God Of football

Chapter 472: The Machine And The Alchemist [GT Chapter]

Just as Izan was about to walk over to her, his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen.

It was a text from Miranda: “Remember to chill tonight. Don’t overthink tomorrow.”

Izan smirked, pocketing the phone. “Guess Miranda really wants me to ease in.”

Olivia shot him a playful look. “Well, she’s not wrong. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Izan said, stepping closer, his hand finding hers.

“Time to do my best and let you distract me from all that.”

“Good luck with that,” she teased, her fingers interlacing with his as she stepped into his arms.

………..

A crisp Sunday glow bathed the BBC studio as the camera panned across the familiar panel.

The host, Gary Lineker, sat poised with a stack of notes barely touched, because days like this needed little setup.

Beside him, the lineup was formidable: Alan Shearer in his classic navy jacket, Alex Scott sharp as ever in a tailored blazer, and Jermaine Jenas with his fingers already dancing on a tablet screen showing team shapes and key metrics.

Gary opened things casually, his voice smooth with the kind of experience that barely needed effort.

“Big Sunday across the league today—but let’s not kid ourselves, there’s only one place everyone’s eyes are glued.”

Alex leaned forward slightly, a smirk forming. “The Etihad.”

“Arsenal visiting Manchester City,” Shearer added, “and for the first time in a long time, you get the feeling City aren’t walking into this with the usual air of inevitability.”

Jenas tapped twice on his screen.

“Nope. Not when there’s a barely seventeen-year-old magician disrupting Champions League defenses like he’s playing in the park. You can’t prepare for a player like Izan Hernández currently. You just hope he’s off his game.”

“Pretty much the same like they did with Messi and Ronaldo in their primes, but this kid is in his growth phase, and how many times did we see Messi and Ronaldo off their game? Not much, and that just goes to show what Pep Guardiola and his men will be dealing with today. ”

“Speaking of which,” Gary chimed in, “how do you stop him?”

Alex exhaled with a half-laugh. “You don’t. You slow him down, maybe. You crowd him. But the kid’s not just pace or flair anymore—he’s learning decision-making, he’s linking play, dropping into pockets Odegaard usually occupies.”

Shearer grunted in agreement. “And the way he drags defenders out of shape—it opens lanes for Saka and Martinelli. City’s fullbacks are going to need help today.”

Gary raised an eyebrow. “Could Pep’s plan be to overcommit centrally and force Arsenal wide?”

“Possibly,” said Jenas. “But Arsenal don’t mind that. They’ll pull you around all day, wait for you to cheat a step… and then Izan will just glide past the one man you left isolated. He’s slippery.”

Alex’s smile returned.

“What I want to see is how Arsenal cope without Odegaard. Havertz in that role is one thing. But the rhythm comes from deeper now. It’s on Rice and Jorginho—or Partey if he starts late.”

They kept at it for another ten minutes, digging into transition battles, the Zinchenko vs Walker flank matchup, and whether City’s decision to start with Gvardiol at left-back was a risk.

In the end, Gary closed it with his usual wry grin.

“Plenty of storylines. Plenty of fireworks are expected. It’s Manchester City versus Arsenal. You’ll want to be watching.”

The screen dipped to black, then bloomed back into a completely different kind of tension—the kind that simmered beneath coach tyres and security lines.

Arsenal had arrived in Manchester.

The luxury team bus rolled through Etihad gates, fans already lining barricades in split colors—some waving red and white scarves, others in the sea blue of City’s home kit.

A few shouted names, more raised phones, and the tension was electric as the players walked past the security setup to counter any disturbances from the fans.

……….

Inside, the players emerged in suits and tailored club gear, headphones clamped on or resting around their necks.

Saka and Martinelli shared a quiet joke while Declan Rice walked with Raya, both heads down but clearly focused.

Izan was near the front, AirPods in, yet still managing to exchange a polite nod to a kid waving an Arsenal shirt.

A steward guided them through the tunnel, past steel doors and murals of past City glory, into the away changing room.

The atmosphere was calm, but it was the eye-of-the-storm kind.

Boots were arranged. Match kits laid out.

Staff checked wristbands and hydration packs.

It was almost time.

After changing into warm-up gear, the players stepped out again for the pre-match drill.

The pitch was bathed in early evening gold, the stands humming with chants, drums, and whistles.

Arsenal’s traveling support occupied their corner like a defiant red spark.

The Manchester City players were already out.

Haaland, looking like a lab experiment, was doing high knees beside Phil Foden.

Gvardiol and Stones were exchanging stretches while Pep, in a black hoodie, was just wrapping up a word with Rodri.

But as Arsenal’s players took their stations, the inevitable happened.

Izan came face to face with Erling Haaland in the tunnel.

There was a quiet pause between them. No tension.

Just recognition. Mutual respect. Haaland grinned first, brushing his hair back.

“So,” he said, the Norwegian accent thick but playful, “this is the magician I keep hearing about.”

Izan smirked. “Coming from you, that’s rich. Jude keeps calling you a robot.”

“Because I am,” Haaland replied, deadpan. Then he winked.

“But you? You’re weird, man. The way you carry the ball… it’s like the ball knows where you want to go before you do.”

They both chuckled.

Izan nodded toward the pitch. “You’re not gonna make it easy, are you?”

“No,” Haaland said. “But I like your chaos. Let’s see if it breaks ours.”

From behind them, City’s players murmured and snorted with laughter—still amused by Pep’s session the previous day on “How to Stop Izan.”

There had been diagrams. Clips. Even jokes about tranquilizer darts.

But now, on matchday, there were no punchlines left.

Just Haaland and Izan, standing side by side, hands behind their backs, eyes scanning the roar of the Etihad like warriors measuring a battlefield.

Then, as the final call to return to the locker rooms came, they broke apart—no more words needed.

The magician and the machine would meet again… in ninety minutes of thunder.

…………..

The Etihad roared to life beneath the floodlights, a cathedral of modern football rising in steel and sound.

The air pulsed with anticipation, banners rippling in the stands, phones raised, scarves twirling—Super Sunday in every sense.

Inside the commentary gantry high above the pitch, the familiar voice of Peter Drury echoed into living rooms and bars across the globe, carrying the gravity of occasion with lyrical weight.

“Manchester. September sunset. Floodlights on full glare. A stage prepared for the champions of the now and perhaps, the champions of the next.”

He paused, letting the stadium noise wash through, then continued.

“Manchester City versus Arsenal. The relentless machine against the rising artists. Pep Guardiola’s empire hosts Mikel Arteta’s revolution—and at the centre of it, two remarkable footballing forces: Erling Haaland, the terminator; and Izan Hernández, the teenage alchemist.”

Beside him, Jim Beglin leaned in with the pragmatism of a seasoned voice.

“It’s a clash that feels… different, Pete. Not just title implications, but identity. Arsenal aren’t just showing up anymore—they’re coming to take something. And City know it.”

The camera panned across the tunnel just moments before kick-off, players lined up shoulder-to-shoulder.

Saka with the armband, chin raised. Haaland, expression blank but intense.

And Izan, eyes scanning the pitch like he already knew how the opening five minutes would unfold.

Peter continued, steady and deliberate.

“And here’s how they line up tonight, starting with the home side, Manchester City…”

“Ederson is in goal, the Brazilian returning to Premier League duty. Captain Kyle Walker slots in at right-back, with Manuel Akanji and Rúben Dias as the central defensive pairing.

On the left, Josko Gvardiol—starting despite speculation that Nathan Aké might get the nod.

Rodri sits at the base of midfield, partnered by the returning Ilkay Gündogan and the ever-reliable Bernardo Silva playing slightly further forward.

Out wide, a new look: Sávio on the right, Jérémy Doku on the left. And of course—up top, the man who needs no introduction—Erling Haaland.”

Jim added, “That’s a front three of speed, chaos, and a finishing monster in Haaland. City are going full throttle tonight.”

Peter transitioned smoothly. “And for Arsenal, a side unbeaten this season and carrying Champions League momentum…”

“David Raya starts between the posts. At right-back, Jurriën Timber makes his return to the Premier League XI. The center-back pairing—Saliba and Gabriel Magalhães—has been rock solid so far.

At left-back, Riccardo Calafiori gets the nod after his performance midweek.

Up next is the midfield trio of Thomas Partey holding, Declan Rice alongside him, and Kai Havertz a little further forward.

On the wings: Bukayo Saka captains the side from the right, Martinelli from the left… and through the middle, wearing number ten—seventeen-year-old Izan Hernández, who just days ago lit up Bergamo.”

Jim whistled under his breath.

“That’s a bold call, putting Izan as a sort of false nine-slash-10, but it’s Arteta all over. He wants overloads, movement, and unpredictability. And if anyone can rattle City’s shape, it’s that kid.”

Down at pitch level, the referee checked his watch.

The crowd stood, rising into one long chorus of expectation.

Peter Drury’s voice dropped to a hush.

“Two teams. Two philosophies. One question: who bends… and who breaks?”

A/N: Okay the latest Golden ticket chapter to meet the number of golden tickets this book has. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the alst chapter of the day.

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