God Of football

Chapter 634: 6 For United

Away from the stadium, the front door to an apartment slammed.

”Yo! Collin?” someone called from the couch, barely turning his head from the TV.

”You’re mad late, fam. You said your shift ended at one, ”another voice said, sharper.

Collin grunted, kicking off his boots in the hallway.

His shirt was still damp from the kitchen heat, and the back of his neck smelled faintly of onions and fryer oil.

”Had to cover for Jerome,” he muttered.

”The guy bailed mid-lunch rush. Didn’t even call.”

”Ohhh, so you did a double?”

”Yeah.”

”Tough.”

”Tell me about it.”

He walked into the living room, running a hand through his short hair, barely listening—until he caught the scoreline on the screen.

ARSENAL 5 – 0 MANCHESTER UNITED

44:41

Collin froze.

The TV light reflected off his glasses as he tried so hard not to blink.

”...five?” he whispered.

Then, the boys exploded.

”YES, bro!”

”He’s finally seen it!”

”Took you long enough, man, we’ve been waiting to see that moment of pain hit your face!”

”I thought you were avoiding us ’cause of the result!”

”I just got here!” Collin barked, but even he couldn’t help the weak laugh that pushed out.

”Yo... five?! In the first half?!”

”Three of them from your boogeyman,” Dapo said, sipping his Lucozade like it was wine.

”You already know who.”

”Izan?” Collin asked.

A third roommate, Kieran, nodded solemnly from the arm of the couch.

”He cooked your backline on gas mark six.”

”Grilled.”

”No. Broiled.”

Collin took a few stiff steps forward like he needed to see it up close for it to be real.

”Wait, wait. Who’s playing centre-back?”

”Yoro and De Ligt.”

He blinked. ”Nah, you’re lying.”

”I wish,” Kieran said, then pointed to the TV.

”Look at man right now.”

On the screen, Izan was jogging with the ball under his feet like a substitute teacher heading to a chalkboard.

Completely unbothered, yet utterly deadly.

United players were scattered.

No urgency. No shape. Just shadows chasing.

Collin sat down without asking, his body still tense.

”Tell me one of them was a tap-in.”

”They were all tap-ins... if you’re counting outside-the-box goals as such,” Dapo said.

”At this point, it just feels like you lot are playing second fiddle to Arsenal. I swear, the third goal felt rehearsed. Like Man United wanted Izan to score.”

”Honestly, you should’ve seen the third goal,” Kieran added.

”He pointed to where he was gonna shoot before the ball got to him. Onana could’ve had eight hands, still wouldn’t have stopped it.”

”Swear down?”

”Swear up.”

”I hate all of you.”

They laughed harder.

On-screen, Izan dropped deeper again, took the ball off Ødegaard, spun past Bruno like it was light work and whipped a no-look pass into Havertz.

The German set himself and tried from outside the box, but he sent the ball just wide.

Then came the whistle.

Halftime.

The commentator’s voice returned with an audible sigh.

”Well... that’s the first forty-five. Arsenal five. Manchester United... speechless.”

The halftime graphic popped up with player stats.

At the top?

Izan Hernandez

3 goals | 1 Assist

Premier League Total: 39 Goals, 19 Assists (28 Games)

”He has broken the record of the Norwegian cyborg and added a couple of his own to it. And also, he is just an assist shy of the 20 assists record held jointly by Thierry Henry and Kevin De Bruyne, and you get the feeling that this won’t be long. Who knows, if United fail to show up in the second half as they have in the first, we might see this record too being equalled or even broken. This is the new standard that Izan has set for English football.”

Collin leaned back, hand over his mouth.

”You lot ever seen a stat line like that?”

Dapo snorted.

”Man’s got Golden Boot, Golden Playmaker, and probably Golden Everything wrapped up before March.”

”I actually think he’s allergic to normal games,” Kieran muttered.

One of the others nodded.

”He needs pain to operate. That’s what it is. He’s a sadist. Didn’t you lot see him smile when he saw the despair of the United fans back when he scored in the FA Cup?”

”I’m gonna shower,” Collin said, finally standing again.

”Wash off this disgrace.”

”You’re not gonna finish watching the massacre?”

”What’s the point?” Collin replied. ”We’re already cooked.”

Dapo pointed at him.

”You better pray for rain in the second half. Or VAR. Or a power outage.”

”VAR can’t help this, man,” Kieran laughed.

”They need divine intervention. Or an Avengers-level plot to go back and stop Izan from ever being born.”

Collin disappeared down the hallway with a shake of his head, but behind him, the boys kept watching.

....

Inside the Old Trafford away dressing room, the mood was both chaotic and calm.

Then came the sound of a single clap, measured, quiet.

Arteta entered with that familiar cool to his expression, eyes scanning the room before offering another few claps, this time louder as the players settled.

Some slumped into their seats, others leaned forward with towels around their necks.

But all of them—every single one—wore the same thing on their faces.

That edge of satisfaction.

Arteta stood in front of the whiteboard, arms folded lightly.

”I’ll be honest,” he said, ”not even I expected that.”

A ripple of faint chuckles moved through the room.

He paced once, then turned again.

”What you just did out there—” he pointed loosely toward the tunnel ”—that was one of the most ruthless halves of football I’ve ever seen. Not because of the goals. But because of the control.”

He paused.

”But we’ve got PSV in three days.”

Heads nodded. But no one looked away.

”I’ll need to pull some of you off,” Arteta said, letting the word settle in the air.

Groans erupted—genuine frustration from both starters and subs.

Saka shook his head playfully, lips twitching while Ødegaard lifted both palms like, ”Don’t you dare.”

Arteta grinned faintly and raised his hands.

”Relax. I’ll give you a few more minutes. But then we start making changes. Deal?”

A flurry of aggressive nods from the starting eleven followed.

Even Izan, sat with one boot untied and water dripping from his curls, cracked a crooked smile.

”Alright,” Arteta said, tapping the whiteboard once.

”Get your breath. Five minutes, then we go again.”

He turned and walked back out, already speaking softly to Carlos Cuesta.

The players, with the remaining minutes, hydrated and joked around, with shirts being swapped for new ones and a few towels tossed at Saka as he reenacted the build-up to his goal with his hands.

Slowly, they began filtering out of the room and into the tunnel where the match official signalled them to get onto the pitch.

”And we’re back at Old Trafford,” the commentator said, voice steady.

”Arsenal five, Manchester United nil. And for the thousands watching around the world, it’s not a typo. This is real.”

The camera swept across the Stretford End—patches of red seats now clearly visible, where fans had decided enough was enough.

The ones who stayed were slouched, arms crossed, heads down and faces looking as if they were numb to all that was happening and was going to.

”There’s hardly any shape left in the stands,” the co-commentator murmured. ”

And you have to wonder how long the team on the pitch can keep one.”

The referee blew his whistle and Arsenal immediately went on the offensive winning the ball back after Man United had touched it around for a coupel of times.

Rice started it again after winning the ball back, passing to Gabriel, who immediately looked for Calafiori.

The left-back took one touch inside before finding Ødegaard in the middle.

The Norwegian’s head was already swivelling before the ball touched his boot, and what followed was just the single pass to Izan, who had drifted deeper, just beyond Casemiro’s shadow.

Izan turned with the ball in one smooth motion, brushing off a light challenge from Bruno as if it were just a change in wind.

He moved as if he were being carried by the wind before he sent a piercing diagonal pass, carved cleanly between De Ligt and Casemiro like a chisel through stone.

It raced onto Havertz’s path, and the German didn’t slow.

He flicked it forward with the outside of his boot, turning the entire defence towards Saka who now had the ball approaching him but he didn’t hold it for long and just touched it back to Havertz.

Havertz met the return just inside the box, and after taking Lindelof out of the equation, he just let it fly.

Low. Driven. Past Onana’s outstretched glove and into the far corner.

Six.

”Six-nil! Kai Havertz with Arsenal’s sixth—and it’s as clean as you’ll see!” the lead commentator said as Havertz rushed towards the sidelines.

The co-commentator didn’t skip a beat.

”It’s like they never left the pitch. Just a few minutes after the return, and we are already counting another goal!”

On the touchline, Arteta turned to Carlos Cuesta with a smirk he barely tried to hide. Cuesta only shrugged.

In the United technical area, Amorim stood with arms folded, his face unreadable.

Behind him, the substitutes looked like they were bracing for a winter storm in spring.

”If Arsenal keep this up... this might be detrimental to United and its history.”

”Come on, let’s get one back!!” Bruno called from the pitch, but even he knew what he was saying was just a fantasy.

A/N: Late with it. I’m sorry, I had two papers today and another in the morning, so I actually had to squeeze this one in with my exam time. I finish tomorrow, so I will try and add a bonus Chapter when I’m done. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit.