God Of football

Chapter 662: Shook The Rigging.

Izan didn’t even blink. His head stayed upright, chest relaxed, eyes scanning not for gaps — but for fear.

And when he found it, even just the flicker of hesitation in one defender’s feet, he was moving.

He drew his right foot back with a pause.

The pause was so slight — just enough for tension to pool inside the stadium like thick fog.

Then—

BAM

The shot exploded off his boot and straight through bodies, between a flailing leg and the keeper’s gloves.

And then—

CRACK.

The crossbar screamed.

The ball slammed against it with a gut-punching smack, clanging metal and shaking the goalframe so hard it echoed around the Emirates like a gunshot in a tunnel.

The rebound fired upward into the sky, then dropped violently back down, bouncing just outside the six-yard box before spinning wide.

A roar that turned into a groan that turned into applause.

And above it all, the stadium buzzed with the sound of 60,000 voices unsure what to feel — relief, awe, or frustration.

”Crossbar! My word — you give him a fraction, and he makes you pay for it!” the commentator finally burst out, the authority back in his voice now, rattling off words like he was trying to catch up to the chaos.

The Emirates was still rattling from that crossbar strike, but Fulham didn’t have time to dwell.

Bernd Leno scooped the rebounding ball into his gloves and clutched it to his chest, eyes wide but unmoving.

The camera caught him blinking — once, twice.

Still rooted, the commentator murmured, his voice laced with awe.

”That shot from Izan? Didn’t just shake the bar — it shook the rigging. And Leno? Didn’t even twitch. That tells you everything.”

Leno exhaled hard, then stepped forward and drove his boot through the ball with a deep, booming thump.

It launched upfield, wobbling through the air like it wasn’t sure where to land, and Mikel Merino didn’t hesitate, pulling up to the area of the ball drop.

He rose above his marker near the halfway line, timing his jump to perfection, and cracked a header back into Fulham’s half.

The ball dropped into open space, and then Izan appeared.

Effortless. Like he’d been called by name.

He brought the ball under control, body shielding it from the pressing white shirts — but something shifted in his peripheral vision.

A flicker of a shape bearing down on him.

Berge.

Coming in fast and aggressive from behind.

Most players would’ve turned, or maybe shielded for the foul.

But not Izan.

He flicked the ball upward — not away, but over.

A soft, arrogant pop of the boot that sent it sailing over Berge’s shoulder.

At the same time, he twisted his body around, ghosting past the Fulham midfielder like smoke around stone.

The crowd roared, but before he could take off again, a tug — no, a clip — dragged his foot.

Berge’s studs nipped his heel just enough, and Izan stumbled forward, then hit the turf with a grimace.

Only—

He wasn’t done.

Mid-fall, he stabbed his toe out and clipped the ball with just enough lift.

A backspin bounce, sharp and awkward, caught Fulham’s high line off guard.

And from the left channel, out wide and unnoticed—

Martinelli exploded into the space.

The pass was genius.

The idea, audacious and the execution? Perfect.

Martinelli was already halfway there by the time Fulham turned.

A few white shirts flung their arms up, pleading for offside, but the flag stayed down.

”Still on! He’s onside! Martinelli’s clean through!”the commentator barked, barely keeping up as the Brazilian galloped toward the box, every stride flinging turf into the air.

But then, at the edge of the penalty area, he chopped back.

One clean move — so clean that two defenders slid past him like freight trains with no brakes.

He wasn’t aiming to finish.

He was buying time.

Everyone looked confused.

Fulham’s defenders slowed.

Martinelli was alone.

Until—

BOOM.

A thunderclap of a strike.

Izan had arrived.

From nowhere — surging up from midfield like a bullet shot from a cannon.

He hadn’t asked for it. He hadn’t been marked.

But Martinelli had left the ball in the right spot, and Izan met it on the bounce from the edge of the box.

Left foot. No hesitation.

The crack of contact was so pure it felt like a firework going off inside a cave.

The ball screamed towards the goal.

Issa Diop flinched.

He saw it coming — saw the trajectory, the speed, the inevitability — and in a split second, he crouched.

It was self-preservation over heroics.

You don’t block a rocket with your face unless you want to meet a surgeon after the game.

The ball flew past him.

And Leno?

He dove — but it was more out of duty than belief.

The ball curled in toward the top right corner like it had been laser-guided.

It struck the inside of the post — PING — and kissed the net high and hard, smashing into the upper rigging before dropping like a meteor.

GOAL.

The Emirates erupted.

The home crowd couldn’t believe the shot, but they didn’t really care.

”Gooooaall! Arsenal have made it count. And who else, than the boy in the 10 shirt. There is world class. And then there is him. THE IZAN CLASS,” the commentator thundered, voice bouncing off the rafters with the same energy as the crowd.

On the pitch, Izan just sprinted.

Straight to the corner flag, eating up the grass with those long strides, face still, locked in.

Then he dropped into a low, gliding slide.

Boots first, arms wide, carving a trench into the turf as his teammates thundered after him.

The Fulham players, on the other hand, were not having it.

The celebrations hadn’t even finished echoing when they turned towards the referee.

The Fulham players were swarming.

Hands in the air, voices raised, red-faced and frantic.

Berge was in front, pointing wildly toward the assistant referee, followed by Ream and Diop storming toward the ref.

”Offside! Offside on the pass!” one of them barked.

”That pass came from the ground, he was past us!” another yelled, motioning toward where Martinelli had received the ball.

Leno was still near his goalpost, shaking his head slowly — hands on his hips, his jaw locked like someone trying to hold in a scream.

The referee stayed calm, unmoved by the shouts.

But then he lifted his left hand and pressed a finger to his earpiece.

Just once.

The stadium froze.

Not in volume — the crowd was still roaring — but in tension.

That kind of sudden, collective unease where everyone knows something’s being checked but no one dares say it out loud yet.

The commentator’s voice dropped, quiet but razor-sharp.

”Hold on. Fulham are screaming for offside — they think Izan’s pass to Martinelli came after he’d broken the line. The referee’s checking.”

The referee didn’t speak for a beat or two.

And then his movement flickered as he dropped his hand from his ear and then turned.

A subtle nod.

The signal was clear.

The Goal stood

”No offside. No interference. No delay,” the commentator confirmed, now back in full voice.

”They checked it — and it’s clean. Absolutely clean! What a pass that was from Izan — the presence of mind, mid-fall, and Martinelli timed it to the inch!”

Boos came from the away section, which had turned expectant after the referee put his hands to his earpiece.

The ball was placed back at the centre circle, but Fulham’s body language didn’t scream readiness.

A few heads tilted.

Hands rested on hips.

Even Marco Silva, sharp-suited and stiff on the touchline, looked like a man watching a plan fray at the edges.

From the commentary box, the voice returned, layered smooth over the crowd noise that hadn’t stopped buzzing since the goal.

”They came to frustrate. To suffocate. To drag this match through mud and thorns until the final whistle. Marco Silva’s men had a plan — and for the first five minutes, they executed it. Four fouls, relentless pressure, elbows, kicks, all of it. A torturous route to the finish line for Arsenal... but just like that, Izan flips the script.”

On the pitch, Fulham tapped it back into play, but the Emirates was no longer breathing evenly.

It pulsed.

”And when you’ve got a player like him — one pass, one burst, one bolt of brilliance... that’s all it takes to rip the game open.”

Arsenal weren’t leaning back.

They were already pressing.

Martinelli closed the angle from the left.

Trossard shadowed the midfielder in possession while Timber charged from behind with one of those long, relentless sprints that made him feel like a shadow that never faded.

Fulham barely reached the halfway line before Rice intercepted with a crunching body block and turned the ball forward again.

And who was already calling for it?

Izan — again.

Wearing that look of someone who hadn’t had enough.

A/N: Okay, 3 out of 5. I will be releasing the remaining across the day. So see you in a bit. I have to go and write for the other novel.