God Of football

Chapter 628: An Appointment

The ball wasn’t touched again.

Newcastle restarted with hollow urgency, but the whistle blew seconds later—long, flat, final.

7–4 on aggregate. 4–3 on the night. Arsenal to Wembley.

The away fans erupted behind the dugout.

Flags waved, scarves lifted.

A storm of red noise against a backdrop of stunned silence as St. James’ Park stood still.

No boos. No outrage.

Just the subdued hush of reality.

They had hoped. For twenty minutes, they believed.

Then Izan happened.

The man in question just jogged slowly—toward his teammates, slapping a few hands as he passed, but not lingering.

He shook Isak’s hand first.

A brief nod between goal-scorers.

Then Bruno. Then Schär.

No words were exchanged, just eye contact that spoke more than congratulations or apologies ever could.

By the time he turned toward the sideline, the staff and officials had already set up the interview area—barely a barricade and a microphone on a boom stick.

Odegaard intercepted him halfway, smiling, tapping his back.

”They want you.”

”Only two questions,” Izan muttered under his breath.

”And only about Newcastle.”

Odegaard smirked. ”That’s why they want you.”

Izan stepped into the small light box, wiping his forehead once before nodding toward the reporter.

”Quickly please,” he said and the mic raised.

And while he answered—shortly, directly, nothing past surface-level reflections about the match—the broadcast team wrapped things up.

”That’s it,” the lead commentator finally confirmed as the camera panned to the scoreboard, now sealed in history.

”Arsenal are through to the Carabao Cup final. And if you still had any doubts about this squad’s depth, their control, or their chaos-bringer in No. 10... well, those were answered tonight. Handing it over to Colly in the studio” the commentator finished as the broadcast changed.

”There you have it,” the lead pundit in the studio said, almost exhaling the words.

”Arsenal go through. But it’s that boy again, isn’t it? Izan Hernandez. Off the bench, 10 minutes, 2 goals, and an entire stadium silenced. There’s no more denying it.”

”Newcastle should be glad he hadn’t started because if he had, we would be having a different conversation right now.” Another analyst nodded.

....

”And we’re done for today” Dr. Selwood called as a needle came out clean.

He pressed gauze to Izan’s arm, taping it down carefully before nodding toward the nurse beside him.

She logged the data into the terminal while Selwood peeled off his gloves and straightened.

”Numbers are still good,” he said, scanning the tablet.

”Stable red cell count, white cell elevation within expected margins. You’re still responding unusually well to the filgrastim.”

Izan, already reaching for his hoodie, raised a brow.

”Unusually?”

Selwood smiled faintly.

”That’s a compliment. But we’ll keep you on it a little longer—keep the mobilisation high, ensure there’s no taper before the draw. No risks, not for you or Leo.”

Izan zipped up, gave a quiet nod. ”Understood.”

”You’ll be more fatigued this week. It’s not a decline—it’s biology. Just listen to your body. Keep your team in the loop.”

He didn’t respond to that.

Just offered a short handshake before heading out.

The hallway light felt harsher today but he made it to the SUV waiting outside without a single visible flinch.

The driver gave a polite nod as Izan slipped into the back seat and pulled the door shut with a dull click.

”Colney?” the driver asked.

Izan shook his head. ”Home.”

The car pulled away from the curb as Izan’s phone buzzed softly.

He pulled it out and opened it as a dozen headlines and notifications flooded his screen.

Clips and reactions of the match against Newcastle.

Analysts, talking about how Isak’s brace had been buried under the avalanche of Izan’s minutes on the pitch.

But the commentary in the replies caught his eye.

@gunner4life92: ”W. But man, is it me or does Izan look paler lately? Even the post-match camera caught it.”

@gritty_ball: ”He’s played like every damn game since August. Of course, he looks pale.”

@amuntleo (Valencia fan): ”That’s a bull. He never looked tired with us. If he’s showing signs now, something’s up. Watch closely.”

Izan blinked once.

The corners of his mouth twitched into the smallest grin.

He whispered, ”Curious, much?”

He shut the phone off and placed it beside him on the seat.

Outside, London rolled past in silence—streetlamps glowing faintly through the tinted glass.

The hum of the tyres felt far away.

He leaned back, head against the rest, eyes drifting shut before the car had even cleared the block.

.....

”And it’s official,” a female host on Sky Sports said, smiling into the lens.

”Arsenal will face Liverpool in the Carabao Cup Final at Wembley.”

On screen, graphics faded in—bold red vs deep navy blue.

A faint overlay read:

Carabao Cup Final

Wembley Stadium

March 16th, 2025

Arsenal vs Liverpool

She continued, ”It’s Arsenal’s first final under Arteta since the FA Cup win of 2020, and for new Liverpool boss Arne Slot, this is a chance to secure his first trophy since replacing Jurgen Klopp at the start of the season. Let’s see what he has to say?”

The screen faded to a press conference feed of Anfield’s media room, liver-red backdrop behind a calm and composed Arne Slot.

A reporter offscreen asked the question.

”Arne, facing Arsenal in the final—how are you feeling about that test? Especially considering Izan’s current form?”

Slot blinked once, then nodded slowly.

”Well... it’s a final, so nothing less than a battle,” he said as his Dutch accent clipped each word neatly.

”Arsenal are probably the best side in the country right now—fast, ruthless, extremely intelligent in possession.”

Then, a pause.

”And of course,” he added, ”they’ve got that... extra factor.”

The room shifted—reporters bristling, pens poised.

”But I trust my boys,” he continued.

”They’ve dealt with world-class before. We have our plans. And if we want to lift that trophy, we’ll have to take away what makes Arsenal so dangerous. That includes... the chaos.”

The camera froze for a beat on his face.

Calm.

Confident.

But layered beneath?

A flicker of concern.

...

[Matchday 28]

A cloudy sky hung over the London Stadium, heavy with anticipation and drizzle.

West Ham fans were in full voice, the claret and blue flags waving behind the goal, while the Arsenal away end sang louder still—though with a touch less conviction than usual.

There was no Izan in the starting eleven.

That alone had everyone’s attention.

”It’s the Carabao final coming up, maybe it’s a rest,” one commentator said early on.

”But even then, you feel his absence.”

Arsenal kicked off with intent.

They pressed high, rotated their midfield cleanly, and pushed West Ham into retreat—but nothing broke.

Gabriel Jesus had two chances in the opening 10 minutes but failed to make Fabianski move.

Then came the silence breaker.

In the 17th minute, a counterattack from West Ham turned Arsenal’s line inside out.

Kudus slipped it across the six-yard box where Jarrod Bowen ghosted in behind Zinchenko and fired it low past Raya.

1–0.

The crowd erupted.

The Arsenal bench shifted, no panic in sight but the eyebrows rose.

Then came the second.

This time, from a set-piece.

James Ward-Prowse’s corner curled in viciously, and despite a crowd of bodies, it was Tomas Soucek who rose highest, nodding it down and into the far post to make it 2–0

The commentator barely had time to breathe.

”This is not how Arsenal saw this playing out because suddenly they look... mortal.”

By the half, the mood had shifted.

Arsenal still had the ball, still had the stats—but West Ham had the scoreline.

The teams re-emerged, Arsenal still with no Izan after the break.

But things stirred.

Arsenal pushed harder, and finally, in the 64th minute, Martin Ødegaard found space at the top of the box and threaded a gorgeous ball into the feet of Leandro Trossard, who pulled it across for Merino to slot in calmly.

2–1.

The Arsenal fans surged to their feet.

”Back in it!” the commentator called. ”Game on.”

But as minutes ticked on, West Ham stiffened.

They closed ranks, fouled smartly, and killed the tempo every time it rose.

Arsenal couldn’t find the rhythm and time was slipping by.

Then came the board.

78th minute. Number 10 in.

A cheer rolled like thunder through the away end.

Izan.

And suddenly, the match turned on its axis.

From his first touch, the energy shifted.

Two West Ham defenders instantly stepped tighter.

The home crowd went quiet for a bit but didn’t let up until a moment arrived in the 84th.

A reckless lunge from Paquetá on Rice, saw the whistle blow.

The ball was 27 yards out on the left channel.

A place that wasn’t really ideal for the shot.

But it was Izan.

He stood over it, one hand brushing his sweat while the other rested calmly on his hip.

The ball was in place for a cross but the West Ham fans couldn’t help but acknowledge the threat.

Then the whistle.

Then—

Strike.

Izan’s right foot carved under the ball like a sculptor at speed.

It rose, dipped, then dipped harder before it curled away from Fabianski, kissing the underside of the bar and rattling into the net.

The away end detonated.

”That’s thirty-six! He couldn’t it a week ago against Leicester but he has done it now” Collin yelled.

”That’s level with Haaland! That’s Izan! Are we witnessing the most relentless footballer this league has ever seen?!”

Arteta didn’t even celebrate. He just nodded, arms folded, lips tight.

On the screen, the stat flashed:

IZAN – 36 Premier League Goals

Tied – Most goals in a single season (Erling Haaland)

With twelve matches to go.

West Ham looked stunned while Izan jogged back to the centre circle, ball in hand, like it was 0–0 and they were losing.