God Of football

Chapter 468: The Debut Of A Villain

Izan looked up, raised his right leg like he was about to shoot—

“Surely now!” Fletcher said in sync

—and the keeper committed, sprawling low to his left.

But Izan didn’t shoot.

He waited a heartbeat, dragged the ball calmly around Carnesecchi with a sideways touch, keeping his balance even as Cuadrado lunged from behind, and opened his body to slot the ball into the empty net.

The ball rolled over the line, and just as it nestled against the back post netting, the traveling Arsenal fans exploded in disbelief.

Limbs everywhere. Flares burst to life. Scarves twirled in the air.

Darren Fletcher’s voice cracked through the airwaves: “That’s it! That is the moment! Two for Izan Hernández, and what a goal that is! Devastation to domination in a blink! The person the whole of Bergamo dreads has struck again. 2-0 for Arsenal here.”

Izan turned away from the goal, chest rising and falling like a piston, but eyes locked onto the stand behind Carnesecchi’s net—the heart of the Atalanta faithful.

The wall of noise was thunderous, a cauldron of rage and disbelief, banners flailing, hands thrown in the air, some middle fingers, some heads in hands.

And then he did it.

He cupped his ear.

Deliberate. Slow. Taunting.

His other hand motioned upward like a conductor begging for more from an orchestra that had already gone mad.

“COME ON THEN!” his body language screamed. “SHOUT LOUDER!”

It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t disrespect. It was dominance—pure, unapologetic, teenage swagger laced with composure beyond his years.

Saka caught up to him, grabbing him by the shoulders while grinning wide.

Trossard sprinted from midfield and nearly tackled them both in the celebration, shouting something in French none of the Atalanta fans could hear over the din.

Behind them, the ref blew his whistle sharply, motioning for the restart—but the damage had been done.

“Look at that,” Darren Fletcher said, his voice half-chuckle, half-stunned.

“This kid in his Champions League debut, in Italy, and he’s telling the crowd to turn up the volume. That is ice.”

McManaman just laughed.

“He’s not even trying to hide it! He loves it. And you know what? When you back it up like that—go ahead, son. Be the villain.”

Up in the away end, the Arsenal supporters roared louder than ever, scarves spinning, bodies swaying in rhythm, as chants of “Ohhh, Izan Hernández!” broke out with a fervor that seemed to shake the beams above them.

The scoreboard now read:

ATALANTA 0 – 2 ARSENAL

And the boy in red and white wasn’t just writing his name into the match—he was etching it into Champions League folklore.

………………

After the restart Atalanta looked lifeless and just walked around the pitch for the remainderr of the 2 minutes that had been until the final whistle sliced clean through the electric buzz of Bergamo, silencing the Gewiss Stadium for good.

Arsenal players erupted into a mix of high-fives, hugs, and breathless grins as they saw out a hard-earned 2–0 victory.

Atalanta’s players slumped, some dropping to their knees, others staring in frustration at the pitch, knowing they had come close—but not close enough.

On the far side, Izan Hernández stood still for a moment, gazing around the stadium, shirt clinging to his back, boots still flecked with the soil of his final goal.

He blinked slowly, hands on his hips, trying to process the weight of it all. First Champions League appearance. Two goals.

One a lightning bolt, the other a statement in composure.

Arsenal fans, clustered tightly in their away section, sang his name.

He hadn’t just played in Europe tonight. He’d owned it.

He was quickly ushered over to the touchline, still holding the sleek, glassy UEFA Man of the Match trophy as he was guided toward a post-match interview backdrop.

Waiting there with a mic in hand was Reshmin Chowdhury, the experienced UEFA reporter known for getting the most out of players in moments like this.

“Well, Izan…” she smiled warmly as he joined her, breath still heavy but grin intact.

“Europe has just met you, and I think it’s fair to say you made quite the first impression.”

Izan let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah… wild night.”

She motioned toward the trophy. “Man of the Match on debut. Two goals. But beyond the numbers, there was a maturity, a fearlessness. What does this night mean to you?”

He looked down at the trophy in his hand, then back at her with a calm that seemed to settle in the air.

“It’s everything I imagined growing up. Nights like this. You dream about them… but to live it, to walk into a stadium like this and feel the atmosphere… then score… twice?” He shrugged.

“It’s special.”

Reshmin smiled, clearly impressed. “Let’s talk about that second goal. You’ve got Cuadrado chasing, Hien breathing down your neck, Carnesecchi coming out—and you still manage to keep your cool, round the keeper, and tuck it home. That’s… not normal for a player your age.”

Izan chuckled again, brushing his curls back. “Honestly, I saw the keeper shift and just waited. Raised the leg, made him dive. Then… yeah, just dragged it past. Simple, really.”

Her eyes widened. “Simple?”

He grinned. “In my head, it was.”

Reshmin laughed, shaking her head. “And then the celebration… the ear-cup to the home crowd?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “They were loud. All game. So I figured—if I score again—I might as well hear more of it. Give ’em a reason to turn it up.”

Back in the CBS studio, even the panel was cracking up.

“This early on and shushing entire stadiums,” Micah Richards said, nearly falling off his chair.

“The lad’s got ice in his veins.”

“He’s made for this,” added Thierry Henry. “No moment too big.”

Back pitchside, Reshmin nodded once, sincerely. “Izan Hernández. Remember the name, folks. Arsenal’s match-winner, and your Man of the Match on his Champions League debut.”

Izan looked toward the camera just as the interview wrapped, the Gewiss Stadium still echoing behind him.

……….

The air in the away locker room at the Gewiss Stadium was thick with the smell of sweat, muscle spray, and victory.

Shirts clung to backs, some players downing water while others pressed their phones eagerly, perhaps checking the match ratings.

Boots were tossed into duffel bags. Steam hissed from the adjoining showers while the low hum of celebration lingered like a heartbeat.

Arteta stood near the center of the room, arms folded, face still flushed from the adrenaline.

The final whistle hadn’t blown long ago, but his mind was already whirring ahead—recovery schedules, training plans, the flight home.

Yet, in this moment, he allowed himself a rare pause. He clapped his hands once, firm and clear.

“Boys,” he said, eyes scanning the room. The clatter of shin pads and zippers settled.

“That’s how you fight. That’s how you play for each other. We didn’t win because of one man. We won because everyone kept their heads.”

He gestured toward the far end, where Izan was toweling off near the sink.

“Well… maybe not only because of everyone,” Arteta smirked.

The room burst into warm laughter.

Martinelli leaned over to Saka and whispered with a grin, “He’s always done it in training so it doesn’t surprise us now. I’m wondering where he’ll be at 23.”

Saka nodded, almost solemn. “He’ll be at Arsenal. With us. That’s where he will be.”

One by one, players filtered toward the showers, steam rising as the tension melted from their limbs.

Some sat in ice baths, groaning half in pain, half in relief while a few giddy ones like Jurrien Timber kept asking for a group picture.

By the time they’d cleaned up, changed, and boarded the team coach waiting outside the stadium, the mood had softened into content exhaustion.

The lights of Bergamo shimmered faintly through the windows as the bus pulled off into the night, heading toward the team hotel.

But halfway down the aisle, Declan Rice broke the silence, rubbing his stomach dramatically.

“Boss… I’m not saying we’re not grateful, yeah? But we’re starving. Haven’t had a proper meal since lunch.”

Several others chimed in immediately—Partey groaning like he was about to faint, Trossard fanning himself dramatically, Kai Havertz with a cheeky, “Could do with about three pizzas.”

Arteta sighed, mock annoyance plastered across his face.

Then he turned toward his assistants who just shrugged pointing to the team doctors but they just kept looking at away, refusing to meet his gaze.

“All right, all right,” he said, waving a hand. “You’ve earned it.”

A ripple of excitement rolled through the bus.

“Cheat meal, boys,” he confirmed. “Burgers. Fries. The works.”

“Let’s gooo!” Zinchenko pumped a fist in the air, much to the amusement of the staff.

“But—” Arteta raised a finger, smirking again, “I’m letting you have this because you’re going to burn all of it off before the next match.

Understood?”

“Yessir!” the chorus rang out.

Arteta chuckled, eyes glossing over Izan as he turned back.

“We really won this transfer window,” he muttered, looking at the Atalanta fans on the sidewalk as the bus streaked past them.

A/N; First of the day. Have fun reading

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