God Of football

Chapter 759: Chaos In Paris.

The ball spun loose to the right side of the box, begging for a finish.

And there was Bukayo Saka.

The number 7’s body coiled, one step in, eyes locked on the ball with a glint that said it all.

He was ready to let his frustration fly, and that looked to be what was going to happen as Saka’s right boot met the ball cleanly, but so did Marquinhos.

The Brazilian captain hurled himself in with impeccable timing, clearing not just the ball but Saka’s shooting leg as well.

The Arsenal winger spun before falling onto the turf with a cry, the clash sending shivers across the stands.

And then came the shrill, piercing sound of the referee’s whistle as the players turned towards the official to see him pointing straight to the spot.

And it was chaos.

Pure chaos.

”Penalty! It’s a penalty for Arsenal, and the script has been flipped!” Darren Fletcher bellowed as the referee walked forward towards the spot where Saka sat on the grass, holding his ankle, his face twisted in pain.

Marquinhos, arms wide, stormed towards the fallen Arsenal man, jabbing a finger at the ground and spitting words in French that needed no translation, ”Diver!” he barked and around him, navy blue shirts swarmed the referee, PSG players surrounding him, hands flailing, demanding he overturn the call.

Arsenal’s response was immediate as they also came forward and converged around Saka, checking him and shielding him from Paris’ aggression.

Martin Ødegaard and Izan broke away, rushing straight to the referee, voices firm, arms outstretched, doing everything they could to keep Paris players from intimidating him.

But the air was turning poisonous.

The PSG fans were incandescent.

Red flares lit the night, smoke pouring into the Parc Des Princes air, chants rising in unison like a wall of fury.

Each shout seemed to rattle the official himself, who stood still, his face tight, a finger pressed against the black earpiece in his ear.

He was listening and checking.

The stadium held its breath as the commentators filled the silence, at least, the one on screen.

”Penalty given! But hold on, he’s waiting. He’s waiting for confirmation from the VAR room... oh, this is tense. This is absolutely massive!”

Seconds dragged like minutes.

And then the referee moved.

He raised his hand, fingers carving a square in the air.

The VAR signal.

The Paris crowd erupted, bouncing as if they had scored themselves.

On the other side of things, Arsenal’s groans rained from the away end, chants of ”Coward! Bought!”, the anger spilling over as the referee jogged towards the pitchside monitor.

He leaned in.

Eyes squinting as the replay rolled.

First angle, second angle, nothing conclusive.

Then the third came, and it was clear as daylight.

Marquinhos had nicked the ball first, his toe meeting leather a fraction of a second before Saka’s boot clashed.

The Arsenal winger’s tumble was a byproduct of the contact, not the cause of it.

The referee watched one final replay, lips pressed thin.

Then he straightened, before walking back onto the pitch, both crowd and players expectant of the result.

He pointed to the monitor, drew the square again with his fingers, and turned back to the pitch.

Arms sweeping across both directions.

No penalty.

Instead, he pointed for a corner, but the noise that followed was volcanic.

”They fucking bought him out,” a fan called in the stands as the Arsenal players surged at the referee, disbelief etched into their faces.

Gabriel was the loudest, storming forward, arms spread wide as he barked in the referee’s face, but it was too close.

Too much, and the yellow card flashed almost instantly.

The defender froze, anger boiling, before Izan slipped in front of him, palms pressed to his chest, pulling him back, calming him before a second booking ended the night prematurely.

”Well, Arsenal thought they had the chance to take the lead across both legs,” the commentary picked up again, trying to cut through the mayhem, ”but the referee says no! No penalty! VAR confirms Marquinhos took the ball first. But what a massive moment this could be in the tie.”

”Arsenal, though, will have to make the most of this corner, because if we’ve learned anything about them this season, it’s that a set piece is almost as good as a goal for them. Statistically, they’ve scored the most from set plays across the top five leagues.”

The boos and jeers still echoed, half the stadium spitting venom, the other half urging their team forward.

Izan, quiet amidst the chaos, picked the ball up and walked calmly to the corner flag as the whistles rained down, the PSG fans desperate to break his focus, but the Arsenal supporters rose with him, singing his name, cheering, clapping, doing everything they could to smother the sting of injustice with belief.

He bent low, setting the ball carefully on the arc, his fingers brushing it once before he straightened.

For a moment, just a moment, the storm around him didn’t matter.

The flares, the chants, the fury, it all melted into white noise.

It was just Izan, the ball, and the corner flag.

And then Izan swept his boot across the ball, clean and sharp, sending it curling into the box with precision that looked engineered.

It bent through the floodlights, spinning as though programmed with a GPS, homing in on its target.

Jurrien Timber rose the highest.

His timing was perfect, his forehead meeting the ball with a thud that echoed through the Emirates like a gunshot.

”TIMBEEEERRRR!” the commentary exploded, voices cracking with expectation as the ball cannoned off his head, rocketing straight for the bottom corner.

Donnarumma stood, rooted to the spot, and the Arsenal end was already rising, arms lifted in premature celebration—

—but then Pacho appeared.

Out of nowhere.

The Ecuadorian flung himself into the flight path, his head smashing the ball away. Relief for Paris.

Or so it seemed, because the clearance had dropped to Declan Rice.

The ball came down and then stuck like glue to his chest as he steadied himself, muscles coiled, and then unleashed as the ball came down.

A hammer, low and vicious, screaming straight for the goal.

Donnarumma threw himself across as his giant frame hit the turf, gloves clamping down.

He caught it or smothered it, but the ball squirmed through the gaps under his arm, trickling back toward the white line.

For a heartbeat, the stadium froze as the ball trickled toward the line in slow motion, so slowly that every soul inside the Parc des Princes could follow its path.

Declan Rice’s arms shot skyward, his scream tearing into the night.

Behind the goal, the Arsenal fans had already exploded, again, bodies colliding, tumbling over the barriers in a blur of limbs and ecstasy.

For them, it was done.

They’d seen the breakthrough.

But Donnarumma wasn’t finished.

With a desperate twist, the giant keeper clawed back, one arm scooping the ball and dragging it clear, his entire body folding onto the line.

Rice froze mid-shout, his expression collapsing into disbelief, anger, confusion and every shade of protest at once as he didn’t see his goal being given.

He wheeled to the referee, gesturing frantically that it had crossed, but the referee tapped at his wrist, face impassive.

No buzz. No goal.

His teammates were shouting too, Odegaard sprinting toward the referee, Izan’s arm outstretched, but the decision was firm.

Nothing had crossed, and that single moment of hesitation was enough.

Before Arsenal could reorganise, PSG struck like a whip.

Donnarumma’s clearance found João Neves on the edge of his own box, the Portuguese midfielder taking no time to dwell.

He swung through it, a thumping release that split the pitch in two, shooting the ball onto the open flank.

And there he was, Khvicha Kvaratskhelia.

The Georgian cushioned it out of the sky like silk, his stride never breaking as he spun upfield.

In an instant, the game had turned on its head.

Arsenal’s white shirts were scrambling back, disjointed, caught out by the sudden switch.

Izan, who had only just delivered the corner seconds earlier, was already tearing across the turf in a dead sprint, lungs bumping air like it wanted to get out of his chest as he tried to chase the runaway danger.

The crowd’s roar became a wall of noise, split between panic and ecstasy.

The Emirates’ travelling end faltered, their celebration dying on their lips, while the Parisian stands surged with life, sensing blood.

And over it all, the commentary erupted, their voices breaking with urgency, words spilling over themselves as if they were the ones chasing Kvaratskhelia down the wing.

”Arsenal thought they had it! They thought the ball was over the line—but now look at Paris! Kvaratskhelia’s away! They’ve turned defence into attack in the blink of an eye!”

A/N: Sorry for the late release. Might release a couple extra Chapters tomorrow aside from the normal two. Be on the lookout for it , and thanks for the support as always.