God Of football

Chapter 875: A Cold Play.

In the stands, the Arsenal fans behind the goal were already on their feet after Havertz’s shot.

Their roar didn’t fade even when the chance went begging since it was the first effort they had seen from their team, which had been sort of lacklustre save for a few players.

The commentators rode that wave, their voices carrying over the broadcast.

”Arsenal finally showing some teeth here! What a passage of play that was. The composure from Izan, the link-up with Martinelli, and Havertz just inches away from levelling it! This is what we’ve come to know them by.”

Another voice came in, lighter but excited.

”And listen to those supporters, finally relieved. 10 minutes in, but their team, up until this point, had been pushed back, and that is never fun for any football fan to watch.”

Down on the pitch, Martinelli jogged over to take the throw.

The noise around him was constant, thick and alive.

He looked upfield, spotted Izan already peeling away from Ruiz and Vitinha, and hurled the ball long.

Izan sprinted into the open space, the ball bouncing perfectly into his path, the floodlights chasing his stride as if the whole night was bending toward him again.

Izan slowed to a halt near the right channel, his boots brushing over the grass as he put his body between the ball and Vitinha.

Fabian Ruiz pressed from the other side, but Izan didn’t rush.

He shifted his weight, shoulder dropping slightly, eyes darting as though he were composing a rhythm only he could hear.

Then, with a flick of his toe, the ball popped up toward Martinelli, who stood freely on the side, spectating right until Izan decided to include him, but he met the ball with his forehead, knocking it straight back down to Izan.

The crowd near the touchline reacted instantly, a short burst of cheers swelling into laughter as Izan nodded it back to Martinelli, and the Brazilian, grinning now, headed it back again.

Back and forth they went, like kids on a training pitch, completely unfazed by the stakes around them.

Each touch seemed to pull the fans closer, the sound of approval growing louder, sharper, more alive.

Then Izan shaped for another header but faked it, bringing the ball down to his feet instead, but before he could turn away, Ruiz, perhaps annoyed by the little showboating, clattered into him from behind, catching his thigh and dropping him to his knees.

The whistles from the Arsenal supporters erupted immediately, overshadowing that of the referee, who was there within seconds, gesturing with a firm hand.

”Careful, Fabian. No more of that.”

Ruiz raised both palms, backing away as Izan was already up.

He didn’t wait for the drama.

He picked the ball off the ground, set it down, and restarted play before the referee could even signal.

A sharp roll forward to Ødegaard, who returned it quickly, just before Izan followed through with a diagonal pass to switch play to the Englishman on the other flank.

Saka, who had been quiet until now, waiting for his chance, took the ball in stride, facing up his marker, Nuno Mendes.

The PSG backline adjusted immediately, forcing him outward toward the sideline.

Saka tried to dance inside, but Nuno Mendes held his ground, body low, waiting.

Out of options, Saka shifted and swung a cross, not the best one, as the ball hung uncertainly in the air before dipping toward the edge of the box.

And then the whole stadium gasped.

From nowhere, Izan arrived.

He had sprinted from the left flank, timing his run perfectly, meeting the ball on the bounce in the box just before it could drop too low.

[Knight In The Area LV 3], his system rang in his head, after the prerequisite for the trait was fulfilled, because Izan had gotten the ball in the box.

”IZAAANNNNN!!!!!” the commentators roared, their damp throats getting the workout of a lifetime as Izan’s left leg came across his body and connected clean, like a hammer through the air.

The sound that followed was sharp, almost metallic, and the ball tore away as though it had been shot from a point across the fabric of space and time and with such a shot, there was no way in hell that Donnarumma was getting to the ball as it blazed past him, slamming into the top corner with a violent snap that made the net shake.

And immediately, the roar of the fans descended like a chaotic symphony.

GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAALLLLLL!!!

”OH MY WORD! IZAN! WHAT A HIT!” one commentator shouted, voice cracking.

”That is outrageous! He’s caught that like a dream! Donnarumma rooted, absolutely rooted to the spot! Arsenal are level, and that might be one of the goals of the tournament!”

The second voice broke in, half laughing in disbelief.

”This is what I am always talking about. How do you even deal with an entity like that? He’s just decided the ball needed to go in the net, and it obeyed. Look at that connection. You won’t ever see a ball hit better than that!”

The Arsenal end turned into chaos as flags waved violently.

Izan jogged toward the corner flag, calm amidst the noise, the faintest smile crossing his face.

He pointed toward the stands, palms open, motioning for them to settle down.

”Calma,” he seemed to mouth, eyes glinting under the floodlights.

But there was no calming anyone.

The players rushed to him, surrounding him in a storm of red and white.

Luis Enrique turned away from the touchline, eyes shut for a moment, his hand brushing across his forehead as the noise from the Arsenal end still thundered behind him.

He exhaled slowly, his breath lost in the roar of the MetLife crowd, and then turned back toward the pitch just as Arsenal’s players began jogging back to their half.

”Both sides on the board,” came the broadcast voice over the speakers, the tone alive with energy. ”Twenty minutes gone, and this final is already boiling over. What a start. One from Doue. One from Izan. And what a finish that was from the young Spaniard!”

The stadium announcer’s voice took over, echoing through the structure with rhythmic passion.

”Number 10... Izan... Hernandez!”

The cheers that followed sounded like thunder hitting air.

Back on the pitch, Dembele stood over the ball, his eyes narrowed and his lips tighter.

PSG’s early advantage had vanished in an instant, undone by a flash of brilliance.

He gave the ball a single tap back toward Fabian Ruiz as the referee’s whistle shrieked through the air, signalling the restart, and immediately, it did, Paris tried to reimpose themselves, just as they had done from the first kick.

They got the ball to Hakimi, who sent a diagonal into the Arsenal half and towards the edge of the box.

But this time, Saliba read it like a book.

He stepped across his marker, let the ball run, and watched as it bounced harmlessly into Raya’s waiting arms.

And the keeper didn’t waste a heartbeat as he hurled it straight to Ødegaard in midfield.

The Norwegian brought it down smoothly and glanced once before touching it toward Izan, who was already turning to face Vitinha.

And then came the sort of thing you couldn’t teach, couldn’t plan.

Izan’s first touch wasn’t a simple pass or trap.

He flicked the ball over Vitinha’s leg, spinning around him in a motion so fast it left the Portuguese midfielder reaching for shadows.

He caught Izan’s shirt in frustration, trying to slow him down, but Izan dragged him along as though he were carrying a child on his back.

”Oh, he’s done him again!” the commentator cried, laughter breaking through his words.

”He’s running circles around Vitinha, one of the best midfielders in Europe last season! Look at that confidence!”

Still, Izan pushed forward, gliding past halfway, Vitinha’s grip finally loosening.

Now at the edge of the box, he faced two navy shirts, Pacho and Fabian Ruiz.

Both stepped forward in unison, bodies tense, waiting for him to make the first move.

So Izan did.

The pass they expected never came as Izan’s legs poised, ready for the shot, causing the duo to immediately lunge, trying to block whatever was coming.

But there was no shot.

Instead, Izan rolled the ball effortlessly onto his right, slipping through the gap they’d both opened, and with the tiniest adjustment of his hips, he shaped for goal.

The ball left his foot in a smooth arc, curling away from Donnarumma, who dove the wrong way, frozen for that crucial half-second by the feint as the ball bent perfectly into the far corner, kissing the post before it nestled into the net.

”HE’S DONE IT AGAIN! DRINK IT IN YOU GOONERS. IZANNNNNNN HERNANDEZ HAS PUT THE CROWN BACK ON YOUR HEADS! A MASTERCLASS IN THE MAKING!” the broadcast roared.

”Two goals in 2 minutes, and Paris are shell-shocked! Luis Enrique’s side don’t know what’s hit them!”

The cameras panned to the PSG supporters, their faces blank, disbelief written in every stare.

This was going to be another long night.