God Of football

Chapter 588: Pressure Change.

[Away dressing room]

The room was thick with the kind of silence that wasn’t about nerves — but calculation.

Rúben Amorim had spent the entire fifteen minutes of the break drawing, erasing, and redrawing lines over a tactical board that was now starting to look like war plans.

But only one name had a red circle around it.

IZAN.

”If he drifts wide, two men. If he drops deep, press from behind and cut the lane to Ødegaard. Don’t lunge or try to foul him. We can’t afford to hand him any free kick. We all know what he can do and we’ve experienced firsthand what he does with deadballs so don’t afford him any,” Amorim rattled off, pacing.

”He doesn’t get tired,” someone muttered.

It wasn’t a complaint — just an exhausted fact.

Amorim ignored it.

”We’ve got forty-five minutes. If we don’t stop him, we can’t stop Arsenal. And if we go out here—tonight—it won’t just be a loss. It’ll be a headline. It’ll be a season cracked open.”

The men nodded, silent, serious.

This wasn’t just about advancing.

It was survival.

One of the game officials stuck his head inside the room calling that the break was up.

Amorim turned and fired off a few words before leaving the room with his men.

Back in the tunnel, United’s players emerged slowly, their gazes already drifting across the way.

And there he was.

Izan, calm, his hair now loose, laces double-looped and hands behind his back.

His first half had already written a warning on the wall and the scoreboard.

Saka stood beside him, mouth twitching in amusement.

”You feel that?” he said, leaning slightly toward Izan.

”They’re staring like we’re in a horror film.”

Izan smirked, not even glancing back.

”I mean... if they’re going to lose, they might as well lose to something unreal.”

That made Saka chuckle.

The broadcast picked up just as the players filed out into the booming sound of 60,000 layered emotions.

”Well, if the first half didn’t feel like a cup occasion to you,” the lead commentator began, ”I’m pretty sure you can feel it now.”

”This is knockout football,” his partner added.

”Two teams who expect to lift silverware this season. But only one leaves this stadium smiling tonight. And so far — Arsenal have leaned into that pressure better.”

”They’ve been electric,” the first replied.

”They’ve been purposeful. And if we’re honest, they’ve had the one thing United haven’t — a generational force up top.”

”Brace for Izan in the first forty-five. The third? Who knows. United need more than tactics now. They need belief and ability to match. They need to play their hearts out in here in the Emirates or they will be sent packing out of this competition”

And just like that, the whistle blew.

Kick-off.

United didn’t wait.

They zipped the ball around with the ball mostly pivoting between their Portuguese maestro, Bruno and Casemiro who had been subbed on at halftime for the wasteful Ugarte.

One would have expected a bit more shipping around of the ball but it didn’t happen,

The ball went straight to Garnacho on the left, and the Argentine wasted no time showing his intent.

He darted past Rice’s reach, forcing Ben White to shift quickly.

White was ready this time — or so it seemed.

But Garnacho’s body feint sold it.

He skipped past with the grace of a ballroom dancer in boots and carried the ball down the line.

The away crowd surged with sound.

United fans, fists raised, roared in sync with Garnacho’s run.

”He’s gone!” the commentator called.

”Ben White’s off balance!”

The cross from the Argentine after reaching the byline was instant.

No hesitation.

Midrange and hard, slicing behind Arsenal’s backline and in front of Raya.

And there came the newly introduced, Amad Diallo — launching forward.

His outstretched arm met the ball first — a flick before he could tap the ball and it bounced, skidded off the post, and into the net to the cheers of the fans.

GOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLL

The Arsenal players turned to the referee in fury, shouting and gesturing for handball.

The replays made it clear — it had touched the arm.

But the official pointed to the centre circle.

The goal stood.

2–1.

Amad snatched the ball from the net and sprinted it back to the centre spot, thumping his chest as United’s bench roared and Amorim clapped.

Their fans shook the steel rafters with sound, now settled that the goal had been given.

”Well, controversy or not — they’ve got one back,” the commentator barked.

”And with the way they started this half? Don’t look away.”

”United are alive. Arsenal are rattled. And that man—” the camera panned to Izan, standing at the halfway line, hands on hips, ”—is about to be called upon once again.”

The restart came with weight.

Arsenal kicked off with the lead still theirs, but the tide had shifted ever so slightly.

The United end was back to life, loud and guttural as if they could drag the game back by sound alone.

From the moment the whistle blew, their press was relentless.

Mainoo surged forward, Bruno shadowing Rice tightly and Garnacho sprinted like a bloodhound, pressing Ben White before he even received the ball.

Every touch had pressure.

Every pass had a shadow tethered to it.

Gabriel pinged it wide to Zinchenko, who barely had time to take a breath before Amad flew in with his studs skimming the turf.

The Ukrainian had to go long.

And Arteta didn’t like that.

On the touchline, he gestured furiously—flattening his hands against the air.

”Keep it on the floor!” he barked, his voice cutting through the shouts.

But it was hard.

United were no longer patient.

They were hunting, something Amorim had always been trying to instil in them but never seemed to work.

Even Ødegaard, always composed, struggled to find rhythm under pressure.

His first two touches were clean, the third was a miscue, and the fourth saw the ball stripped from his feet by a charging Casemiro.

The Emirates had dipped into a nervous murmur.

”Arsenal... suddenly looking rushed,” one commentator noted, the tension bleeding into his tone.

”That goal from Diallo has really shifted the momentum.”

His partner agreed.

”And you can see United feeding off that energy. They’re pushing now. This isn’t just a counterpunch—it’s a full press.”

Izan had dropped deep by then.

Past the halfway line, asking for it.

Gabriel saw him—skipped two options and zipped a pass through the middle.

It was fast.

Slightly behind.

But Izan took it like he always did—with that effortless snap trap, then a shoulder drop, and suddenly Mainoo was chasing daylight in the night.

He skipped past Casemiro’s lunge, afterwards then let the ball roll with him into space.

But the United Wall held firm deeper in.

He could have gone alone but the desired result would have been hard to materialise so he cut it back and let the wave die down.

The crowd applauded—not for a goal, but for composure.

Still, the shift was clear.

”This is pressure now,” the commentator said, as Arsenal reset again.

”They’re ahead—but only just. And Man United... they’re making it feel like less and less.”

Arteta clapped once, then shouted to Ødegaard and Rice—urging calm, shape, clarity.

But it wasn’t up to them anymore.

The edge from the united pressure had just begun to settle again when Saka danced onto the ball at the right edge of the final third, nudging it forward with a half-glide.

But before he could take another step, Izan called for it—sharp, firm, already in motion.

Saka didn’t hesitate and passed it right over into Izan’s stride.

Izan took over.

And the Emirates rose, fans forgetting that there were even seats.

He had Dalot one-on-one.

Again.

The Portuguese fullback squared up—legs low, arms wide—but Izan was already painting the picture.

A lean inside, a faint shoulder dip, then—

A flick.

Not around him.

But through him.

”Nutmeg! He’s sent Dalot to the shops!” the commentator burst out, the tone halfway between laughter and disbelief.

Dalot’s legs barely closed before the ball was through, and by the time he twisted around, Izan was already curling around the edge of the box, setting his hips like he was about to clip it across the goal.

But he didn’t open his body.

He let the ball trail a fraction longer.

Then—Trivela.

Outside of the boot that spun wickedly, a whip disguised as a whisper.

The ball curled viciously, swerving outside the post, but the physics betrayed it late—it came back, kissing the outside of the far post with a ping that echoed like a bell through the winter air.

The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in gasping awe.

”Ooohhh!”

A sound of reverence.

Of shock.

Of something dazzling.

Even Onana froze.

The ball didn’t go in—but the warning had.

A/N: First of the day. Sorry for the late releases, I will release the last of the day in a bit and then the Golden ticket one and then try to follow up with the first of today. have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.