God Of football

Chapter 854: Handing Out Losses.

The noise hadn’t even faded when Arsenal began their walk back toward their own half, the players grinning, feeding off the crowd’s electricity.

Izan, ruffled and tossed like a ragdoll in the celebrations, was tying his hair again as the commentators’ voices rolled over the scene.

”Not sure how many fans were talking about it before the game, but, if anyone wondered how they’d cope without Bukayo Saka tonight,” one of them said, laughing over the din, ”they’ve got their answer, and it’s a terrifying one. Because this boy, Izan, is an absolute monster of a footballer. Versatility, power, pace, flair, he’s got the lot. And if the panel of Judges and Journalists of football aren’t blind, I see him making history, in October.”

The camera, still trained on him, caught him mid-stride, hair tied neatly now as the cheers followed him all the way to Arsenal’s half.

Down on the touchline, Pep Guardiola squinted across the pitch, his hands cupping his jaw in that familiar, restless way.

Then, without a word, he raised two fingers and gestured sharply toward the midfield, a signal, a tweak, a desperate patch on a leaking system.

The game restarted, and City responded the only way they knew how, by suffocating the ball.

Pass after pass, angle after angle, their link-up play returned in little bursts.

Arsenal pressed, but City’s patterns, honed to machine precision, began to tick again.

”Classic Guardiola,” came the commentary. ”When he can’t overpower you, he’ll starve you. I would be careful too, because that only makes Arsenal’s hunger for the ball intense.”

And for a stretch, it worked. Arsenal hardly touched the ball.

City’s technically engineered, five-man midfield moved it with a kind of hypnotic arrogance, short, quick, unhurried.

But the problem was clear: for all their possession, there was no incision.

No crack in the wall.

They were circulating, not slicing.

Every time they tried to push forward, they found Arsenal compact and unmoved.

The blue shirts passed, and passed, and passed, yet never truly advanced and Arsenal, a goal ahead, weren’t really put off by the lack of possession because the team that had it wasn’t doing too much with it.

Minutes bled away like that.

The half-hour mark passed.

Then thirty-five.

Then forty.

Arsenal waited.

And when their chance came, it came from chaos.

”Arsenal, with a rare moment of possession in this game,” the commentator called as Rice took hold of the ball from an attempted lofted ball from Dias.

But his grasp of the ball wasn’t strong enough, leaving the ball loose again as players from both teams approached the prize of the game.

The ball ricocheted in between bodies and tackles before it once again spun loosely near the right, where Odegaard poked it to Izan with a slide after chasing it.

”He’s got the ball and he’s got the space. What now?” the co-commentator snatched the words from the mouth of his partner as Izan turned on his heels, nicking the ball and turning, his sudden movement catching Aït-Nouri on the wrong foot, before trying to burst past the latter.

But the Algerian grabbed desperately, clutching Izan’s shirt by the scruff of the neck before yanking it back to stop Izan’s energy-fueled run from causing another chaotic sequence, but the whistle shrieked as the referee approached.

Ait Nouri tried to feign innocence, saying it was reflexive, but his case was not up for debate as the referee showed him a yellow card.

The crowd howled as Izan stepped up, dusting himself off and then turning towards the ball, which was somehow placed neatly on the patch of grass right ahead of him.

He crouched for a moment, adjusting it just right, before his eyes darted to the pack of bodies already jostling in the box.

The referee barked orders, ”No holding!, before stepping aside from the men who were trying so hard to strangle each other for the ball.

Izan took a slow breath and a few steps back.

Then, with the run-up, he lifted the ball into the air with that effortless whip of his left foot.

It was perfect.

The delivery arced just beyond the front post, curling inward, spinning like it had a purpose, and there, Gabriel met it with a run of pure violence, muscling through Gvardiol and Dias before crashing a header straight into the back of the net and just beyond the reach of Ederson.

The net bulged and the stadium roared again, this time a bit less chaotic than the first.

”Gabriel doubles it!” the commentator cried.

”Another immaculate delivery from Izan, and City are crumbling here in Orlando! They just can’t handle that one quality down Arsenal’s right flank.”

On the Arsenal bench, fists pumped but immediately settled down.

On the touchline, a grin almost immediately flared up on Arteta’s face, with his assistants slapping each other’s shoulders behind him.

”Slow death,” came the other voice in the booth, almost grimly.

”That’s what this feels like. Manchester City are looking around for a response, but right now, they don’t have one. And it doesn’t look like they will have one if this goes the same way it has in the first half.”

”What do we do, Mister?” Guardiola’s assistant called from behind, causing the former boss of the Catalan giants to turn towards him.

But he just sighed and then turned forward again.

”I have no answer, but I have a few calls to make,” he said, watching grimly as the Arsenal players returned to their half, bypassing the downcast City players.

.....

Fwee, Fwee, Fweeee.

The roar of the crowd broke like a wave through the Florida air the moment the referee’s whistle echoed across the stadium.

The game was done.

”It’s all over!” the announcer’s voice rang through the speakers in the stadium, fighting to be heard above the noise.

”Well, the announcer couldn’t have said it any better,” the voice from the broadcast gantry came in.

”Manchester City are spared from any further punishment, but what a performance we’ve witnessed once again tonight!”

The noise inside the stadium refused to die down.

Scarlet shirts shimmered in the floodlights, arms thrown skyward, flags and camera flashes blending into a storm of sound and colour.

Amid it all, Izan emerged from the bench area, an ice pack pressed against the side of his thigh as he walked toward the middle of the pitch.

The Florida heat still clung to the air, thick and heavy, carrying with it the echo of the chants that now had only one name in them.

He paused for a moment, eyes lifting toward the giant board above the stands, displaying the little it could of the 4–1 battering Arsenal had served City in the Orlando afternoon, a simple reflection of what had just unfolded.

”Another display from Izan tonight,” the commentator continued.

”Two goals, two assists before being subbed off in the seventy-eighth minute and since then, City have only managed their consolation. What a statement this young man keeps making. That’s 4 goals and 2 assists in 2 games.”

Down on the pitch, Izan adjusted the strap holding the ice pack in place, then made his way across to the City players.

There was mutual respect in the air as he shook hands with one, then another.

Haaland gave him a pat on the shoulder and a grin that said more than words.

From the side, Foden, who had come on in the second half, approached with his shirt half-tucked and sweat still clinging to his brow.

”See you in Manchester,” Foden said, a short nod following his words before he turned away, heading toward the tunnel.

Izan blinked after him for a moment, a faint crease forming between his brows, not quite sure what to make of it, before he shrugged it off and continued moving, exchanging a few more words with the other players.

Then, the announcer’s voice boomed through the PA, sharp and clear once again.

”The Player of the Match — Izan Hernandez!”

The crowd erupted, chanting Full-throated, with Izan’s name echoing from one stand to another.

”I-zan! I-zan! I-zan!”

On the pitch, the subject of attention couldn’t help but smile, the corners of his mouth curving as he clapped in return, raising a hand toward the supporters in acknowledgement while the cameras flashed around him, capturing the moment, the young star framed in the blaze of the floodlights, the Florida night wrapping around him like a stage curtain.

Before he could do anything further, one of the staff members waiting near the sideline caught his eye and gestured toward the interview podium that had been set up near the halfway line.

Izan sighed, looking to the sides, before he nodded, gave one last wave to the stands, and began walking toward it, the cheers still rolling behind him, loud, unrelenting, alive.

”Good evening, people, and welcome to another Club World Cup post-match interview,” the host said.

”I am Marge Samson, and with me is who some say is the Greatest thing football has ever seen. Welcome, Izan,” the woman said before turning towards Izan, who just nodded.