God Of football

Chapter 502: Point To Prove

The roar inside St Mary’s was deafening—but not from the home crowd.

It was the travelling Arsenal faithful who had turned the south coast into a north London outpost, their chants spilling into the sky, echoing off the red-seated stands, while the home supporters sat stunned and hollow-eyed behind their flags and foam hands.

On the digital scoreboard, the numbers glared like a wound.

SOU 0 – 3 ARS

The camera panned across the Southampton players trudging toward the tunnel, heads bowed, jerseys already streaked with sweat and frustration.

On the opposite end, Arsenal moved like men who knew they had done a job already—but whose standards wouldn’t let them rest yet.

The match had been only 45 minutes old, and yet Izan Hernandez had already laced it with his fingerprints.

Three assists. Three different styles. One conductor.

The first had come just after the ninth minute.

A sharp Arsenal corner, whipped in from the left by Izan, had bent devilishly into the danger zone.

The trajectory dipped wickedly between the penalty spot and the six-yard box.

Thomas Partey, climbing like a skyscraper unbothered by the clouds, thundered the header home, his dreadlocks trailing behind him like a comet’s tail as the net bulged and the away end exploded.

1–0.

The second was a whisper through a lock.

Southampton, trying to reset, had pushed their full-backs higher.

But one sloppy touch on the halfway line, punished by Mikel Merino’s interception, had triggered Arsenal’s rhythm.

The ball went to Izan.

With his hips open and his eyes scanning, he drifted inward, carrying the ball centrally.

A small pause. A shift. A sudden, slicing ball through two defenders, weight perfect.

Bukayo Saka didn’t need to break stride—he stormed into it and crashed his finish high and beyond the keeper’s reach.

2–0.

The third was class in orchestration.

Southampton were reeling.

Their shape had fractured, midfield legs chasing shadows.

Arsenal moved the ball with ruthless calm.

Kiwior passed to Merino.

Merino found Izan again on the left, just outside the area.

A feint. A stutter.

Then a left-footed cross curled around the recovering centre-back, catching the trailing runner perfectly—Mikel Merino himself.

The Spaniard, in his first Premier League start for Arsenal since the previous month, didn’t hesitate to impress.

He powered the header low and across goal.

It kissed the post before rippling the net.

3–0.

And with that, St Mary’s had gone silent—at least the Southampton end.

But Arsenal? Arsenal were singing.

”Izan! Izan! Izan!” the away crowd roared, hands raised like they were witnessing a show rather than a football match.

The commentators were quick to echo the sentiment.

”It’s a first-half masterclass from the sixteen-year-old. Three assists, all different, all sublime. He’s orchestrating the game like a man ten years his senior.”

”And look at this... look at how in control he is. How he just influences the match—how he bends it toward him.”

”Three assists. He’s on for something special today.”

As the halftime whistle blew, the players began to make their way off the pitch.

Saka jogged up beside Izan and gave him a light tap on the back of the head.

”Three in 45, eh? Slow day for you?” he joked, breathless.

Izan smiled, sweat gleaming along his jawline. ”Definitely a slow day.”

Behind them, Mikel Arteta barked orders in short, clipped Spanish and English bursts, but even he wore the shadow of a grin.

He clapped twice to draw the squad together before they disappeared down the tunnel.

.......

The walls of the away dressing room at St Mary’s echoed with the hiss of opened bottles, the scuffing of boots against tile, and the low hum of exhausted conversation.

Steam drifted from coffee cups, while a physio passed a cold pack to Zinchenko, who was grinning like a schoolboy as he recalled his backheel attempt from the first half.

Mikel Arteta entered last, shutting the door behind him.

His voice cut through the buzz with calm command.

”Listen—listen,” he said, clapping twice. ”Three-nil, yes. But don’t let that fool you. They’re going to come at us with everything after the restart, especially with their fans fuming like that. I want us smart, sharp, and ready to kill the game if the chance comes.”

He paused, sweeping his gaze across the room, then softened slightly.

”That said,” he added, folding his arms, ”I’m thinking of giving some of you a bit of rest in the second half. International break’s coming, and I know what’s ahead. Not everyone will get a holiday.”

Some of the players nodded.

Saka leaned back on the bench with his arms crossed, catching his breath while Partey adjusted his shin pads in silence, still riding the high of his bullet header.

Arteta moved across the room until he stopped in front of Izan, who sat calmly, his white Adidas boots still flecked with grass.

”You, especially,” Arteta said, nodding down at him.

”You’ve done more than enough, Izan. I’m thinking we take you off early—save those legs.”

Izan looked up slowly, a crooked smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.

”Coach...”

Arteta raised an eyebrow, arms still folded.

”I haven’t scored yet,” Izan said, almost sheepishly, though his eyes sparkled.

There was a beat of silence. Then Saka laughed. Loudly.

”Ohhh, he wants the hat-trick of goal contributions,” Bukayo teased, nudging Nwaneri beside him.

”Guy already fed three people and still wants dessert.”

Zinchenko chuckled from across the room.

”You feed a striker three times in Ukraine, he brings you wine the next day. We should be thanking him.”

Izan held up his hands in mock surrender.

”Just a few minutes. Ten, tops. I’ll be quick.”

Arteta exhaled, shaking his head but grinning now, a deep warmth in his eyes.

”You’ve got ten, chico. If you haven’t scored by then, I’m yanking you.”

Izan nodded solemnly. ”Deal.”

”You miss, and you’re doing two extra laps next week,” Arteta warned playfully, already turning back to the rest of the group.

”I’ll do three if I miss!” Izan called after him.

”Don’t let him off easy,” Martinelli chimed in, wrapping a towel around his neck.

”He’s got a new deal and stuff. Make him carry our boots to Colney.”

More laughter followed, but there was no edge to it—only admiration, joy, and the kind of camaraderie that only grew in the warmth of a winning performance.

Arteta clapped again.

”Alright, alright. Let’s finish this properly. Stay focused. Kill the game early, then we manage the tempo. Everyone clear?”

A series of nods followed before Arteta turned towards his coaches, the plan already in motion.

The second half resumed under grey skies, the wind picking up slightly as the away fans huddled together, braced for more.

But for Izan, the weather didn’t matter.

From the whistle, he was on it.

Every movement had intent—every touch, a mission.

He dropped deep to receive from Jorginho, turned, and burst forward, feinting right before sending a curler to the far post, but newly introduced,

Ramsdale saved it.

”Well, if anyone knows Izan Hernandez’s shooting angles, it’s the man who used to warm up alongside him at Colney,” the commentator said with a chuckle.

In the 49th minute, Martinelli slipped Izan through again—a tight angle, low strike, but Ramsdale blocked it with his knee.

”That’s three efforts in four minutes for the young Spaniard... and three superb saves from Ramsdale. The former Gunner is holding the line like his life depends on it.”

The Saints began to counter, pushing up with Alcaraz and Aribo probing Arsenal’s left.

In transition, Saka nearly found Izan again, but Bednarek muscled him off before he could even get a shot away.

The ten-minute window was closing, and Arteta stood on the touchline, arms folded, glancing at Carlos Cuesta with a faint smirk.

It was time.

On the pitch, Izan looked over.

Saw him.

Then—Raya booted it.

One fluid motion.

From goalmouth to the halfway line, a pinpoint long ball.

The ball dropped like a comet, spinning toward the left channel.

Izan adjusted, didn’t even take it with his laces.

Instead, he let it bounce up behind him and flicked it over the incoming Walker-Peters with his heel, sending it into a beautiful looping arc that hung in the air like it knew what was coming.

The crowd gasped as he spun, tracked the falling ball, and—bang.

A left-footed volley, crisp, low, and fierce.

Ramsdale dove— full stretch but....

Too late.

The net rippled.

4–0 Arsenal.

The away end detonated.

Shirts twirled in the air, fans jumped, roared, and hugged.

The commentator could hardly contain himself.

”OH, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT! HE ASKED FOR IT SINCE THE START OF THE HALF—AND HE HAS IT. HE TURNS POETRY INTO STEEL! IZAN HERNANDEZ, WITH A FLICK AND A VISION STRAIGHT FROM THE FUTURE!”

Izan didn’t wheel away.

He turned, slow, cool—and walked toward Arteta on the touchline.

Grinning.

Then, with two fingers, he tugged the corners of his lips up into a mock smile, nodding like a schoolboy who just proved his point.

Arteta shook his head, laughing helplessly.

Even Cuesta couldn’t help but clap.

A/N: Okay, last of the day. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you tomorrow or in a few hours, whatever works