God Of football

Chapter 960: Come September!

Zubimendi took one touch, calm as ever, and Izan was already back on his feet, spinning away from the tackle and pointing sharply into the right half space.

”Lemme have itt!!,” he barked, the word short and sharp, more command than request.

Zubimendi did not hesitate.

He slid the ball into him with the inside of his boot, firm and precise, and Izan received it on the half turn, taking a touch and then another to roll his body across the ball, and Alexis Mac Allister was suddenly reaching for air.

A collective intake of breath swept the stands as Mac Allister tried to recover, stretching a leg, but Izan had already slipped past, carrying the ball close, his strides shortening as the space ahead began to collapse.

Liverpool’s midfield scrambled back, red shirts converging while the defensive line retreated in a straight line that Van Dijk was trying to hold together with shouts and raised arms.

”He’s at it again. Every touch feels like an invitation to chaos.”

Izan drove forward, the ball glued to his right foot, his left arm slightly out for balance.

You could see him measuring it, not just the distance to the goal but the defenders in front of him.

He slowed just enough to make them think, his weight shifting onto his right leg, and nudged the ball half a yard forward.

Van Dijk stepped out.

It was the smallest of lunges, a fraction of a second late, but it was enough.

Izan feinted inside, his hips opening as if to cut across the defender, and Van Dijk committed.

In that instant, Izan pushed the ball the other way, skimming past the outstretched leg and bursting into the box from the right.

The noise inside the stadium changed pitch.

It became higher and more chaotic in that short instant.

And Alisson, seeing his captain done away with, rushed off his line, arms wide, trying to make himself big.

For a moment, it looked like Izan might shoot early.

Instead, he took another touch, dragging the ball across his body and around the goalkeeper.

Alisson slid past him, fingertips brushing nothing but air, and suddenly the goal was empty.

Izan did not even look.

He guided the ball into the net with the inside of his boot, eyes staring into the souls of the Liverpool fans who met his eyes.

The ball kissed the side netting and settled, and for half a second there was silence, the kind that comes when a crowd needs time to process what it has just seen.

Then the stadium exploded.

The Arsenal bench emptied in a rush of bodies, with hands over head as Izan slowed to a jog, then stopped, turning back toward the corner flag before his teammates reached him.

Gyökeres was the first there again, laughing as he wrapped both arms around him, shouting something lost in the noise while Drury let the moment breathe, his voice returning as the celebrations rolled on.

”Oh, this is astonishing. This is not a footballer playing within the limits of his age or his experience. This is a player operating on a level of his own. Some wondered if we’d ever get a player reaching the level of Messi or Ronaldo, but I am telling you right now. This kid is better, and is on top of the footballing Pyramid!”

The replay flashed up on the big screen before cutting to Arteta, who now had an unwashable grin on his face, kind of saying that there was nothing in this world that could ruin the night he was having.

”September feels a long way off,” Drury continued, almost reflective and brooding now.

”Awards are not won in August, we know that. But if there were any doubts, any reluctance to acknowledge what we are watching, then surely they are fading fast. Because right now, it is hard to see who stands alongside him.”

On the pitch, Izan finally pulled free from the huddle.

He clapped his hands once, sharp and loud, and pointed back toward a section of the stands, with the fans there going chaotic and wondering who was getting the attention from their superstar.

Back on the pitch, Izan set his hands down, his face going back as the Liverpool players drifted back into position in silence for the third time that game.

.....

[Merseyside, Liverpool]

The front door shut with a dull thud that sounded heavier than it should have.

The boy did not wait.

He kicked his trainers off without bothering to line them up and bolted for the stairs, head down, one hand brushing the wall as he took them two at a time.

His bedroom door slammed a second later, sharp and final, followed by the muffled click of a lock.

His father stood in the hallway for a moment, breathing out through his nose.

He reached up, unwound the red scarf from around his neck, and hung it on the coat holder by habit rather than care.

It slipped slightly, the crest facing the wall, and he did not fix it.

He walked into the living room slowly, shoulders slumped, boots still on.

The television was on, volume low, but unnecessary.

The picture alone said enough.

4–0.

Bright white numbers sat in the corner of the screen like an accusation.

Arsenal’s players were celebrating again, arms raised, faces lit with joy that felt almost cruel from this distance.

His wife stood in front of the television, arms folded tight across her chest.

She did not turn when he came in, eyes still staying on the screen until her husband stopped beside the sofa and glanced at the score.

”They added another,” he said more to himself and then to her.

She finally looked over, just for a second, and then nodded.

”Why is it still on then?” he asked quietly.

She gave a small shrug. ”Couldn’t bring myself to switch it off.”

He nodded, understanding that feeling too well.

He reached for the remote on the coffee table, his hand hovering for a moment as the crowd noise swelled again from the speakers before he pressed the button.

The screen went black, and the room fell silent.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved.

The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge from the kitchen and the creak of the house settling around them.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa and rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down slowly before letting them rest on his knees.

Upstairs, something thudded against the wall of the boy’s room.

A chair, maybe.

Or a bag.

His wife glanced toward the ceiling, then back at her husband.

”Bad enough when I watched it on the couch,” she murmured with a little smile.

”You lot must have gotten the worst of it,” she continued, causing her husband to chuckle a little.

”Give him time,” he said while glancing upwards like he could see his soon through the wooden floors.

She nodded, unfolding her arms at last and sitting down beside him.