Harbinger Of Glory

In the stands, the chants began to roll again, ”¡Madrid! ¡Madrid!”, shaking the air as the scoreboard blinked to 2–0.

[Arsenal’s Bench]

”Izan, you’re on”

”Finally,” Izan muttered, tugging off his warm-up bib with that grin that made the whole bench laugh.

”You better fix this, hero boy,” Nwaneri said.

”Relax,” Izan replied, flashing a grin as he jogged to the line.

He tossed aside the bib, running a hand through his hair before pulling on the shirt that had just been handed to him.

”I must say our kits are usually clean, but this season’s is just better,” Izan said as he tugged his inner sleeves lower.

He jogged over to the touchline, where Arteta stood.

The manager didn’t say much, just gave that small nod of trust he reserved for players who didn’t need reminding.

”Do what you do best,” Arteta murmured.

Izan nodded once, his face setting into quiet focus.

The fourth official lifted the board, where 23 glowed red and 10 in bright green.

A cheer rippled from the Arsenal fans who’d been calling for a change.

Mikel Merino took one last look at the pitch before jogging toward the sideline, sweat streaking down his face.

The camera caught him clapping toward the stands as he reached Izan, offering a tired smile.

”Go light it up, kid,” Merino said, slapping Izan’s hand with a grin.

Izan’s reply was just a quick, ”With pleasure, Mister.”

He crossed the line and stepped onto the pitch to the echo of applause, a mix of anticipation and belief following him in as the broadcast commentary chimed in right on cue.

”And here comes the youngster, Izan, the teenager with the flair and the fearlessness. Arsenal need a spark, and this might just be the man for it.”

As he jogged toward the centre circle, his cleats kicked up bits of grass, his eyes already scanning the shape of Madrid’s defence.

He bent slightly, adjusting his socks, then called for the ball from Rice, who rolled it gently toward him.

Izan stopped it dead with the inside of his boot, looked up once toward Mbappé already shadowing him from afar, and smiled faintly.

Then he pushed the ball forward to the kickoff spot as the referee came beside him.

Fweeeeeee

The whistle sounded, restarting the game, just as the Arsenal fans roared his name for the first time that night.

...

Olivia came down the floating staircase, her hair still damp from a shower, wearing one of Izan’s oversized hoodies, even for the latter, which got comically big on her when she wore them, but comfortable in that familiar way.

She looked like someone winding down after a long day, her steps soft on the glass panels as she yawned.

In the kitchen, the faint hum of the fridge was most prominent, aside from the rain pellets hitting the window opening.

Olivia opened a cupboard, reaching for the cereal box, when a voice called out.

”Olivia, whatever you’re making,” Miranda said from her couch, not looking up from her phone, ”make enough for us too.”

”Yeah,” Hori added, sitting beside her, stirring a mug of tea that she had pestered Komi for while she was making hers but hadn’t even bothered to drink.

”We’re starving.”

From the couch,Komi’s voice cut through lazily, muffled under a pile of pillows.

”Don’t listen to them, Liv, they’ve been sitting there since halftime doing absolutely nothing!”

Hori groaned.

”It’s called conserving energy!”

”Lazy bums!” Komi shouted back, tossing one of the pillows at them.

Back in the kitchen, Olivia just smiled to herself, shaking her head as she poured the milk into the bowl.

A few minutes later, she walked back in with four bowls of Weetabix, each perfectly soaked in milk.

”I already knew you were going to ask,” she said, setting them down on the coffee table one by one.

”The moment I stepped off those stairs.”

Komi sat up immediately, grinning.

”And that’s why we love you. And my son does more than he does himself.”

Olivia rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling as she sat beside her, grabbing her own bowl.

The others followed, each claiming their share like kids caught stealing snacks before dinner.

As they started eating, Hori looked toward Komi.

”You know, my mom called us lazy bums, but she took one immediately you set it down,” she said, mouth half full to Olivia while glancing at Komi.

Komi gave her a flat look.

”That’s because she didn’t want to waste food, not because she agrees with you.”

”Exactly,” Miranda added, smirking. ”Your mom’s got standards.”

Olivia laughed quietly, spoon clinking against the bowl as she leaned back into the couch.

The sound of the TV drew their attention again, but this time it wasn’t just background noise.

Komi suddenly leaned forward, pointing at the screen.

”Wait, guys! Izan’s coming on!”

All three snapped their heads up, eyes widening as the camera panned to the touchline.

”Finally!” Hori and Miranda said in unison, nearly spilling their bowls as they leaned closer.

Olivia’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

Her brother was on the screen now, pulling off his bib, talking to Arteta.

”It sometimes feels weird when I see him on the screen like this. I wonder how such a good player is my brother, even though he’s annoying when he hasn’t done anything,” Hori said, causing the three to look at her, before turning their attentions back to the screen.

”Well, it might be weird, but it is real,” came Miranda’s voice as the match restarted on the pitch.

.....

”Arsenal make their change, Izan Hernández is on,” the commentator announced, voice calm but expectant, the crowd’s buzz rising under the call.

”But he hasn’t quite gotten involved yet, has he?”

His co-commentator replied almost instantly, tone analytical, the way someone who’s seen it all would explain to millions at home.

”No, not as much as you’d expect from him. And that’s down to one man, Luka Modrić. He’s been right on the kid’s shadow since he came on. Smart positioning, smart anticipation. Every time Arsenal look for Izan, Modrić is there cutting the line, stepping in early, forcing them to go wide instead.”

”Maybe it was never about letting tireless workhorses follow him, but about letting technically sound players with good positioning like Modric stick to him.”

”Yeah,” the first voice agreed.

”You can see what Madrid are doing, they’re not giving Arsenal’s main man a single clean touch. Modrić might be turning forty, but he’s schooling him in movement right now.”

The broadcast panned to the pitch, where Declan Rice was in possession just ahead of his own half, scanning for options as the Arsenal shape stretched and pulled.

Odegaard drifted left, Havertz pointed for a run, and Izan... Izan was standing between the lines, with Modrić practically breathing on the back of his neck.

Rice glanced toward them but didn’t risk it.

Instead, he nodded at something unseen and slipped a sideways ball toward Saka, who cushioned it back for Ben White on the overlap.

”Arsenal trying to build something here,” the commentator narrated, his tone picking up.

Ben White lifted his head, looking inside for movement.

And that’s when Izan made his play.

He started by taking a step back, inviting the pass, or at least making it look that way.

Modrić followed, reading him perfectly.

But Izan wasn’t dropping deep.

He feinted, then turned sharply, cutting away toward the space near Saka before Modrić, who stumbled to the floor, even realised he’d been sold.

”There’s the burst!” the co-commentator said, excitement creeping in.

”He’s shaken Modrić this time!”

White spotted it late but quick enough.

He zipped the ball to Saka on the right flank, and as soon as Saka saw the ball coming his way, he didn’t wait and just stabbed a quick pass between the lines, threading it perfectly into Izan’s path.

”Oh, that’s brilliant interplay!” the commentator shouted as the Arsenal end rose in noise.

”Izan’s has the ball now. What can he do here?”

Izan reached it, letting the ball roll once across his body before touching it behind Alaba and back toward Saka, who continued his run.

Saka sprinted down the right, cutting the ball back toward the middle before Alaba could fully recover.

But before it could find anyone, Dean Huijsen threw himself across the six-yard box, clearing it away with a desperate but clean swing.

The ball, however, didn’t go far.

It bounced once, twice, straight back to Izan, now standing on the edge of the box.

”Oh, it’s fallen for Izan!” the commentator roared, voice rising above the stadium’s noise.

The young attacking midfielder steadied himself, breath tight, boot hovering just above the ball as the crowd gasped in collective anticipation.

He drew his leg back, the floodlights catching the sweat on his temple as the noise around the stadium swelled.

”Izan Hernández—!” the commentary came roaring as Izan let fly from the edge of the box.