God Of football

Chapter 761: Uh-oh.

Declan Rice was the first to move.

He didn’t even glance at the PSG players still circling the referee.

He bent, scooped up the ball, and stormed straight toward Izan, thrusting it at his chest with a grim nod, as though handing over the crown.

Izan, back on his feet now, brushed his shorts and adjusted his socks once more, almost casual in his movements.

The referee, trying to restore some order, blew his whistle sharply and gestured with wide arms, clearing the penalty box of encroaching players.

He barked at Vitinha, waved Hakimi away, and even pointed at Marquinhos, who was still shouting.

Slowly, reluctantly, the Parisians shuffled out of the area, muttering darkly under their breath as the referee then turned back, standing right over Izan at the spot.

He leaned in slightly.

”Place the ball.”

Izan dropped it onto the turf with care, his hands steady.

He rolled it back once, adjusted the seams so the logo faced him, then stood upright, his eyes locked on the towering figure of Donnarumma.

That was when the Italian keeper made his move.

Two strides forward, his gloves hanging at his sides, his expression twisted with a mixture of defiance and desperation.

He muttered low, just loud enough for Izan to hear, his accent thick and sharp:

”[Tu mi temi...] You fear me.”

It was an old keeper’s trick, the kind of verbal jab meant to sow doubt, to plant hesitation before the run-up.

Donnarumma held the stare for a second more, then stepped back, confident that his words had done their work.

But Izan’s reply stopped him cold.

”[Non è quello che è successo l’ultima volta che ci siamo incontrati.] That wasn’t what happened when we last met.”

The words struck like a knife.

Izan hadn’t just responded; he had responded in perfect Italian.

Donnarumma froze for a moment, his head tilting almost imperceptibly.

He knew Izan spoke the language a bit, but the last time the two had talked, it was just pieced together and broken; now, it was almost at the native level.

And worse, the memory came back unbidden: last summer, the Euros.

Izan had scored and assisted against him.

The wound still stung.

A deep frown carved into the keeper’s face as he turned away, trudging back to his line with heavier steps than before.

The referee returned once more, checking with both men.

”Ready?” A nod from Izan.

Another, more reluctant, from Donnarumma.

And then the world seemed to still.

The Parc des Princes, a cauldron moments ago, hushed itself into unbearable tension.

PSG fans clutched at scarves, praying for their Italian giant to save them.

Arsenal fans, on the other hand, crammed into their corner, leaned forward as if by sheer force of will they could push the ball into the net.

The whistle blew, and just as it went, Izan began his run.

Smooth, unhurried, measured.

Donnarumma crouched, coiled, muscles ready to spring, but perhaps, he was a bit too eager.

Because Izan’s boot met the ball, but instead of blasting it, he chipped.

A feathered touch, delicate as silk, the ball arcing slowly, teasingly, straight down the middle, but a bit more to the left

Donnarumma had already hurled himself to his right, committing fully.

The ball floated serenely over the space he had abandoned and dropped into the net with a cruel inevitability.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then, detonation.

The Arsenal end went nuclear, bodies flung together in rapture.

Arteta leapt into the air on the touchline, fists punching the night as the commentators broke into stunned cries:

”PANENKA! He’s done it! Izan, with ice in his veins, sends Donnarumma the wrong way! Composure beyond belief! Arsenal equalise and it’s three-three on aggregate, two-one on the night!”

On the pitch, Izan turned.

He didn’t sprint to celebrate with teammates.

Instead, he looked straight at Donnarumma, raised a finger to his cheek, and mimed tears streaming down, mocking the giant keeper as if to say You’re crying now.

The Paris crowd erupted in fury, but Izan didn’t flinch.

He walked toward them deliberately, his chest rising with every step.

Then he cupped his ears, daring them to scream louder.

They did.

But it wasn’t only screams.

From the stands came flares, bottles, andsmall fireworks as the air littered with fury.

Projectiles rained toward him, yet somehow, not a single one struck.

Izan stood there, framed by smoke and sparks, unmoving.

Defiant.

A camera on the sideline caught the moment perfectly, the young prodigy bathed in chaos but untouchable, as though the world itself bent around him.

That image would travel far and wide, later called the first glimpse of Izan’s aura farming.

Security swarmed into the stands, yellow jackets surging as they warned the PSG ultras to calm themselves or risk ejection.

The referee, trying desperately to restore order, stormed across the pitch toward Izan.

And then came the twist.

The yellow card was raised.

The stadium gasped again, but this time in disbelief.

Izan’s eyes widened, genuine shock flashing across his face.

A booking for him.

He stepped toward the referee, gesturing, his voice sharp but controlled.

”Seriously, ref. So they can call me names? Insult my mother? And I can’t answer back? That’s not the game.”

The referee held firm, ushering him away with clipped words while Izan shook his head, incredulous, before finally turning and walking back toward his half.

His teammates patted his back, trying to calm him, but his expression was still one of disbelief.

”Well, that is extraordinary. Izan has just been booked for provoking the crowd, and the young man can’t believe it. And honestly, you can understand his frustration.”

Ally McCoist’s voice cut in, incredulously.

”The game’s gone. Absolutely gone. How can you book a player just because he responded to abuse? That’s madness. He’s been targeted all game, and now he’s punished for standing his ground. It’s wrong, plain and simple.”

And still, through it all, the camera lingered on Izan—walking back, jaw clenched, his aura only growing in the face of controversy.

...

Luis Enrique was almost on the pitch himself now.

The usually reserved coach had turned frantic, waving his arms in wild arcs, voice hoarse as he barked at his players.

”¡Compactos! Stay compact! Don’t lose your heads! Pass, pass, control it! Don’t chase the game, wait for the chance!”

His cries carried across the touchline, cutting through the noise, desperate and pleading in equal measure.

He wasn’t demanding brilliance anymore.

He was begging for survival.

The restart came with PSG rolling the ball timidly across their backline, but it was clear: every touch was nervy, every pass felt weighted with fear.

They were treading a razor’s edge, and the only way they found to stop Izan was to drag him down.

And so they did.

Vitinha clattered into him near the centre circle, and that got him a yellow card.

Moments later, Pacho clipped his heels just as he spun away, which earned him a yellow card.

Then Nuno Mendes, usually so disciplined, lunged too eagerly at Izan on the wing, and another yellow followed.

The Emirates end was howling approval with every whistle, every card raised, while the Parisians were folding into panic.

Luis Enrique’s voice kept rising, his arms flailing as though he could physically push his players back into their shape.

His sweater clung damp to his frame, his face reddening under the lights.

And still, his eyes darted again and again to the clock.

Eighty-nine minutes.

Then the fourth official’s board went up.

+5.

The collective roar of Arsenal’s fans crashed like a wave.

To them, it meant salvation.

To Enrique, it was purgatory.

He clasped his head in his hands, lips moving silently.

He had begged for less, but football never obeys.

And five minutes, five minutes might as well have been a lifetime because that could be all it took for wonder, or disaster.

”Well, here we go. Five minutes. Arsenal have five minutes to turn this tie completely on its head.”

Ally McCoist groaned beside him, almost laughing from the tension:

”And for PSG... five minutes to hang on for their lives. You couldn’t script it tighter!”

Back on the pitch, Arsenal smelled the blood.

Declan Rice stormed into a midfield duel and won it with a crunch, the ball ricocheting kindly, and Izan didn’t hesitate.

He swooped in, collecting the loose ball like it belonged to him, and instantly surged forward.

He beat one man with a feint, another with a burst of pace, before slinging the ball diagonally to the far flank.

Bukayo Saka.

The England winger had been quieter as the half wore on, fading into the background, but reputations don’t vanish, and Nuno Mendes knew exactly who stood before him.

A left-back whose growing reputation was for ”collecting” world-class wingers, Mendes set himself, lowering his stance, eyes fixed.

Saka slowed, then quickened, toes kissing the ball.

He nudged inside, then outside, then dragged it again, forcing Mendes to shuffle, hesitate and lunge, but the latter action went a step too far.

Saka slipped his body between man and ball, Mendes’s foot tangling awkwardly, and down went Saka, tumbling just outside the edge of the box.

The whistle pierced the night as Nuno Mendes’ face fell the moment he saw where the foul had landed.

The referee’s arm was pointing not toward the penalty spot, but just to the right edge of the box, almost on the chalk.

The crowd’s gasp was almost playful, half in pity, half in thrill.

A dangerous free-kick, and then, ”Uh oh...” Darren Fletcher muttered into his mic, his voice carrying a grin of disbelief.

As if in tandem or having heard Fletcher’s voice, the cameras panned across the pitch, searching for the inevitable.

And there he was.

Izan.