God Of football

Chapter 774: Time To Back The Talk.

A sudden knock rattled the door.

”Oi, Izan! The nerves catch up with you finally? Arteta wants a word—speech before we head out.”

Izan straightened, grabbed a towel to wipe his face, and cast one last look at the sink as though the light might return.

Then he pulled open the door, shoulders squared, and stepped back into the main space of the locker room, still towelling his damp face before sliding down onto the bench between his kit bag and the water bottles stacked at his feet.

Saka, lacing up with a grin tugging at his mouth, glanced up.

”What’s this then? You hiding nerves in there?” he teased, his voice light but carrying through the tense air.

Izan opened his mouth, smirk half-formed, but before he could reply, Arteta’s sharp clap cracked through the space like a whip.

Every head turned.

The manager was on his feet, clipboard shoved aside, his gaze sweeping across them with that fierce intensity that seemed to strip excuses bare.

”Listen to me,” Arteta began, voice steady but rising, each word weighted.

”Do you remember what they said about us back in August? That we’d stumble. That we’d run out of gas. That we’d bottle it, again.”

He paced slowly, his shoes tapping lightly against the tiled floor.

”Rival fans laughed. Pundits wrote us off, saying we would need time to adjust and would give the league away to Man City or Liverpool. Even our own fans doubted. They all waited for the collapse.”

The room was still, his words sinking into each player like stones dropped in water.

”But look at you.”

He gestured broadly at the squad, nerves flickering in eyes, but shoulders straightened and ready to go.

”We’re here. Top of the league. Unbeaten. In every fight, every battle, we stood tall. And now, now we are ninety minutes away from reaching out and taking what they said we could not.”

He stopped, eyes burning, a faint smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

”I don’t know about you,” he said, lowering his tone to a growl, ”but I am ready to make history tonight.”

His fist struck against his chest, something Arteta rarely did or hadn’t been seen doing before, but it had a great effect on the players, who seemed ready to die for him.

”Could have threatened Genghis Khan had he been born earlier,” Izan thought as he watched the manager go on.

”I am ready to take every trophy they said was impossible. And I am ready, ” his grin broke wider, almost mischievous, ”for that fat bonus Stan promised me.”

A ripple of laughter went around the room, tension breaking for a heartbeat.

Arteta lifted a finger, smirking.

”So if you don’t want to do it for yourselves... or for the fans... then do it for the paycheck. Dry Stan Kroenke’s pockets! Empty them!”

Players laughed, some clapping, but the fire underneath the humour was unmistakable.

Arteta turned, his gaze locking on Izan.

”And like he said...” Arteta’s hand cut through the air, pointing toward the teenager.

”It’s a win. Or nothing.”

The words landed heavy, sharp, ringing through the locker room.

Arteta didn’t give them time to settle into silence.

He threw his arms wide, chest rising as he bellowed.

”WE ARE THE ARSENAL!”

The roar cracked the room.

”THE ARSENAL!” the players thundered back, voices uniting, boots stomping the floor in rhythm.

Again, louder, fists pumping in the air: ”WE ARE THE ARSENAL!”

The walls shook with the echo, the chant rolling into the guttural Gunner’s theme, each player roaring it with every ounce of their lungs.

Izan sat back for a second, scanning the scene, the clenched jaws, the wild grins, the eyes burning with purpose.

His teammates were transformed, no longer men in a locker room but soldiers marching toward battle.

One by one, they surged to their feet, slapping backs, feeding off each other’s energy.

The noise didn’t die.

It carried with them, through the door, down the narrow concrete corridor.

By the time they reached the mouth of the tunnel, the chant still rumbled in their chests, drowned only by the chaotic roar of Anfield waiting for them.

And there, shoulder to shoulder, Arsenal’s players stood, ready, fists clenched and eyes seething for glory.

A win. Or nothing.

Eventually, the tunnel gave way to light, and then to noise.

Deafening, chaotic noise.

The Arsenal players spilt out onto the pitch, greeted not by applause but by hostility, every whistle, every jeer, every guttural roar aimed squarely at them.

The hostility sharpened the moment Izan’s face flashed across the giant screen above the Kop.

The boos surged into something visceral, angry, almost animal.

Bottles didn’t fly, but words did as every insult known in the book rained down with venom and fury.

Izan only smiled.

Not a smirk, or mockery this time, but just a calm, unbothered smile as he walked at the front of Arsenal’s line.

He looked from one end of the stands to the other, as if drinking it in, and then simply turned his eyes back to the pitch as the pleasantries began.

Liverpool’s players, lined up, extended hands.

There was a stiffness to it, an edge sharpened by everything that had been said over the week.

But the rituals were honoured.

Van Dijk clasped Odegaard’s hand firmly, exchanging the last words before kickoff.

Across the line, Izan met Salah’s eyes briefly, no smirk this time, just a professional nod, and the touch of palms before moving on.

”Listen to that sound,” Peter Drury’s voice broke in over the broadcast, rich and alive with drama.

”Anfield has made itself known from the very first whistle. Arsenal arrive as league leaders, unbeaten, one result away from immortality. And Liverpool... Liverpool are the wall standing between them and that dream.”

Jim Beglin, steady beside him, added, ”And you can already see where the focus is. The fans, the players look at how much attention is on Izan. He’s seventeen, but he’s painted a target on himself with the way he’s spoken, the way he’s carried himself. Today, he’ll find out if he can match words with deeds.”

The captains parted from the referee after the coin toss, both sides drifting into their formations.

Arsenal’s lines settled with practised ease: Odegaard slightly withdrawn, Rice shielding the back with Saka wide and alert.

And up front was Izan, dropping into the false nine role for the first time in a while, the half striker, half orchestrator, the hub around which Arsenal’s attack would turn.

The whistle hovered as the stadium stilled for the smallest of moments until the referee glanced at his watch and lifted the whistle to his lips.

Peeep!

And it began.

Izan nudged the ball back, quick and clean, rolling it to Odegaard, and Arsenal’s machine stirred to life.

The Anfield roar swelled, drowning every pass, every footstep as the passes pinged around Arsenal’s setup.

”And we are underway!” Drury rose with the moment, his tone sharp with promise.

”36 games and still unbeaten. The Gunners have a chance to clinch the title at Anfield. Arsenal start here, against their greatest challenger. Liverpool, against the odds, against the noise, against history itself. This... is the Premier League, at its most dramatic!”

The ball rolled calmly across the slick green, Timber finding it at his feet on the right.

He took a measured touch, scanning and further up and out wide, Saka darted into space, arm half-raised.

”Here! Quick!” he called, sharp enough to cut through the thunder of Anfield.

Timber didn’t hesitate.

The pass zipped toward Arsenal’s number seven, who collected with his back to Robertson.

The Scot pressed instantly, shoulders squared, but Saka had already made up his mind.

One glance inside was all it took as he released the ball inward, threading it low into midfield.

There, waiting between the lines, Izan had dropped in.

He leaned his body one way, selling the idea of a turn out wide.

Instead, with a flick of his boot, he swept the ball in the opposite direction, a move laced with cheek and instinct.

It should have opened the game.

It should have drawn the first real breath from Arsenal.

But it never did.

Before Izan could shift and follow, a body crashed through him from behind as Gravenberch, late and heavy, arrived like a wall.

The Dutchman’s chest slammed into Izan’s back as an arm stretched across his neck to drag him down.

The teenager toppled forward onto the turf, the ball spinning away with red shirts snapping at it like wolves.

The whistle shrieked as Anfield roared, not in anger, but in delight.

A thousand voices bellowed approval, cheering the crunch and the early statement from Gravenberch.

”They are not going to let him have it easy. Not tonight, not here. Izan talked boldly in the build-up, but this is Liverpool’s response, you don’t walk into their house and dictate the story without a fight.”

Peter Drury’s tone followed, weighty, reflective.

”And it is worth remembering, since the day he first started in an Arsenal shirt, they have never lost a match with him on the pitch. The aura, the numbers, the brilliance, it all feeds the legend. But this, this is the reality of Anfield. They will test him, they will bruise him, and they will see if seventeen can carry the burden of history.”