God Of football

Chapter 736: Bad To Worse.

The cameras caught Izan along the touchline, peeling off his padded top, the floodlights catching the sheen of his sweat despite having only jogged and stretched.

The crowd nearest to him was already surging to their feet, phones raised, scarves swinging as a murmur began to build into a chant, a wave rippling across the stadium as if the supporters themselves were welcoming back a storm they’d been waiting on.

”It’s a big ask of a player this young to change the game,” Alan Smith continued, ” but that’s what happens when you’re a special player. You’re the one they turn to, and tonight the responsibility falls squarely on his shoulders. Strap yourselves in, this could change everything.”

While the pitchside fever rose, the energy on the pitch wasn’t overshadowed.

Ben White, who had recently come on for Jurrien Timber, strode down the flank with the ball in tow before whipping it across the pitch, where Havertz took it in stride without contention.

The German international glanced ahead and behind, looking for his mates, but PSG had already boxed him in.

Guess I have to go myself then, he thought as he flicked the ball to the left and then, cutting back inside, using his right leg to shield the ball from Hakimi, but his expertise would prove futile, as Pacho, who had ventured out of his position, swooped the ball from his feet.

”Nice defensive brilliance by Pacho,” Alan McInally called as the defender switched play to Marquinhos, the Brazilian, further slipping the ball down the flank, back to Arsenal’s right flank, where Nuno Mendes occupied.

”Now the ball finds itself at the feet of Nuno Mendes,” Alan Smith’s voice cut in, the camera snapping back to the action.

Nuno Mendes was already striding down the left flank with that direct, elegant rhythm of his chest upright, strides long and confident.

Bukayo Saka darted across, angling in to press him, but the Portuguese full-back didn’t panic.

He shifted his weight, let the ball roll under his studs, then slid it neatly inside to Vitinha, who had ghosted into the pocket of space Saka had left unguarded.

The return came instantly.

One touch from Vitinha, just a little caress to keep the rhythm, and Mendes was off again, pushing into the space down the wing.

The Emirates grew louder, groans mixing with shouts as he surged forward, Arsenal’s defensive line backpedalling with urgency.

”Arsenal need to be careful here,” Smith continued, his tone rising a notch. ”Nuno Mendes is in full flight!”

Mendes, flying down the flank, got away from a challenge by Odegaard, shaped his body and swung through the ball, sending a teasing cross curling into the penalty area.

The delivery didn’t meet its target, floating across bodies and heading toward the far side, but in the chaos, voices erupted.

Hands shot up in pink shirts, PSG players shouting in unison, surrounding the referee’s line of sight.

Declan Rice, unfazed, had already mopped up the loose ball, dragging it forward under his sole with that calm, commanding stride of his.

He lifted his head, looking to build the counter.

Yet as he drove forward, Nuno Mendes wasn’t finished.

The full-back chased him down tirelessly, covering impossible ground before lunging in with a sliding challenge that drew a gasp from the stands.

His timing was immaculate, clipping the ball cleanly and poking it behind for a corner.

And still the PSG players screamed.

They didn’t even look at the corner being awarded.

Instead, they rushed the referee in frustration, arms waving furiously.

”I don’t think I saw what went on, but whatever it is, PSG are absolutely adamant here!” Alan Smith exclaimed, his tone tinged with intrigue as the replay played back on the screen, and there, one could see contact with the hand of someone.

”Oh, the PSG players are convinced the ball from Mendes’ cross struck the arm of Gabriel. They’ve surrounded the referee, demanding it.”

While that unfolded on the pitch, Izan, who had been trotting up and down the sideline loosening his legs, suddenly slowed his stride.

Carlos Cuesta had jogged forward from the Arsenal bench, waving him over.

Izan jogged back with controlled urgency, tugging the bib over his head in one swift motion, the neon fabric discarded into Cuesta’s hands.

He stripped off the top layer of training gear and sat down for the briefest of moments, tying his laces tighter, every move sharp withfocus as the noise of the Emirates seemed to hum louder at the scenes on both parts of the pitch.

Back on the pitch, the referee had paused play.

He stood just outside the penalty box, his face unreadable, his finger pressed to the earpiece tucked behind his right ear.

The crowd reacted instantly, a restless murmur swelling across the Emirates as everyone recognised the familiar routine.

.

”Oh, now then...” Smith’s voice came again, rising over the anticipation.

”The referee’s been told something. Finger to the ear, and yes — he’s heading over. He’s been called to the monitor.”

The referee gestured with authority, motioning toward the touchline before jogging briskly across the pitch.

The Arsenal players groaned audibly, a wave of frustration breaking out in red shirts as Gabriel threw his arms wide in disbelief.

”I can’t believe this,” Rice muttered under his breath as he tracked back, and even Raya couldn’t resist raising both palms to the official, demanding an explanation.

In the stands, the reaction was split.

The home supporters filled the air with groans and jeers, a guttural sound that echoed with the frustration of déjà vu.

In the opposite corner, the travelling PSG contingent roared, chanting as if the decision had already been made, bouncing up and down in delight at the prospect of the referee pointing to the spot.

”Just listen to that,” Smith added, as the noise swelled to a fever pitch.

”Home fans in disbelief, away fans already celebrating. And what a chance this could be. PSG has the opportunity to extend its lead, right at a crucial point of the game. Arsenal will be praying this goes their way.”

The referee reached the sideline, eyes locked on the monitor as the footage began to replay.

On the touchline, Izan stood upright now, fully stripped and ready, his face calm but his eyes sharp, watching on as if fate itself had paused to test his team before he even set foot on the pitch.

”Time’s ticking, the referee still hasn’t made his mind up...” Alan Smith’s voice hung in the air as every camera fixed itself on the man in black, his eyes locked onto the screen by the side of the pitch.

The Emirates crowd held its collective breath.

For nearly two minutes, the match had been frozen in suspense, tension coiling with every passing second.

And then, suddenly, the referee turned.

With a sharp march back onto the pitch, he raised both hands, drew the outline of a rectangle in the air, the unmistakable signal, and then pointed straight to the penalty spot.

”Oh, he’s given it! Penalty to Paris Saint-Germain!” Smith erupted, the away fans behind the goal exploding into a roar that cut through the stunned silence of North London.

Gabriel collapsed to his knees, palms open in protest, before slapping the turf in frustration.

The referee wasn’t swayed.

A yellow card was brandished swiftly, the Brazilian defender forced to retreat as PSG’s players swarmed the spot in celebration of the decision.

”It’s heartbreak for Arsenal,” Alan Smith cut in, almost groaning.

”After that VAR check, there was only ever going to be one outcome. PSG have the chance to potentially kill this tie off here.”

And all the while, just yards away from the technical area, Izan Miura Hernández stood on the touchline in full kit, his red shirt now clinging to him, socks pulled tight, every muscle tensed.

He rocked back and forth on his boots, eyes never leaving the ball as he waited for the fourth official to raise the board.

He was ready, Arsenal’s ace, but fate had decided to make him wait one more agonising moment.

On the pitch, Ousmane Dembélé stepped up to the spot, cool as ice.

He placed the ball carefully, brushing dirt away from the penalty mark, before taking several steps back.

The referee busied himself, walking across the penalty area, waving players out of the box.

He checked his watch once, twice, then, with a nod, stepped aside and pointed.

”Here we go,” Alan Smith whispered, and Dembélé didn’t hesitate.

With a short run, he rifled a venomous strike toward the bottom corner with David Raya guessing right, but the power and placement were unstoppable.

The net rippled, and the Parc des Princes contingent inside the Emirates roared in delirium.

GOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLL

”Dembélé buries it! PSG double their lead, 2–0 on the night, and Arsenal are staring at a game gone from bad to worse!” McInally’s voice rode the noise, urgent and heavy.

As the French players swarmed Dembélé in celebration, the cameras cut briefly back to the touchline, where Izan Miura Hernández, the teenager so many had waited for, stood ready.