God Of football

Chapter 574: Done With Them.

[Second Half]

The camera faded in from the studios of the halftime pundit session just as the players began walking back onto the pitch.

The lights were a touch sharper now, the shadows longer, the cold air sinking further across the grass.

Brentford looked tense—shoulders squared but heavy.

Arsenal, on the other hand, looked settled, as if they weren’t satisfied with their first-half showing.

The ball wasn’t rolling yet, but the tone had already returned.

”Well, if you thought Arsenal would slow down at four-nil, I wouldn’t count on it. That wasn’t just a dominant half—it was controlled, purposeful. And with the kind of movement and passing we saw? They don’t need a reset. They need the whistle.”

Down on the pitch, Izan jogged out slowly with Ødegaard beside him.

The Norwegian leaned in, muttering something low—something only meant for one person.

Izan didn’t answer.

He tied his hair back instead, pulling the band snugly and letting his fingers settle just above the knot as both sets of players walked to their respective positions before the referee joined Mbuemo at the center of the pitch.

A couple of moments later, Brentford kicked off.

They didn’t charge.

They tried to build, testing the waters with quick passes and positional changes of players.

But Arsenal closed quickly again, and within a minute, the ball was back at Izan’s feet.

That’s when the change became visible.

Brentford adjusted their shape—immediately.

Frank had pushed three onto him now.

One in front.

One behind and the other rubbing off his shoulder.

They didn’t press with violence—they hovered.

Angled their runs, and shadowed him in every zone he drifted into.

But it didn’t matter.

The first time he touched the ball, he let it roll across his body and away from pressure.

The defender on his back lunged, but Izan had already let the contact slide past him like water over stone.

Another closed from the right and again, Izan dipped, let him commit, then rode the bump with a shrug of the shoulder and used the momentum to skip into open space.

”They’ve tripled him up. Literally three-on-one—and still no touch on the ball.”

”I don’t know if it’s physical strength or just... balance. The defenders are right there. They’re grabbing shirts, clipping ankles—but they can’t even disrupt him, let alone stop him.”

He didn’t look hurried.

Every step, every change of direction, was clean.

Not flashy.

Just exact.

Then it came.

Brentford lost shape again—a bad pass across midfield that Rice intercepted before flipping it forward into Ødegaard.

The captain didn’t even look and just rolled the ball first time to Izan, who had already started moving before the ball was halfway to him.

He took it on the turn—right boot across his body, dragging the ball into space.

One man, Norsgaard, stepped in but Izan glided past him as if he wasn’t there.

Another reached for him—shirt stretched in his fist.

Izan shifted pace, stayed upright, and shook it off.

Now he was through.

Clean.

Inside the box.

Flekken came rushing again.

But Izan wasn’t thinking about passing, even with Saka to his right.

He wasn’t thinking at all.

He was executing.

One touch to steady.

One to lift.

The ball curled from the inside of his right boot, rising just enough to clear the keeper’s shoulder, and dipping just enough to fall behind him.

Net.

Ripple.

Silence.

Then—

GOOOOOOOOALLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

”Welcome to Izan Wonderland. Hat-trick. Seventeen years old. Away from home. First match of the year.”

”And he makes it look like it’s just... part of the job and to be honest, for him, it is just another day at work.”

Down on the pitch, Izan stood still inside the box, chest rising slowly under the floodlights.

The ball sat behind him in the net, barely bouncing.

No wild celebration followed.

No chest-pounding or knee-sliding.

Just a glance upward, brief and private—like checking the sky to make sure it was still there.

Before he started.

1

2

3

Three goals, each representing a finger he threw up.

And all of it was done without drama.

”You can send one defender, two, even three—it’s not going to matter. He doesn’t beat pressure with tricks. He just absorbs it.”

”And when he moves, it’s like he’s already lived the next two seconds of play. Like we’re all catching up.”

A ripple of reaction circled the stadium.

On one side, Arsenal’s traveling fans chanted his name—rhythmic, unforced, not wild with celebration but steady, almost reverent.

On the other side, Brentford supporters sat with their hands in their laps, heads tilted slightly, not in anger but disbelief.

A few clapped.

A few stood up and just... watched him walk while a few started leaving the Brentford community stadium, not bearing to see their team being dismantled like an overdue Lego set.

Because how do you boo a seventeen-year-old who just dismantled your defense without saying a word?

Izan turned and jogged back toward midfield with his arms loose and his shoulders still.

Brentford 0 – Arsenal 5.

And it wasn’t the score that lingered in the air.

It was the sense that something had just changed.

Quietly.

For good.

....

A few minutes later, the camera began lingering on the rows of thinning seats along the Brentford end.

A few scarves remained draped over shoulders, but most of the crowd had filtered out by the time the scoreboard had ticked past six.

By seven, entire sections stood empty.

Only a few die-hards remained—hands in pockets, still, eyes tracking the pitch like they were hoping for something less final.

The commentary team had dialed back the energy.

The voices were low now. Reflective.

”You’d be forgiven for thinking this was an Arsenal home game.”

”Yeah, the only sound left in the stadium is coming from that pocket of away fans. And honestly, they’ve had every reason to sing.”

”Brentford... they didn’t just lose control of the game. They lost the shape of it. And Arsenal—especially that front line—made them pay for every single step.”

The camera cut from the stands to the pitch.

Players shook hands.

Nothing showy.

No grins stretched too wide.

Just the kind of professional courtesy that follows a job done ruthlessly well.

Ødegaard shared a word with Jensen.

Zinchenko offered a quick shoulder bump to a Brentford midfielder while Salnia hugged Raya like the result had barely registered.

And then the camera pulled back—wide-angle—capturing it all before it tilted upward toward the scoreboard one last time.

BRENTFORD 1 – ARSENAL 7

The image held for a moment.

Nothing needed to be said, then, ”Seven-one. Arsenal started the second half of the season with a statement—not just about form but pure ruthless play by Izan to demolish Brentford on the night.”

The broadcast cut to Izan.

Walking slowly behind the others, shirt clinging with sweat, match ball tucked under one arm like it had been promised to him days ago.

He didn’t look up at the camera.

Didn’t wave.

Just walked, gaze forward, boots brushing grass like he hadn’t finished yet.

A graphic overlay followed him on screen just as he entered the tunnel.

IZAN MIURA HERNANDEZ — FULL-TIME STATS

Goals: 4

Assists: 2

Pass Accuracy: 98%

Dribbles Completed: 11

Minutes Played: 90

Touches: 110

...

BRENTFORD – AWAY DRESSING ROOM – POST-MATCH

.....

The noise was muffled now—just low chatter, the occasional scrape of studs on tile, running water in the background.

Shirts had been peeled off, socks rolled down, and ice bags passed out, but the mood wasn’t explosive.

Arteta stood near the center of the room, not on a bench, not raised, just there.

”Good. Very good,” he said plainly without raising his voice.

He paused, letting the quiet settle around his words.

”That’s what happens when we play with intention. When we don’t let the other team shape the tempo. When we trust ourselves to punish mistakes, and we don’t chase anything.”

He looked around the room, meeting a few eyes.

Saka, Ødegaard, Martinelli.

Then he landed on Izan, who sat near the back, towel around his shoulders, boots off, still lacing his sneakers slowly.

”I don’t need to tell you what that was,” Arteta continued.

”You know.”

”Recover. Get home. Refocus. Because the job’s never just one game.”

And that was it.

No extra pageantry.

He stepped aside.

And the players returned to what they were doing and a few moments later, Izan stepped out into the chilled air.

A few fans remained behind the barriers—Arsenal supporters mostly

This wasn’t about football now and tightening behind the barricade as Izan moved towards the team bus.

The doors of the bus hissed open he came to a stop in front of it.

Inside, the cabin lights adjusted softly to his and the presence of the other players but Izan had his eyes on a different prize.

This wasn’t about football now.

This was about home.

A/N: Last of the day. Been having a bit of trouble so sorry if you feel like the quality has dropped a bit. Will make amend and it might sound insincere but I’m really sorry for the messy schedule. I really am trying to get back into the groove of things so please, bear with me for a bit. See you in a few with the Golden Ticket Chapter and the first of the day.