God Of football

Chapter 965: Possible Upset!

”Warmups in five!”

”Did you bring all the bags?”

”Boots for Izan.”

The chatter flew about in the room as the players slipped on their pre-game warm-up kits.

”Come on, guys, be quick,” Arteta said just as he entered the dressing room once more, causing the players to begin filtering out of the room.

The moment they stepped out onto the grass, the sound got deafening.

It came from every direction, rolling down from the stands and bouncing off steel and concrete into a full-throated roar.

Red shirts filled the bowl of the Emirates, scarves waving, and phones held aloft as the players stepped out into the light.

Arsenal came first, disorderly moving about the pitch as the Nottingham Forest players followed a moment later.

Ødegaard, starting for the first time that season, gave a brief clap above his head as they crossed the white line.

The forest player, on the other hand, walked a bit more cautiously, realising what a disadvantage they were in before the match had even begun.

Away from the stadiums in the homes of football fans, the broadcast cut in.

”Good evening from the Emirates, where Arsenal are looking to build on an extraordinary start to the season,” one of the Sky Sports commentators said. ”And it’s impossible to begin anywhere else but with Izan.”

His co-commentator laughed softly.

”You almost run out of ways to frame it. Twelve goals from three games this season. Fifty-eight Premier League goals in thirty-eight matches since he signed last year. That is not a run of form but the start of something generational. Something never seen before in football.”

”It really is,” the first replied. ”We spent the past couple of years talking about how ridiculous Haaland’s goal-per-game numbers were. This is something else entirely. This is unheard of.”

The camera lingered on Izan as he slowed to a walk, then bent slightly to adjust his socks before setting off again.

”And that’s just league football,” the second added. ”Eighty-seven goals for Arsenal already in just a single season. At this rate, he’s on course to be the fastest player to reach a hundred Premier League goals for a single club.”

”There’s a sense with him,” the first said, voice steady, ”that records are not something he chases. They just seem to follow.”

The picture cut briefly to last season’s highlights.

Finishes from every angle, each calm, precise, and ruthless.

”Forty-six league goals last season,” the co-commentator continued. ”A new Premier League record. And if the way he’s started this campaign tells us anything, that record might not even survive the year.”

Back on the pitch, Izan completed his final sprint and came to a stop, hands resting on his hips.

He then looked toward the centre circle, eyes narrowed, before he turned to follow his mates right after they got called off the pitch.

....

[Somewhere]

They were halfway back to the office when the weight of lunch finally caught up with him.

”I’m not getting anything done this afternoon,” he said, slowing his pace and pressing a palm to his stomach.

”That was a mistake. Way too much.”

His friend gave a distracted hum, already fishing his keys out of his pocket as they reached the glass doors.

”Oi,” the first man added, still rubbing his belly as they stepped inside.

”What’s the score in the Arsenal game?”

”Yeah, yeah,” his friend said, not really listening yet.

He pulled his phone out as they waited for the lift, thumb moving across the screen.

The first man leaned back against the wall, exhaling through his mouth.

He rolled his shoulders, then his neck, like he was trying to balance the food in his stomach.

His friend glanced at the phone and muttered, almost to himself, ”Two-nil.”

The man straightened a little. ”Already?” he asked. ”How long’s it been?”

”Fifteen minutes,” came the reply, still quiet.

He let out a short laugh, satisfied.

”Figures. Arsenal have probably been all over them.”

That was when his friend’s head snapped up.

”Arsenal?” he repeated, eyebrows knitting together.

He turned the phone around, holding it up between them.

The screen was clear.

Nottingham Forest, two. Arsenal, nil.

The man stared at it for a second, the smile draining from his face.

”Whaatt???”

.....

”Now it’s Forest on the ball again,” the commentator fired off as Hudson-Odoi took the ball down the left flank.

Timber tailed him closely while trying to stick a foot in ever so slightly, but each time, Hudson Odoi escaped from his grasp.

And then the Englishman got to the area a few metres away from the byline, then drew his leg back.

The cross was ugly, more hopeful than measured, but it caused enough chaos.

It skidded through the air and Chris Wood was already moving, leaning into his run and meeting it first time, towering over Mosquera and Gabriel at the same time.

The strike was clean and too powerful, zooming towards the goal.

It crashed off the post with a hollow thud that sucked the breath out of the stadium before Gabriel Magalhães reacted, throwing himself at the loose ball and hacking it clear.

The clearance went behind, but the danger was not quite over.

”That was almost three,” came the commentary, voice raised as the ball trickled out for a corner.

Beside him, his partner let out a short, disbelieving laugh. ”What is going on here?”

Morgan Gibbs-White jogged over to the corner flag, rallying the away end.

He placed the ball carefully, took a step back, and waited for the signal.

The noise around the Emirates swelled, anxious and restless, just before the delivery was whipped in with pace, bending into a crowd of bodies.

For a split second, it looked dangerous, but Raya read it early.

He pushed through traffic, hands strong and sure as he claimed it cleanly, then dropped to the turf, cradling the ball against his chest.

He stayed down longer than usual, letting the box empty.

Forest shirts backed away while Arsenal players drifted out, hands on hips with a few nervous glances thrown towards the touchline where Arteta stood unmoving.

”This isn’t what anyone expected,” the commentator said as Raya finally rolled onto his side. ”Arsenal are two goals down, and we’re not even twenty minutes in.”

His partner nodded, tone calmer but no less surprised.

”You can explain the first one. An own goal, wrong place, wrong time for Timber. But the second? That was scrappy. And that’s not something you say about this Arsenal side very often.”

Raya got to his feet and set the ball down, scanning the pitch before shaping to kick long.

”They’ve got to respond,” came the warning from the gantry.

”Because if this carries on, we could be looking at a very ugly upset here at the Emirates.”