God Of football

Chapter 742: Scouts In Paris.

[Few minutes into the game]

”Here’s Izan, first real touch of the ball for Arsenal’s talisman in this semi-final tie,” Martin Tyler’s voice rose above the atmosphere inside Wembley, the expectancy in his tone carrying the weight of the crowd’s anticipation.

On the pitch, Izan carried the ball at his feet with that familiar, languid stride, never hurried until he wanted to be and never rattled, even in the opening intensity of a semi-final.

Bukayo Saka had already peeled wide to the right, clapping his hands and calling for the early pass.

But Izan slowed, almost to a jog, head tilted just enough to feign interest before rolling the ball back into the path of Declan Rice.

And then, he did something else.

With a small flick of his hand, Izan gestured, first towards Riccardo Calafiori, then Jurrien Timber.

Both full-backs had pushed high, perhaps a little too high.

Their lines overlapping with Odegaard in midfield left an uncomfortable gap behind them.

Izan’s finger pointed, short and sharp, and Rice’s eyes followed.

Suddenly, the flaw in Arsenal’s shape was as clear as daylight.

From the gantry, Jim Beglin’s voice cut in.

”That’s the kind of awareness you can’t really coach, Martin. He hasn’t even looked over his shoulder once, but he’s felt the space, seen the danger. He knows his full-backs have crept too far forward.”

Martin Tyler added with approval, ”And it’s so early in the game. That’s what you want from a player of his calibre, someone who isn’t just thinking about his own touches but the whole picture. He’s practically directing traffic already in this game, even though that didn’t come with his job description for tonight.”

Down on the touchline, Mikel Arteta clapped his hands together firmly.

”Good job, Izan!” he shouted, his voice sharp but encouraging. He turned immediately, waving his arms at the rest of the team. ”Active! Active! Move! Don’t switch off!”

The moment might have seemed small, a teenager laying the ball off and pointing out a gap, but it captured the essence of why Arsenal’s fans, his teammates, and his manager spoke of him in such glowing terms.

Izan didn’t just play football; he read it, breathed it, anticipated its next move before it even unfolded.

After Marintlli’s shot had whisked past the post, another ball was now safely cradled in the gloves of Crystal Palace’s goalkeeper, who wasted no time in scanning the pitch.

With a powerful drive off his laces, he sent it soaring high into the chilly Wembley air, angling towards the right flank.

The red-and-blue shirts shuffled into position, and there he was, Eberechi Eze, tracking it with poise.

The Palace playmaker cushioned it on his chest, the ball sticking as if glued before tumbling neatly into stride.

A ripple of excitement coursed through the Palace end of Wembley, fans rising from their seats, scarves twirling, voices carrying him forward and Eze needed no second invitation.

He turned, hips rolling into rhythm, and began to drive down the touchline.

Arsenal’s defenders shifted anxiously, stepping across to block his lane, but Eze slalomed neatly past the first challenge, then dropped a shoulder, leaving another in his wake.

The Palace end roared, sensing a moment.

He was a menace in full flow, dragging the Arsenal backline into panic.

But just as he shifted his weight to cut inside, a black blur darted into his path.

Bukayo Saka, stubborn and precise, slid across, body low and, shoulder first.

He nicked the ball away with authority, sending Eze stumbling as the Palace fans erupted in fury, arms in the air, voices spitting calls for a foul, but the referee’s whistle stayed silent.

Play on.

”Strong challenge, that,” Martin Tyler remarked as the replay quickly flickered on screen. ”And fair, too or at least, that’s what the officials think.”

Jim Beglin added, ”He’s so good at timing those interventions, never reckless, just enough to win it clean. Palace fans won’t like it, but that’s excellent defensive work from Saka.”

Already, Saka was upright with no hesitation in his movement.

He turned on the ball, pushed it tight to his boot, and lifted his head.

Options crowded the middle, red shirts darting in and out of lanes.

But there, positioned centrally, calling with a subtle gesture of his arm, was Izan.

The pass slid through effortlessly, a crisp feed into the teenager’s stride as Wembley’s volume spiked again, both sets of fans sensing danger.

’

Arsenal had possession in transition, and Izan was on the ball, cushioning it under pressure as though the roar of Wembley was nothing but distant thunder.

A simple shift of weight carried him away from his marker, and with a deft flick of his instep, he laid the ball perfectly into Gabriel Martinelli’s path.

The moment he released it, Izan was gone, bursting forward, cutting across the grain of the pitch into the pocket of space that had opened like a doorway between Crystal Palace’s retreating defenders.

He lifted his arm, a quick signal, eyes locked on Martinelli’s boots as if urging, now, give it back.

But Martinelli didn’t.

The Brazilian glanced up, head turning sharply as he caught sight of the posts, and the opportunity was too tempting.

From the right-hand side, just outside the box, he wrapped his left foot around the ball, shaping his body as though the goal itself had whispered to him.

The Emirates half of Wembley held its breath as the shot curled, beautifully struck, but it bent agonisingly wide, whisking past the upright, close enough that the net rippled faintly from the draught of its passing.

The groans arrived all at once as the Arsenal fans dropped back into their seats with heads in hands, while the Palace supporters erupted in mocking applause, relieved laughter spilling from their section of the stadium.

Martin Tyler’s voice broke in.

”Ohhh, that looked like it was heading in. Inches away from an opener at Wembley!”

Jim Beglin picked it up seamlessly.

”And look at Izan, he’d made the run, he wanted it slipped back inside. That’s the kind of link-up you’d expect to see between them, but Martinelli backed himself there. You can’t blame him, Martin; he strikes a ball as sweet as anyone in this squad.”

On the pitch, Martinelli jogged back, immediately throwing his hand up and flashing a thumbs-up in Izan’s direction.

A sheepish grin accompanied the gesture, an unspoken apology, an acknowledgement that he’d spotted Izan’s dart into space a fraction too late.

Izan slowed to a stop, exhaling sharply, then gave the faintest nod back.

No histrionics, no raised arms, just a subtle response as if to say, Alright, but next time—next time, find me.

Meanwhile, the Arsenal supporters, still recovering from their groan, broke into a chant of encouragement.’

They knew this was just the start—the opening flare in a match that promised drama.

”It’s the right sort of intent, though. Arsenal carving early paths, and if they keep creating those spaces with Izan drifting, Palace won’t be able to hold them out for long.”

.....

In the heart of Paris, the lounge of the training complex was alive with the hum of television screens and the chatter of players gathered together.

The squad had settled in to watch the FA Cup semi-final, bowls of fruit and bottles of water scattered on the low tables, their laughter carrying lightly in the room.

Warren Zaïre-Emery leaned forward, elbows on his knees, following the action with sharp eyes.

Beside him, Désiré Doué smirked after Martinelli’s wild attempt that skimmed past the post.

”If it were me,” Doué muttered, shaking his head with a grin, ”I would’ve seen that pass. Izan was gone. One touch and he’s through.”

The room chuckled, a few clapping back at him, others throwing in playful jabs.

”Yeah, yeah, you always see it after the replay,” one of the full-backs, Hakimi, teased, drawing another round of laughter.

The mood was easy, almost carefree, as teammates ribbed one another while their attention flickered between the game and the jokes being passed around.

But just behind them, away from the noisy huddle, Luis Enrique sat quietly in a chair pulled close to the screen.

He wasn’t laughing.

His arms were folded, his eyes never leaving the game.

The commentators’ voices carried through the speakers, echoing through the room:

”...it’s almost as if every Arsenal move is drawn like a magnet towards Izan Miura Hernández. They’re trying to find him at every opportunity, to let him dictate the rhythm.”

On screen, Izan collected the ball again, shifting into space as the crimson and blue shirts around him began to move in rhythm with his pace.

The Paris players kept up their easy chatter, but Enrique’s gaze sharpened, tracking every touch, every gesture, as if already thinking ahead for their next meet in a few days time.

And the game rolled on.

A/N: Sorry guys, I had to go out looking for an apartment I could stay in since I am moving out of my University room. Anyway, have fun reading, and I will see you in a bit with the first of the day.