God Of football

Chapter 619: Restart

Haaland stood over the ball as the referee glanced once, then blew the whistle.

And again, they were off.

Haaland tapped it to De Bruyne, who played it back to Stones—and immediately jogged forward, City’s tempo ticking up a gear.

It wasn’t panic, it was more of an assertion.

A reminder that one goal didn’t dictate a game.

From the sideline, Guardiola shouted something sharp in Catalan, compressed urgency with no panic behind it.

He made a downward gesture with his palm, and City complied.

The ball moved like breath—left to Gvardiol, in to Kovacic, around to Nunez, then to Foden, who drifted centrally with Bernando overlapping outside.

Arsenal, on the other hand, narrowed their setup.

It was like watching two chessboards layered on top of each other.

But it was De Bruyne who disrupted the shape.

A feint, followed by a sudden pause and then a pass, immediately put Foden on a path to goal.

The Englishman didn’t waste time.

He cut inside and laced a curling ball toward the far post, but Raya stretched and palmed it wide, eliciting gasps from the fans.

Then cheers.

The crowd rose like it had just saved the goal themselves.

”City are breathing now,” the lead commentator said.

”That’s better from them—Foden carving space, De Bruyne finding windows where none should exist.”

”And Arsenal, to their credit, aren’t folding,”the ex-pro added.

”They’re absorbing. Reading. Even Raya—positionally spot on.”

On the touchline, Arteta didn’t clap.

He muttered something to Cuesta, eyes still fixed forward.

A coach with too much memory to enjoy a one-goal lead this early.

The corner came short.

City cycled it, then Gvardiol miscontrolled, and Odegaard jumped on it.

And suddenly—it was Arsenal’s turn.

He swept it toward Izan, who didn’t take more than a step before releasing a sharp, angled ball toward Trossard on the far side.

The Belgian took it in stride, danced past Nunes with a soft fake, then hammered a ball across goal—

Jesus lunged, sticking his leg out for the ball, but Ederson was already there.

He smothered the ball and got up as quickly as he had gotten down before he launched it quickly, low, flat, a missile toward De Bruyne, who ducked under Rice’s shoulder and brought it down with a thigh.

The Emirates groaned.

”Back and forth now,” the first commentator said.

”The pace hasn’t just picked up—it’s spiralling.”

City reloaded.

Stones zipped the ball forward to Bernardo, who, with a clever flick, took Ben White out of the equation.

Saka doubled back to help, but the ball still came in and Haaland rose, meeting it.

But it glanced off the top of his head and wide.

He slapped his palms together in frustration as Gabriel gave him a look and mouthed something, to which Haaland smiled.

Challenge accepted.

Guardiola stepped forward, eyes narrowed, arms folded tight across his chest with a calculative expression.

”They’re inviting vertical pressure,” he muttered to his assistant.

”They want us narrow. We keep our shape. Width or we get dragged into their rhythm.”

But City couldn’t slow down, and definitely when they were settling into their groove.

Phil Foden drifted inside, ghosting past two red shirts before sliding the ball square to Gvardiol, who’d surged into space on the left.

Ben White was half a step late as he watched the cross get whipped in.

Saliba lunged first—cleared it—but it spun awkwardly into the air, falling loose just beyond the arc of the box.

Kovacic, left unmarked, stepped up and took it down, but Odegaard pressed hard—one bump, one toe in, spilling the ball.

Rice got there first, scooped it clean, and turned upfield.

His pass afterwards found Saka, who was having a hard time influencing the game.

He turned towards the centre of the field, looking for support and he found one in Izan who turned on the half-touch and started forward, nudging the ball just past the outstretched leg of Bernardo Silva.

Kovacic tried to recover—beat once already—but Izan slithered past him like the grass opened up for him.

Now it was Stones—stepping in, body low, anticipating.

Izan sold him with his eyes.

Then, he twisted the ball around him with a casual drop of the shoulder.

Stones stumbled left, and Izan went right past him, the space opening up in front of his eyes.

Twenty-five yards. Twenty.

Nunes came flying in from Izan left to cover, but Izan didn’t wait.

He pinged the ball with the outside of his left foot, curving a perfectly weighted ball into the space Matteus Nunes had left behind.

Trossard, getting to the ball, just let it run across his body, then flicked it backwards.

To Jesus.

The former city man stepped into the ball, hoping to blast it, but Nunes had recovered and thrown his leg across just in time.

The ball bounced out straight back to Saka, standing on the left side of the arc.

The crowd roared.

But he didn’t lash it.

He paused.

Then fed it calmly into Rice, shifted it across to Odegaard.

The latter looked up and saw Trossard making a clever far-post run in place of the injured Martinelli.

The ball from Odegaard found the Belgian, but his effort was nothing to write home about.

”WHAT a move,” Tyldesley barked. ”One pass too many? Or just one touch too short? Arsenal are threading them now like strings on a violin.”

The ball pinged across the backline again—Dias to Stones, Stones to Bernardo.

A drag-back, a half-space opening.

And the ball found itself at the feet of De Bruyne again.

He sent in a low ball behind Haaland, who stuck his foot behind to caress the ball, but his action came with Saliba catching up to him.

The French defender went shoulder to shoulder with Haaland as both players tried to outmuscle each other, but they both went down.

The crowd roared, split between penalty shouts and dismissal, but the referee waved play on.

”No chance,” the co-commentator said instantly.

”That’s strength vs strength. Not a foul in sight.”

The match went on with both teams fighting to damage each other with the slightest of play but in the 37th minute, City had just managed two near-decent spells of possession when it broke again.

Izan picked up the ball just over the halfway line.

He slowed, eyes taking in all the information he could before he burst past Kovacic, who had stuck out a foot and missed.

Gvardiol turned to catch him, but Izan had already cut inside.

Now it was Stones. Then Dias.

The Emirates rose, getting the foreboding that came whenever Izan had the ball near the half of the opponents.

Each touch was tighter than the last, the ball skipping barely a foot ahead, tied to his stride like thread.

”Look at him go...” the commentator murmured as he dropped the shoulder again.

Dias tried to track the turn, but it was the wrong move.

Izan cut across his path, and Dias lunged to block the next touch and caught his ankle in the process.

”Penalty, that is a penalty”, the home fans roared as the referee pointed to the position.

Right on the edge.

Pep was already out of his seat, coat half-off, yelling.

”No! Not there, Ruben!”

He turned toward his staff.

”It’s Izan! On the edge of the box?!”

The fourth official stepped over.

”Coach, you need to stay calm.”

Pep pointed toward the pitch but didn’t say another word.

”That’s a brain cramp,” the co-commentator muttered.

”You’d rather let him take the shot in motion than give him time to stand over it.”

Izan stood up slowly, brushing the grass remnants off his shirt.

He walked back, grabbed the ball, and returned to the spot, just touching the corner of the D.

The perfect distance.

The kind where the wall has to guess and the keeper has to pray.

He set it down.

One hand.

One breath.

Odegaard asked something—maybe about a play, but Izan didn’t answer.

Saka nodded.

Knew better than to say anything.

The referee stepped out, foam marking the feet of the players before issuing a warning to Kovacic who was still complaining.

Izan stayed still as the wall was set.

Four City players stood firm—Stones, Dias, Gvardiol, Nunes—all just over six feet but trying to make themselves ten.

Ederson shouted final adjustments, waving his left arm as he stepped half a yard off-center, crouched low, hands twitching at his sides.

Izan stood still, eyes alternating between the net and the ball on the grass.

The Emirates didn’t cheer now; it waited, silently hoping that their expectations would be met as the quiet tension inside the stadium sharpened.

The whistle soon blew, and Izan moved.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the last of the day and maybe an extra Chapter as thanks for sticking with me. Okay, I’m going to go and prepare the next Chapter so bye for now.