God Of football

Chapter 494: Man With A Repertioire.

The referee began to usher the Arsenal players back, clearing the penalty area.

The tension was thick enough to slice.

And as Marquinhos stepped back, the camera caught Izan standing near the edge of the box, biting the inside of his cheek, watching.

Waiting. The match had not even fully settled.

But now PSG had a golden chance to strike first and strike fear into the hearts of the Arsenal faithful.

The Emirates fell into an eerie hush as Marquinhos stepped up to the penalty spot.

“Here comes the PSG captain,” Darren Fletcher said, the tension rolling in his voice.

“A chance to silence this North London crowd early. Raya bouncing on his line…”

The Brazilian took a slow breath, shoulders squared, with his eyes fixed on Raya.

The whistle blew and Marquinhos surged forward, striking cleanly to his right, but Raya guessed it, diving with full extension and palming the ball wide.

“Saved! Raya saves it!” Clive Tyldesley exclaimed, voice rising above the roar of the home crowd.

“That’s a huge stop! Massive from the Spaniard!”

The Emirates erupted — a surge of relief and celebration crashing like a wave.

White and red shirts rushed toward Raya on the ground, clapping his back, Saka throwing both arms up and pounding his chest.

The away end, so recently loud, sank into grumbles and whistles.

But just as the Arsenal players turned away, a sharp blast from the referee’s whistle cut through the noise.

Heads turned. Confused murmurs.

Raya rose from the turf, arms half-extended as if to ask what now.

“Oh, hang on…” said Darren Fletcher, voice dipping with concern as the referee approached Raya.

“I think the referee’s seen something. He’s gesturing to the penalty spot again. What’s this?”

The official pointed clearly to the spot once more, then raised a hand and mimicked a forward step.

“No… he’s saying Raya was off his line!”

Boos thundered from the stands.

“Ah, the crowd will hate that,” Tyldesley muttered.

“But by the letter of the law, if the keeper moves off the line before the ball is struck… it has to be retaken.”

“You can see the frustration there,” Fletcher continued, “But the referee’s got support from the VAR crew. That’s a tough one for Raya — he did everything right.”

The PSG players looked to the heavens, some laughing nervously, others clapping as Marquinhos jogged over to reclaim the ball.

Kang-In Lee and Vitinha offered pats on the back as the former walked past them.

Even Donnarumma, far at the other end, gave a distant punch of encouragement.

In the stands, PSG supporters found their voice again.

“ALLEZ PARIS! ALLEZ PARIS!”

On the opposite end, Gooners hissed, arms flung up in disbelief.

Izan stood near the edge of the area, hands on hips, his jaw clenched, while Saka sidled up next to him.

“He’s not going the same way again, is he?”

Izan didn’t look at him. “If he does, we just have to pray Raya’s got it.”

The referee stepped back to position.

Arsenal’s backline formed outside the box.

The Emirates trembled.

Marquinhos placed the ball again.

Same spot. The same methodical breath as the whistle of the referee rang.

This time, Marquinhos opened his body and struck toward the same side, and again, Raya flew, fingertips connecting with the leather.

“Unbelievable!” both commentators shouted.

“Raya saves again!” Fletcher added.

But before the Emirates could explode, the ball spilled forward, just far enough.

Too far for Raya to smother.

Too slow for the defenders to react.

And Désiré Doué was there, electric-fast, slipping past Jurrien Timber and slotting the rebound low into the net.

Goal.

The away end combusted.

“Paris lead! Doué cleans it up, and the visitors are in front at the Emirates!”

The PSG players swarmed Doué at the corner flag while Marquinhos joyfully threw both fists into the air with a cry that echoed into the night.

Hakimi and Zaïre-Emery joined the pile, shouting over each other in celebration.

The PSG fans sang, chanting a hybrid chorus that had begun before the penalty was taken:

“Izan clubs, Izan sleeps! Paris scores while Arsenal weeps!”

Izan stuck his tongue out, stuck in place as he stared down toward Raya, who sat on the grass, thumping his glove into the turf with quiet fury.

The defenders stood frozen — Timber gesturing in anger, Gabriel muttering under his breath.

Saka ran back to the centre circle, slapping his thigh, frustration bubbling.

“That’s a gut-punch,” Darren Fletcher said.

“Raya did his job twice. Arsenal’s defense… didn’t react.”

“The entire Emirates, all watching Izan’s every move tonight. He’s been involved, sure, but he’s not at his scintillating best. And now, Arsenal trail early in front of their own fans.”

As PSG celebrated near the touchline, Izan slowly jogged toward the halfway line, chewing on his lip, sweat sticking his fringe to his forehead.

From the sidelines, Arteta stood with arms crossed, lips pressed tightly as Cuesta leaned in beside him, gesturing toward the defense.

But their voices were drowned out by the din of French jubilation and North London frustration.

“Just 13 minutes in, Plenty of time left,” the second commentator said.

“But Arsenal are chasing now. PSG look sharp. The Emirates is loud… but not all in Arsenal’s favour.”

The match restarted with the Arsenal players playing like they were afraid of the football.

And Paris sought to punish it. From the touchline, Arteta roared at his men, gesturing at their leaky press, even he could see through from the touchline.

And then something flipped.

No obvious gesture.

No outburst.

Just a shift — barely perceptible, like the stillness before a storm.

Izan, jaw set, moved in tighter toward the center, eyes narrowing as PSG tried to ease the ball around in midfield, playing with a sudden arrogance and confidence.

It was Vitinha who received the ball on the half-turn, too casual, too slow.

Izan was on him like a shadow made of glue.

The crunch of boot on ball echoed beneath the floodlights as he snapped into the tackle, all timing, all instinct — not malicious, not wild.

Just clean. Precise.

Controlled violence at its most elegant.

The Emirates roared.

“He’s had enough,” said Clive Tyldesley, tone rising.

“Izan Hernandez has just drawn the line. Almost seems to say to the Paris players that he is the big man in this yard.”

Arsenal sprang, their players now energetic like their puppeteer had finally tightened the strings on them.

Like wolves scenting weakness, the players surged up the pitch.

Jurrien Timbers shouted for numbers, Rice shoved forward from the pivot, and even Raya gestured to press.

Saka received Izan’s quick pass on the run, darted down the right, making light work of Nuno Mendes before pushing through with a cross but it was deflected for a corner before Havertz who the Author even forgot was playing could get to it.

Suddenly, PSG weren’t dancing anymore.

They were scrambling.

Arsenal swarmed like it was minute ninety, not minute sixteen.

But the visitors were dangerous.

Always.

Doué, growing bolder by the second, began hugging the far touchline whenever he could find space.

In a sudden switch after Arsenal’s corner went to naught, Hakimi found him with a clever diagonal, and the winger slowed play to a crawl, standing over the ball.

Then came the showboating.

A flick. A drag-back.

A quick stepover that made the backtracking Timber hesitate before Izan came flying over, shutting the window with a sharp tackle that rattled the boards.

“Not today,” Fletcher murmured, almost impressed.

“He’s back in this, Clive. The kid’s locked in. I don’t even know where he’s coming from with these tackles.”

“I know, Clive, it’s personal. He’s got a point to prove.” Fletcher said, “To me, it just looks like he’s pursuing a vendetta, and I’m here for it.”

End-to-end, the game opened up.

Zaire-Emery tested Raya with a low drive before Saka flashed a ball across the face of goal that Havertz couldn’t quite connect with.

Declan Rice drilled wide next with his chance, while Hakimi whipped one in that Timber only just cleared.

“Breathless stuff,” Fletcher said. “We’ve not even hit the break, but it looks like a fight could almost happen.”

And it did, just that this fight was fought with slides, and the faces of players ending up in the grass.

In the 43rd minute, after a long spell of possession that saw the Gunners tap and tease their way toward PSG’s box, Saka picked it up near the edge of the area and darted past Mendes before being hauled down just a yard from the line.

The referee blew instantly and showed a yellow card to the former before pointing to an area just outside the Penalty area.

Free kick.

The Emirates howled. The PSG players argued.

And Izan stepped toward the ball as if fate had just given him a quiet nod.

“That’s dangerous,” Tyldesley said. “It’s barely a foot outside the box. This is prime territory.”

“And look who’s walking over,” Fletcher added. “A man, a boy, with a repertoire for converting these chances. 14 free kicks converted in his short career. Can he add another today to make it a 15th?”

A/N: First of the day. Okay. Have fun reading and I’ll ready the Golden ticket chapter for getting us to 180 GTs. byeee

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