God Of football

Chapter 528: All Over Him.

Inside the dressing room, the sound of studs on concrete faded fast.

No one was slumped.

It wasn’t that kind of room.

The first half hadn’t broken Arsenal.

But it had exposed something—small cracks, just enough to matter.

Rice sat forward, elbows on his knees, while Saka stood stretching out his back, breathing steadily and sipping slowly from a bottle.

Izan leaned against the cool tile, silent, watching the floor, boots still laced tight.

Arteta entered last, eyes scanning his men for a while.

He walked straight to the board, picked up the marker, and circled three zones in black.

“We’re close,” he said. “But not clean.”

He pointed at the first circle.

“Here, when we’re building from the back, they’re not pressing full. They’re holding a mid-block and waiting. Trent is showing, but he’s gambling. He’s baiting you.”

He looked at White.

Ben nodded. “I saw it too late.”

“You had Partey to cover for you the last time but what if no one’s there for the next,” Arteta said, quick, no judgment.

“Next time—don’t play what they want. Reset, or use Declan.”

He moved to the second circle.

“This space between Mac Allister and their right center-back—it’s there. That’s your channel, Martinelli. But only if Izan pulls Trent into the wide lane and holds him.”

He turned slightly.

Izan didn’t need the cue.

He nodded once. “I’ll drag him. Make him commit.”

“That’s all I need.”

Arteta tapped the third zone—the edge of the box.

“We’ve had the shots. None of them were clean. Ødegaard, you’re getting there. But wait for that second touch. Don’t snap the trigger just because you feel the angle.”

Ødegaard exhaled, thoughtful.

“I’ll slow the pull.”

Arteta dropped the marker.

“Good.”

He paused and looked around.

“This isn’t about being perfect. They’re not perfect either. But we’re going to win the half that matters more.”

No shouting. No speeches. Just facts.

Arteta gave a nod and turned.

“Five minutes.”

The room broke into quiet movement—tape replaced, water gulped, glances exchanged.

Gabriel stood first, stretching his arms overhead while Merino followed.

Then Saka slapped palms with Timber, light but firm.

Izan hadn’t moved much.

But when he did, it was straight to Partey.

“Watch Van Dijk,” he said, voice low.

“He’s stepping early on second balls. You can ghost him.”

Partey just smiled. “I’ve got you.”

The team walked down the tunnel shoulder to shoulder.

Just cleats clicking, fans thundering on the far side of the wall, and the pressure folding itself into shape again.

As they approached the mouth of the tunnel, the light opened.

The pitch waited.

And so did the war.

The players emerged from the tunnel to a wall of sound.

Fans stood, voices already rising again—not as celebration, but a challenge.

The first half had set the stage.

Now it was time to see who wanted it more.

From the booth above, the commentary rolled in with a measured hum.

“Well, if the first forty-five told us anything,” Peter Wallace began, “it’s that this isn’t going to be decided by one moment. It’s going to be won in waves.”

“You’ve got two teams,” Marsha followed, “both unafraid, both exposed—but both still standing. It’s 1–1, but the score doesn’t tell the whole story.”

“And keep your eyes on Izan,” Dion added.

“He was unplayable at times in the first half. If he finds the same rhythm again, Trent and Konaté are in for a long forty-five.”

On the pitch, Arsenal moved first—white shirts scattering into position, Izan drifting wide to the left.

Liverpool responded with quiet formation, heads nodding, gloves tightened.

The official raised his hand.

Whistle between the lips.

One long blow.

The second half began.

Arsenal moved the ball with intent.

Trossard received from Martinelli near the left channel, playing the return pass under pressure.

But Martinelli didn’t try to force anything.

Instead, he spun out and offered it back to Rice, who immediately sprayed it sideways to White.

One, two, three touches, and the next move saw Saka drift in, collect it, bounce it to Merino, then back to White again.

Then back to Rice, then across to Gabriel.

It was taunting.

Liverpool’s shape held, but they weren’t pressing.

They were watching.

Waiting. Reacting.

And Izan? He hadn’t touched the ball yet.

Trent, this time, was stuck to him like glue—mirroring every step, hovering no more than a yard away, tracking him across the line.

But it wasn’t enough.

Trossard checked his shoulder, then tapped it to Martinelli, who dropped deep and flicked it back to Rice again.

The ball zipped around Liverpool in triangles, so quick, so smooth it felt like Arsenal were playing piggy in the middle with world-class opponents.

The crowd started clapping to the rhythm, beat by beat, faster and faster.

Then it happened.

Izan made a quick jab forward like he was going to dart behind Trent.

The defender responded instantly, shifting his weight and planting hard on his back foot.

Then Izan stopped dead.

Trent didn’t.

His studs caught the turf.

His balance betrayed him, and he slipped, chest hitting the turf.

Dropped to the ground with both arms flailing slightly to catch himself.

A sound went up from the crowd—not laughter, not mockery.

Just shock.

The kind of sound 60,000 people make when something happens that shouldn’t happen to a player of that caliber.

“Trent’s lost his footing!” Peter said, nearly rising from his chair.

“And Izan hasn’t even touched the ball yet!”

Trossard saw it and didn’t hesitate.

He rolled the ball into Izan’s stride just as Trent pushed up to his knees.

And now it was on.

Izan turned, one motion, clean and balanced, leaving Trent behind him on the floor.

He accelerated down the line before cutting inside on the edge of the final third—Konaté waiting, standing tall, bracing.

But Izan didn’t slow.

He feinted right.

Then left.

Then back again.

Konaté adjusted once.

Then again.

It wasn’t enough.

Izan twisted him like he was unwinding a screw, body feints snapping one direction, then the other.

The movement was tight, hips low, touch glued to his boots.

The Emirates rose again, feeling something stir in the pitch.

“He’s dancing around him!” Marsha called.

“It’s a flashback! Messi–Boateng all over again!”

Konaté stumbled—not to the ground, but enough to create the window.

Izan saw it.

Just a yard of daylight, but to him, it was enough.

He shifted the ball onto his right in one clean motion.

Then curled it—far post, high, perfect spin.

Kelleher leapt, and the ball bent.

The stadium held its breath as the ball smacked off the inside of the post.

So close, so cruel.

It bounced back into play—no one able to react in time but Robertson, who sprinted from the far side and hoofed it clear.

But even that wasn’t enough.

The ball landed at Merino’s feet.

Arsenal were still on it.

But for the moment, t—the stadium wasn’t thinking about possession.

It was thinking about what it had just seen.

“Ooooohhhhh,” rang out from every section of the Emirates.

And then came the applause.

Louder than it should have been for a missed shot.

Because the fans knew.

Sometimes the goal wasn’t the climax.

Sometimes the moment was enough.

And the moment was for Salah, after Izan’s missed chance.

He had started to bend the match to his will after Robertson cleared the ball.

He wasn’t everywhere, but he didn’t need to be.

Every time he touched the ball, three Arsenal shirts adjusted.

Liverpool fed him like he was oxygen.

The danger pulsed around him. Each touch, a signal.

Each turn, a threat.

And while the match tilted ever so slightly toward red, Mac Allister worked in quieter ways.

He kept close to Izan—just a step off—but always within earshot.

“Tired legs, eh? Can’t always carry them, can you?”

Then a minute later: “It’s not the Euros anymore, kid.”

Then again: “All eyes on you. Hope they don’t see what happens when it gets tight.”

Izan didn’t answer as his face remained still, unreadable.

But the edge around his movement was sharpening.

And that’s when the ball came.

It started with a heavy touch from Robertson under pressure.

Merino snapped onto it, turned, and zipped it forward into the left half-space.

Trossard received it, popped it into Martinelli, and in one motion, Martinelli angled it across the pitch—

Izan.

There was speed in his feet.

But more than that—intention. He didn’t look rushed.

He looked like he’d already solved the puzzle before the pieces hit the board.

Trent came flying in.

Desperate to get close.

Lunging to disrupt.

But Izan had seen it.

He dragged the ball with his right foot toward the inside channel—a d just as Trent lunged, Izan chopped it back behind his standing leg with his left.

A tight, brutal little flick that put the ball behind both their legs.

It was bait.

And Trent took it.

He couldn’t stop.

His knee collided with the back of Izan’s.

Not malicious.

But late.

Izan’s knee dipped and buckled.

He hit the turf with a short exhale.

The whistle blew hard.

The foul was clear.

The ball was still spinning, half a yard from where Izan landed.

He got up.

Fast.

Didn’t look at the referee.

Didn’t wait.

Saka was already moving.

A/N; First of the day, have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the Golden Ticket Chapter.

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