God Of football

Chapter 591: Unfair Standards. [GT Chapter ]

The lighting bounced harshly off the Arsenal crest on the backdrop as the click of cameras pulsed in the room.

Izan stepped in, hair still damp, shirt collar crisp beneath a light bomber jacket.

He didn’t slump, but he didn’t stand to impress either—just ease, like someone used to noise but not numbed by it.

A few murmurs stirred among the press as the moderator began the session.

Then came the first question—quick, eager, pointed.

”Izan, two assists tonight. That’s a contribution most players would take home proudly, but some feel the expectations on you are... different. Fair?”

Izan exhaled slowly, wiped his palms on the thighs of his black track pants, and leaned slightly toward the mic.

”Fair? Well, it depends on who you ask,” he said, voice measured.

”People expect things when you perform a certain way for a while. That’s part of the deal. But today wasn’t like usual. Spurs defended deep and pressed hard. I didn’t get much room but I still found space twice so I’ll take that. They matched us today and Sonny did great today with his brace so I’d say we both played out our hearts today.”

A chuckle rose from the crowd—not mocking, but impressed by the calm.

A second journalist raised her hand, notepad already filled.

”There were a few tough tackles that went unpunished—your shirt was stretched to the limit at one point. Frustrating?”

He looked to the side briefly, recalling it before his eyes flicked back,

”Yeah, I mean... this is the Premier League. It’s physical. But let’s be honest, I’ve seen red cards given for less. Today, not so much. But no excuses. We take the result, and move on.”

A pause rang through the room as all the reporters bent to jot his words down.

Then someone from a rival tabloid leaned in, arms crossed, a familiar sceptical glint in his eye.

”Are you suggesting the referees favoured Spurs tonight?”

Izan held his gaze a second longer than usual.

”I’m saying decisions weren’t consistent. That’s all. I’m not blaming anyone. But if we’re going to talk about performance, we should talk about everything that shaped it. Fair is fair.”

That one made the room murmur.

A few exchanged looks while the other reporters near the back scribbled furiously.

”But two assists—solid numbers,” another added quickly, trying to pivot.

”Do you feel like you’re being judged by an unfair standard?”

Izan gave a small shrug and leaned back a little.

”Look, I know who I am. I know what I’ve done this season. People will always talk. Two assists, no goals? For some players, that’s their month. For me, maybe it’s an off-day. But that’s a good problem to have.”

A flicker of a grin. Just for a second.

”The match is over. We’re ahead in the race to some extent but we won’t be complacent. We are done with this so it’s time to focus on the next and hopefully win that one.”

The moderator nodded, signalling the end.

Izan stood, gave a brief ”thanks,” and walked off—back straight, steps unhurried.

....

The sun hadn’t even settled properly over London when the noise began.

Online, on air, in quiet cafés, supporters stirred sugar into their coffee while debating what they’d watched the night before — the North London Derby had left its imprint.

And Izan?

He was in the centre of it.

Again.

Every screen, every voice, every argument somehow drifted toward his name — not because he’d scored, but because he hadn’t.

The match had ended 3–3.

A draw.

A game of chaos, of emotion, of tackles and touchlines and tension.

Izan had walked away with two assists.

Two finely executed moments that had kept Arsenal’s head above the tide.

And yet...

”Two assists? Sure, but wasn’t this supposed to be the £500 million kid?”

”No goals. Not one. How is that not underwhelming?”

The critics weren’t subtle.

Some wore Spurs colours proudly.

Others came masked as neutrals.

A few — even within the Arsenal camp — whispered about expectations and spotlight pressure.

But others, louder, steadier, pushed back.

”He’s seventeen. He had two assists in a derby. Most grown men don’t leave a scratch on games like that.”

”Did you watch it? He was getting hammered every five minutes. Tackles flying in from all sides.”

”He’s not Superman. But that was close.”

Across the country, the headlines told two different stories.

THE TIMES ran with:

”Izan’s Quiet Brilliance: Two Assists, One Statement”

THE EXPRESS chose:

”£500M Star Under Fire After Derby Draw”

But it was the fans that made it loud.

Not just in volume — in how their words shaped the feeling.

Some Arsenal supporters were exasperated at the criticism.

Others were quietly uneasy about how high the bar had been set.

”He’s making excuses,” one rival fan tweeted.

”He’s answering a question. He literally said they’re moving on to the next game.”

The loudest voices weren’t even words — they were pictures.

Screenshots of Izan’s torn shirt.

Freeze-frames of challenges from behind, boots dragging on calf muscle.

One, now viral, showed Izan mid-sprint with both arms being yanked by Christian Romero, expression locked somewhere between pain and disbelief.

And yet, he’d stayed up, and completed the pass which led to the second goal.

But no matter the angle, no matter the motive, one thing was true and he had said it plainly.

”The match is over. We focus on the next. Try to win for the fans.”

And that morning — as the Premier League studio came to life, their next segment teasing the updated table, pundits already leaning forward in their chairs — one thing was clear:

Everyone had something to say about Izan.

The intro played—highlights, goals, crunching tackles—and faded into a clean modern set where three hosts sat behind a curved desk, half-lit by navy and gold.

The lead presenter, an older journalist with greying temples, faced the camera.

”Welcome back. The North London Derby ended in fireworks—a six-goal thriller, 3–3 at the Emirates, with plenty of heat, and even more talking points.”

His co-host, a retired midfielder with sharp eyes, picked it up.

”And of course, all eyes were on Izan Miura Hernandez again. Two assists, a press conference that left more headlines than the scoreline. Thoughts?”

The former fullback on his right chuckled.

”I just think it’s wild that we’re talking about ’only’ two assists like it’s not a contribution. If anyone else had done that tonight, we’d be calling it a masterclass.”

The host nodded.

”But that’s the tax you pay when you become... well, him. The Messi tax. The Ronaldo tax. The ’every-match-needs-a-poster’ tax.”

”And he’s 17,” the midfielder added.

”Let’s not forget that.”

The screen behind them flickered.

”We’ll get into all of that. But first... let’s look at how that result affected the Premier League table.”

The camera zoomed toward the screen— as the updated table flashed on the screen behind the pundits—an image hidden from view, but its essence practically spoke for itself.

One of the pundits leaned forward, scanning the column of names the production team fed him quietly.

”Arsenal,” he said first, steady and measured, ”top after 21 games—nineteen wins, two draws. That’s 59 points. A remarkable run and still unbeaten. Can they repeat their invincible story again? I think not but we’ll find out in the coming weeks when their schedule starts to toughen.”

His co‑presenter nodded, voice a notch warmer.

”Absolutely. And Liverpool, trailing behind, have played a game less but trail on form—fifteen wins, three draws, two defeats, and with a game in hand this afternoon. They’re the only side within reach with 48 points which could be 51 if they win which is looking very likely.”

The third pundit tapped the table to usher in the next names.

”Nottingham Forest—third. What a story they’re telling this season. Newcastle fourth, re-emerging into Champions League contention and Chelsea, unexpectedly strong in fifth.”

The first pundit’s brow knotted in disbelief.

”And last year’s champions, City? They’re sitting at sixth. That shows you just how tight the top is but City haven’t been the best after their talisman Rodri got injured.”

The third pundit, a Manchester United fan took a breath and glanced at a small note.

”Manchester United are languishing down in twelfth, and Tottenham down in fourteenth. Two clubs with European pedigree, now worrying about mid‑table slumps.”

The studio quieted as the scale of the standings settled—Arsenal surging at the top, the usual giants struggling to find consistency.

Neville leaned back.

”It’s more than numbers now. It’s narrative. Arsenal still look like genuine contenders, not just for this season but beyond. The question is: can they sustain it?”

Across the round table, the pundits exchanged looks—each reflecting on what these standings meant.

Fresh momentum for Arsenal, mixed signals from Liverpool’s response, surprises and troughs across the rest.

No one said it aloud, but it hung in the air:

A laser‑sharp snapshot of a shifting power structure in English football—and Arsenal were at the centre.

A/N: Golden ticket Chapter. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the last of the day.