God Of football

Chapter 473: 9 Minutes

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?”

The opening whistle had barely faded before the match snapped into breathless motion.

Manchester City immediately established their rhythm, probing with passes that zipped across the Etihad’s pristine surface like tracer fire.

From the touchline, Pep Guardiola stood rigid, arms crossed, eyes darting—already calculating, already twitching with every movement of the ball.

Inside the gantry, Peter Drury’s voice laced the action with gravitas.

“Early signs of City dominance… the familiar metronome. Rodri, the fulcrum… Bernardo, ghosting between lines. Arsenal aren’t sitting deep—but they’re certainly bracing.”

Jim Beglin chimed in as Doku glided past Timber on the left flank with a sudden burst.

“Yeah, Doku’s got the jets. That’s the matchup to watch. Timber’s a solid defender, but Doku’s acceleration is world-class.”

Arsenal weren’t retreating, but they weren’t reckless either. Rice anchored the midfield, guiding Partey beside him as if to remind him that this wasn’t just any other match.

They couldn’t afford to over-commit this time.

Izan dropped into little pockets of space between Rodri and Dias, dragging the latter out of line for just a second before spinning out of reach.

But each time Arsenal looked to spring forward, a blue wall collapsed around them.

City recycled. Again and again.

Then—danger.

It began with a moment of patience, then a sudden shift. Walker took a quick throw-in, sending Sávio darting down the right.

He took a touch, once, then twice before feinting to the inside right of Calafiori.

The Brazilian squared low across the box, the arsenal defense stuck to Haaland as he was mainly the target of their crosses but the former Dortmund man let it run.

And İlkay Gündogan arrived.

He didn’t hammer it. He passed it, side-footed with precision toward the far corner.

Peter’s voice tightened.

“Gündogan! Oh, how close was that?!”

Raya was rooted, beaten by the craft more than the pace.

The entire Etihad gasped—but the net didn’t ripple.

The ball grazed the outside of the post and spun out of bounds.

Jim winced, half chuckling.

“That’s inches, Pete. I mean… maybe centimetres. He’d opened the door and nearly walked through it. Arsenal have been warned.”

Gündogan clapped his hands once in frustration, then held up an apologetic thumbs-up to Haaland, who nodded silently.

The Norwegian striker hadn’t moved much, but his presence had manipulated space the way a piano key shapes a chord.

Partey pointed and barked at Gabriel Magalhães to cover better, as Haaland wasn’t the only threat they were dealing with.

Down the touchline, Arteta’s jaw tightened.

He turned to his staff. One minute of space—one missed assignment, and Gündogan nearly punished them.

Still, Arsenal responded with steel.

Calafiori took a more aggressive stance on Sávio.

Saliba stepped higher.

And Izan began dropping even deeper, drawing Rodri toward him and flicking first-time passes out to the flanks.

A battle plan was unfolding in real-time, each move a gambit against the champions’ control.

Peter Drury steadied his tone as play resumed.

“It’s a pace befitting the fixture… and City very nearly made it tell. Arsenal, youthful as they are, cannot afford even a breath of complacency.”

A few City fans groaned. Some clapped.

The Arsenal end, far smaller but infinitely louder in defiance, roared their escape.

On the touchline, Mikel Arteta turned to the bench and gestured with both hands: Focus. We go again.

And go again they did.

Arsenal built patiently from the back—Saliba commanding, Raya calm, Rice dropping deep to create a passing triangle with Partey and Timber.

There was a sharpness to their movement now, like blood stirred by the proximity of danger.

At first, City didn’t sense it. They pressed, but not fully.

They tracked, but not religiously.

Pep was barking, but not urgently.

It was just minute six. They had time.

And then, the storm cracked open.

A misplaced layoff from Bernardo Silva was pounced upon by Partey just past the halfway line.

He swept it wide for Calafiori, who’d already taken a yard of space off Doku.

Martinelli checked inside, drawing Gvardiol, and then released it short. Arsenal’s triangles were forming again.

“City sitting a little off here,” Peter Drury observed from the gantry.

“They’re giving Arsenal just a bit too much oxygen to move through the thirds.”

And in that sliver of space, something awakened.

Calafiori played it in to Havertz.

Havertz touched it toward Rice.

Rice sent it forward—flat, zipping, clean.

And then it reached him.

Izan Hernández.

He picked it up with his back to goal just outside the centre circle, his frame half-shadowed by Rodri’s looming presence.

The Etihad bristled—just enough to notice.

He shifted left, drawing Rodri forward.

Then came the flick. Not to pass. But to destroy.

With the softest touch of the outside boot, Izan spun inside, letting Rodri commit to a run that no longer existed. One Man gone.

Dias read it too late. He lunged and Izan toe-tapped it forward—close control, surgical—and then let his heel fake a drag-back.

Dias stuttered. And just at that moment, Izan accelerated past his right shoulder.

Two Men Gone.

Akanji stepped up to stop the surge, but he was flat-footed.

Izan didn’t go around. He went through, toe-poking the ball ahead before slicing his body diagonally, shoulder down, gliding like mercury through space too narrow for humans.

Akanji reached out and grabbed Izan’s shirt but the momentum the latter held was far past his grip strength.

“OH, GET OUT OF HERE!” Jim Beglin screamed.

“HE’S JUST TAKEN THREE OF THEM OUT IN A SINGLE BREATH!”

Now the box was in view.

Ederson, scrambling to narrow the angle, rushed out.

Izan waited.

The stadium seemed to hang.

He shaped to shoot.

Then froze.

His left foot stopped, deceived everyone. Even Ederson.

And with a sharp twist, he dragged the ball behind his standing leg, around the collapsing keeper.

And only then, once the City backline had all dropped to their knees, did he gently slot it with his right into the far corner.

Silence.

Then a roar.

Then chaos.

The away fans detonated like a grenade. Bodies launched into the air. Shirts came off. Scarves flailed.

People screamed his name until it wasn’t even words anymore.

Just rhythm and mania.

“THAT IS ABSURD!” Peter’s voice was cracking.

“WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT? A BOY NOT EVEN OLD ENOUGH TO DRINK HAS JUST SLICED OPEN THE BEST TEAM IN ENGLAND LIKE HE’S PLAYING STREET FOOTBALL!”

City players stared at each other in disbelief.

Guardiola had frozen mid-step.

Then, tilted his head.

And smiled.

Not because he enjoyed it.

But in football, sometimes even your worst nightmares earn your respect.

“Ahh, we should have fought harder for him,” Guardiola said slowly, while Izan walked away towards the corner flag.

He turned slowly, deliberately, toward the City fans behind the goal who’d been laughing just minutes before. He lifted both arms.

Then, amid the storm of jeers, boos, and disbelief—he bowed.

Elegant.

Defiant.

Every defender he’d passed turned their backs.

Ederson sat up, mouth open, while Akanji, near the former, kicked the post.

On the touchline, Arteta exploded out of his technical area—fists clenched, veins visible in his neck.

The Arsenal bench emptied. Saka had both hands on his head, laughing. Martinelli charged over, jumping on Izan’s back.

Calafiori was punching the air like a madman.

1–0.

Just seven minutes in, but it was already looking lively.

Etihad Stadium roared to life again, the home crowd trying to drown out the lingering Arsenal chants still ringing from the away section.

The Manchester City players jogged back into their half, heads bowed in momentary disbelief after Izan Hernández’s masterclass had sliced through them.

But if Arsenal’s lead was a statement, what followed from Manchester City was a thunderous rebuttal.

“Manchester City restart… stunned for a moment, but never out of it. You don’t knock this team down without expecting a response.”

Arsenal hadn’t even finished repositioning before City’s gears began whirring, clicking into place with the precision of a machine built for vengeance.

Rodri snapped the ball into motion, driving a low pass to Bernardo Silva, who immediately turned under pressure from Rice and slipped a delicate ball into Sávio out wide.

The young Brazilian’s acceleration lit up the left flank like a jolt of electricity.

He zipped past Timber with a feint and a drag, the Arsenal right-back stumbling in pursuit.

Calafiori stepped out of the back line to engage him, but Sávio dinked the ball past the Italian with a cheeky toe poke, regathered on the other side, and surged ahead toward the final third.

“That’s silky from Sávio! He’s opened them up!” Jim Beglin’s voice surged into the flow, matching the sudden rise in tempo.

Sávio, near the edge of the box, drew Saliba out, but instead of engaging directly, he squared it across to Ilkay Gündogan, who, having drifted between Partey and Havertz, let the ball run past his body and fed it straight into the path of Jérémy Doku storming in from the opposite wing.

“Danger for Arsenal again—Doku’s in!” Peter screamed as the Arsenal men ran to cover the space.

Gabriel closed the distance fast, but Doku had already spotted the danger man and floated a perfect cross into the heart of the box.

The moment it left his foot, the Etihad crowd sensed what was coming.

Erling Haaland had been quiet until now, granting the match had just started—but that didn’t matter.

City’s Norse behemoth had ghosted between Saliba and Calafiori and leaped like a tower unmoored from Earth.

David Raya lunged forward, arms stretched and body poised—but it was futile.

Haaland met the ball with a thudding, ruthless header.

Bang.

A/N: This is the last chapter of yesterday. The first of today will be arriving soon. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

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