God Of football

Chapter 690: Scrutiny Under The Lights.

And then Jude.

He glanced up the moment he caught Izan’s eye.

”Well,” he said under his breath, low and casual as he fell into line beside him.

”Still time to fake an injury if you want.”

Izan didn’t blink. ”You can go first. I won’t tell.”

They both smirked, breaking out into a little laughter before composing themselves, just two young stars wearing different colours for the night.

Then footsteps slowed as Modrić passed behind Jude and gave Izan a short, firm nod — not warm, not cold, just... respectful.

A warrior’s nod, maybe.

Izan returned it, quiet and steady.

Then no more words.

Just the ref’s call, which they stood waiting for, but they didn’t have to wait long.

The tunnel soon shifted, and after a bit, the two teams began to walk out of the tunnel.

The stadium lights burned brighter than the stars above, soaking the pitch in a glow that seemed to hum with anticipation.

The tunnel spilled them out onto the grass, red and white stepping to one side, ash grey to the other.

Everywhere in the stands, colour swirled: red and white flags beating in rhythm, gold-tinted banners unfurling with messages of belief and defiance.

”Well, here they come — Arsenal,” Darren Fletcher’s voice came out, ” led out by Martin Ødegaard, and a few players behind him, the young man who has set Europe alight over the past two seasons... Izan Miura Hernández, only seventeen years old, yet already a nightmare opponent for Real Madrid, four goals and two assists in just three meetings, and every one of those games decisive in its own way.”

The lens shifted briefly to the away side, their ash kit glistening under the floodlights, ”And Madrid, with all their familiar power and pedigree, with Vinícius, Mbappé, Bellingham, Rodrygo — Some of the world’s best players who can turn a quiet match into chaos in the blink of an eye, and they’ll be desperate to tilt the balance back their way after last season’s meeting.”

After the anthem of the Champions League finished its last symphony, the Real Madrid players all turned towards the Arsenal players, shaking hands with them as they passed.

Still, a few seemed to linger on the number 10 in red and white.

A brief shot caught the dugouts, where Arteta and Ancelotti met with a quick handshake.

It was polite enough, but the exchange carried no warmth beyond professional courtesy.

Both managers were already elsewhere in their minds, mentally running through the patterns and contingencies they might need to draw upon if the opening minutes took an unexpected turn.

On the pitch, the players were drifting into position, the shape of the game beginning to take form before a ball had even been touched.

Rice stationed himself in the centre, shoulders squared and voice carrying instructions, while Trossard and Martinelli pulled wide to stretch the space with Havertz settling just in front of the kickoff spot.

And just behind him was none other than Izan, whose body language already made it clear he would not be rooted in one spot.

Across from them, Madrid formed their own familiar structure — Vinícius almost glued to the left touchline, Mbappé starting central but already looking to shift subtly to test angles, with Rodrgyo on the other side.

And then Bellingham, this time standing in a much deeper role.

The crowd’s noise deepened, flags of red and white rippling in the cold air, their motion a restless heartbeat.

The Emirates seemed to draw a breath of its own, as if preparing to exhale the moment the match began.

This was the stage, the night where reputations could be gilded or broken, where one flash of brilliance might linger in memory for the rest of the season and further back.

The referee checked his watch before he gave a quick glance across the field.

And then the shrill sound of the whistle sounded.

”And away we go,” came the voice of the Darren Fletcher as Arsenal knocked the first pass backwards under the lights of North London, ”the Champions League quarter-final is underway, Arsenal in their home colours, Real Madrid in that ash-grey change strip... and listen to this crowd — they’ve waited a long time for a night like this.”

The first touch from Rice sent the ball skimming back toward Saliba, whose stride was unhurried, his head turning side to side as if asking his mates if they had settled in well to receive the ball.

The Arsenal backline shifted it calmly across, Gabriel to Lewis-Skelly, who took two touches and scanned ahead before returning it inside.

While the Arsenal side were settling into the game, the Madrid press began taking the reins of the pitch as the players in ash started eating into the Arsenal half.

On the far side, Martinelli tested the grass, darting once, twice, before holding his run, the crowd already sparking with that low, restless anticipation of a player about to be set free.

Izan, on the other hand, lingered between the lines, glancing over his shoulder to track the shadows of white shirts in his orbit.

”Early signs here,” Darren Fletcher’s voice threaded itself into the hum of the stadium, ”Madrid not rushing the press — and wait, here’s something... they’ve shifted into what looks like a 4-4-2 out of possession. Valverde... yes, Valverde’s slotted into that right-back channel, which is interesting, because that’s exactly the corridor Izan tends to attack.”

The camera found Izan just as he ghosted across the halfway line, checking into the space on Arsenal’s left.

The Uruguayan was already watching him, weight slightly forward, like a sprinter waiting for the gun.

”That,” Fletcher continued, ”is clearly an early marker from Ancelotti — if you can’t stop Izan getting the ball, you put one of your most relentless engines right in his path. And Valverde... well, he doesn’t stop running, which means every time Izan tries to roll inside from that flank, he’s going to have company.”

Down on the pitch, the shift had already changed the geometry of Arsenal’s opening moves.

A simple ball out to Trossard was shadowed quicker than expected, forcing it back toward Rice and Madrid’s two banks flexed in unison, pressing just enough to herd Arsenal’s possession toward the middle third.

The game went like this for a while, both teams looking and waiting to see who would start the attack, and Izan had no reason not to after a sliver of space opened up in the Real Madrid set-up.

He peeled away from his marker, eyes still on the sliver of space between Madrid’s midfield line as the ball rolled into him, a firm pass from Rice that settled at his feet.

His legs had slowed down, but his eyes told a different story as they met Martinelli’s, who began his run, streaking down the right in the role Saka normally owned as soon as he saw the intent.

The pass was threaded in an instant, weight and angle perfect, splitting Madrid’s defensive line.

The Emirates rose, sensing the gap, but it closed just as quickly.

David Alaba, reading it with the experience of a hundred such nights, cut across Martinelli’s path.

The veteran reached it first, a subtle shoulder nudge keeping the Brazilian off-balance as he stabbed the ball back to Courtois.

The big Belgian, instead of sending it long, held it — uncharacteristically.

A ripple of noise went through the away end, part encouragement, part nervous edge, as red shirts closed in.

Courtois waited, feinting left, then slid the ball short to Modrić, who barely needed a touch.

One flick of that right boot and the picture changed.

The ball spun and curled into the far-right channel, the weight exquisite, forcing Rice into a desperate turn towards his left, where Rodrygo was already in full stride.

The Brazilian blazed past him, eating up the turf as the Madrid section roared, their flags snapping in the cold air.

”Danger here for Arsenal,” Darren Fletcher’s voice tightened over the noise, ”Rodrygo’s away...”

He didn’t slow, hugging the touchline before whipping a low cross with venom into the box.

Vinícius, Mbappé, white shirts flooding the area—

—but before any of them could pounce, a flash of red and white cut across the path.

Izan, tracking all the way back, after his pass didn’t go through, timed himself perfectly and slid in, body low and balanced, letting the ball glance off his thigh rather than risk a wild clearance.

In the same movement, still on the turf, he nudged it softly to Raya, calm as if it were a training drill.

The home crowd erupted in relief, voices rising in one long cheer that rolled around the stadium.

The Madrid supporters, who had been halfway to celebrating, sank back with groans and whistles of frustration.

”Magnificent recovery from Izan Miura Hernández,” Fletcher’s tone carried both admiration and disbelief, ”He lost the ball but he sprinted half the length of the pitch to snuff out a Real Madrid counter — that’s as good as a goal at the other end.”

On the pitch, Izan was already pushing back to his position, a brief raise of the hand to acknowledge the noise before his focus reset.

The night had barely begun.

A/N: Okay, first of the day. I won’t be able to release the last of the day like I did yesterday because I have a class in like 6 hours, and I haven’t slept since I released the last Chapter of the day at 5 or something, so see you after then, okay. Sleep well and bye.