinted at the card.

“For your pride? Okay, this is it. Man gets his own poetry now?”

Without missing a beat, Saka untied his own boots and kicked them off.

“That’s it. I’m calling New Balance. Gonna need a blank check and a writing team.”

The room burst into laughter.

Even Arteta chuckled as he stood behind the clipboard.

“Even if you switched,” Gabriel said, grinning, “he’s the only one getting handwritten messages. You’re not that guy, Bukayo.”

Saka held up a finger. “Fair enough.”

Then he turned to Gabriel, one boot on, one off.

“If I try to leave the stadium in these after the match,” he said, “don’t stop me.”

The aforementioned shook his head. “No chance.”

“Come on, man. Just turn around and whistle.”

“You’re not Izan.”

“Yet,” Saka added as more laughter rolled through the room, but it didn’t break the edge—they were loose, not careless. Ready.

The knock came again, and another staffer leaned in.

“It’s time.”

The chatter quieted.

Boots finished getting laced, and heads bowed.

A few silent prayers said, as Jesus slapped his thigh to bring the sort of ritual to a close as the players stepped out of the locker room.

The tunnel was bright with sterile white light, its echo filled with the bounce of cleats.

Arsenal lined up on one side and Liverpool on the other.

Mac Allister stood near the front of the Liverpool line, bouncing on his toes.

He turned his head slightly—just enough to send a slow, deliberate stare down the row.

His eyes found Izan, and they lingered.

Hard. Cold.

A stare meant to warn.

But Izan didn’t take the bait.

He didn’t even look at him.

Instead, he adjusted the cuff of his left sleeve, rocked forward gently on his heels, and gazed ahead, past the tunnel, past the noise, toward the light spilling out from the stadium beyond.

As if nothing—and no one—was worth turning for.

The officials stepped forward, flags in hand, earpieces humming.

One of them gave a short nod, and both teams straightened.

The stadium’s heartbeat quickened.

Izan looked down at the boy beside him—a small thing in a red hoodie under the kit shirt, clinging nervously to the hem of his sleeve.

Izan gave a small smile, then reached out and took his hand.

The boy gripped back tight and then began walking, one step at a time, into the cauldron.

The moment they emerged, the stadium erupted.

The roar wasn’t sharp—it was a wave.

It rolled over the players, the pitch, and the terraces, rising to a peak that seemed to shake the rafters.

Flags fluttered.

Camera flashes popped like fireflies.

And from the North Bank to the Clock End, it was full Arsenal thunder.

Up in the commentary booth, the cameras panned wide, and the voice of Peter Wallace slid cleanly into place.

“And here they come.”

Marsha followed, cool and composed.

“All that talk, all that build-up—and now it’s just green grass, a white line, and the weight of everything waiting.”

“Two teams at the top of the table,” Dion added.

“Both knowing a win changes the shape of the title race. A draw helps City. A loss? Could set the tone for the rest of the year as we approach the winter fixture crunch.”

The camera zoomed in now, catching Izan as he walked out, head high, eyes locked forward.

The flare canister post was still being talked about online—fans held signs quoting it. “Uninvited, but expected.”

“Now this,” Peter said, “is the real test. We know what he’s done already. We know the impact. But this—Liverpool, at home, in a fixture that has defined whole seasons—is something else.”

“And Arteta’s handed him the weight of that trust,” Marsha noted.

“Look at the lineups.”

The screen flicked through.

Arsenal XI: 3-4-3

Raya – White, Gabriel, Timber – Rice, Trossard, Partey, Merino – Izan, Saka, Martinelli.

Liverpool XI: 4-3-3

Caoimhin Kelleher – Alexander-Arnold, Van Dijk, Konaté, Robertson – Mac Allister, Curtis Jones, Gravenberch – Salah, Núñez, Luiz Diaz.

“There’s the surprise,” Dion pointed out.

“Izan on the left. Martinelli through the middle.”

“Brave,” Marsha said. “Or surgical.”

“Trent’s always been a pass master,” Peter added, “but nobody’s pretending his defending is elite. You put someone as technically sharp as Izan against him—and it becomes a question of survival, not just matchup.”

“Arteta didn’t just pick a team,” Marsha said.

“He drew a line. And put Izan on one end of it. Trent on the other.”

Down on the pitch, players exchanged quick handshakes.

The mascots jogged off.

The photographers cleared.

Izan tucked his gloves, took one last breath, and walked into place on the left flank.

Partey clapped his hands once, sharp, while Saka gave a short, low “Let’s go.”

Then the referee raised his whistle.

One blow.

Clear and piercing, enough to send the stadium into a roar.

Darwin Núñez tapped the ball backward to Curtis Jones.

The match had begun.

And there would be no silence left until someone blinked.

Martinelli, leading the line, didn’t wait for a cue.

The moment the ball moved from Jones to Mac Allister, he was sprinting—angled and sharp, like a predator tracking a single scent.

His press wasn’t reckless.

It was calculated chaos.

Saka followed next, cutting in from the right, shadowing Robertson while Partey and Merino closed the midfield gaps within seconds, forcing the ball back toward Konaté, who barely took two touches before Gabriel Martinelli nearly nicked it off his boot.

The crowd rose, voices piling on top of each other.

“Arsenal starting hot here,” came the calm voice of Peter Wallace through the broadcast.

“Very hot,” Marsha replied.

“Martinelli’s pressing like it’s personal.”

Liverpool kept the ball, but just barely.

Every pass felt like it had to escape through a closing door.

Konaté finally found an angle and slotted it to Trent, who clipped a lofted ball down the flank toward Salah.

It landed neatly, and suddenly, there was space.

Salah brought it down on the run, flicking it ahead into his stride as the noise from the away end spiked.

Trent surged forward behind him, overlapping wide.

“Now then,” Dion said, the tension catching in his tone.

“Here comes Salah with Arnold beside him—this is where he’s most lethal.”

Salah darted down the right, nudging the ball toward the edge of the box.

Merino had been caught higher up, Timber was tracking inward, and for a split second—just one—it looked like Mo was free.

But then Izan appeared from the sidelines, casually drifting in.

He exploded into the frame, coming across from midfield, tracking back into Arsenal’s defensive third.

He timed the slide perfectly—low, smooth, clean—hooking his foot under the ball just as Salah shifted weight to cut inside.

The ball popped free and spun across the turf toward Timber, who stepped up and collected it without breaking stride.

The crowd roared.

“Ohhh, what a recovery!” Peter said. “It’s Izan! From nowhere!”

“Well, defending begins from the front, and Izan has just given us an example,” Marsha added.

“That’s discipline. That’s a forward who understands what this game demands.”

Izan was already back on his feet, gesturing towards Ben White on the other flank, who was free.

Salah looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

Maybe surprised. Maybe impressed. Maybe both.

“Izan’s not just here to dazzle,” Dion said. “He’s here to do everything.”

And he was already back in motion, closing space again.

A/N: Last of the day. Have fun reading .

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