God Of football

Chapter 968: For A Second!

On the touchline, Ange Postecoglou was already pointing forward, shouting, ”Go, go, go!” fervently, like a priest casting out a demon.

Hudson Odoi cut inside, and Zubimendi stepped toward him, trying to close the angle, but the pass slipped through anyway and rolled neatly into Ndoye’s path.

”Is this the third?” came the commentary as the former got a touch on the ball.

Raya rushed out and made himself big enough to deter a shot, but that was never in the Forest player’s plans.

Ndoye took it around him, calm, almost casual, and poked the ball toward the empty net.

For a split second, it looked inevitable, but then a thigh appeared, sliding across the goalmouth.

The ball struck flesh and spun away from the line, getting a roar out of the crowd.

”Where has he come from?” the commentator shouted. ”Izan! Izan has got back the full length of the pitch! From pulling strings in the attack, and now making a last-ditch clearance to keep the deficit from increasing. He is just incredible.”

Izan skidded to a stop, chest heaving, eyes already searching for the next pass as the danger was hacked clear.

Hands clapped around the Emirates, loud and grateful, as if they were trying to drag the team forward by force alone.

”He’s kept them in it,” the voice said, calmer now.

”But you have to ask, for the second time today, what is going wrong with this Arsenal side?”

Izan straightened, wiped his shorts, and jogged back into shape as play reset.

Nothing clicked for Arsenal after that.

Passes went short or late.

Runs were made and ignored.

When Izan dropped into space to collect, there was no angle ahead of him, no one showing, no movement to drag Forest back.

He tried twice to turn and drive, only to be swallowed by Forest shirts while his own side stayed flat, waiting.

By the time he was making his third recovery run in as many minutes, it was clear something had slipped.

Forest came again down Arsenal’s right.

A loose touch, a half-clearance, then the ball bounced free near the touchline.

Izan got there first and slid in, clean and sharp, hooking the ball away before his man could spin.

He stayed on the ground for a second longer than needed, palms pressed into the turf.

When he got up, he turned, arms flung wide.

”Wake up,” he snapped. ”Get your fucking heads back in the game! I shouldn’t be doing your fucking jobs for you, should I?”

It was not shouted to one person.

It was thrown at all of them.

The nearest player, Timber, glanced away while Odegaard jogged past him without a word, knowing Izan’s outburst was warranted.

The camera stayed tight, caught the frustration clear as day.

”And there it is,” the commentator said. ”That tells you plenty. Izan looks fed up, and you can understand why.”

The Forest throw-in came quickly with little pause.

Hudson Odoi took it on the touchline and faced Izan, standing him up, rocking the ball from foot to foot.

The crowd rose, a low murmur turning sharp.

Hudson Odoi feinted right, trying to bait, but Izan just ignored it.

He stayed light on his toes, eyes fixed and waiting.

The Forest winger nudged the ball left, trying to dart past.

And then, Izan turned with him in one smooth motion and swept his heel back across the turf, almost lazy in how it looked.

The ball flicked the opposite way, like the snap of a scorpion’s tail, wrong-footing everyone watching.

Hudson Odoi hesitated, sure he had it, but Izan was already up and gone.

He popped back up, took the next touch clean, and rolled the ball straight through the Forest player’s legs.

A gasp ripped through the Emirates as he slipped past, shoulders dipping, boots whispering over the grass.

”Oh, that’s outrageous,” the commentator breathed. ”He’s done him twice in one movement.”

Another red shirt stepped up, and Izan slowed, almost walking now, tempting the challenge.

Then he knocked the ball forward, pushed into the gap, and cut inside onto his left.

The space opened.

For a moment, the shot was there, but Izan never got it off because Milenković arrived late.

The clip came against Izan’s standing leg, just enough, and his balance went.

The whistle cut through everything, signalling the foul.

The roar was instant, loud and knowing.

Milenković threw his arms out, shaking his head, but the referee was unmoved.

Yellow card, firm and final.

”You cannot do that there,” the commentator said.

”Not to him.”

Behind the goal, the Arsenal fans were already on their feet.

They did not need to be told what this meant.

A free kick, just outside the box, central enough.

The kind of distance that made keepers nervous and defenders argue.

With Izan over the ball, it felt inevitable.

He pushed himself up, collected the ball without a word or a glance at anyone and placed it carefully on the turf.

The referee paced out the wall as Forest’s players crowded him, pointing, insisting the foul was wider, further back.

”That’s not where it was,” one of them said.

”You’re giving him too much.”

The referee waved them away and shuffled the wall a half-step to his left.

Izan stood back, hands on hips, eyes locked on the net.

He did not join the discussion and just kept his eyes on the prize.

The stadium hummed now, tension layered over belief.

”This is the moment,” the commentary said, voice dropping.

”Arsenal have struggled all half, but one strike can change everything. And when Izan stands over a free kick, you almost write it down.”

The whistle went, and Izan still stood.

Then he moved 3 steps forward before sending his leg swinging, moulding the ball around his leg.

”He’s hit it like a charm.”

Izan followed through and leaned into the strike, his body tilting as his eyes tracked the ball the whole way.

It cleared the wall cleanly, rising just enough before bending back in on itself.

The curl dragged it toward the top corner, vicious and late, just until Matz Sels sprang, fingertips stretching, managed to get a touch, a desperate brush that changed nothing but the sound.

The ball smashed into the underside of the right upper and dropped straight down.

It bounced on the grass, spun, and shot back out into the six-yard box.

For a split second, nobody moved.

”It’s come back out,” the commentator blurted. ”It’s still alive here. The ball is still alive.”

Forest defenders reacted first, hacking at it, bodies piling in as Sangare held Gyokeres back from tapping the ball into the net.

One clearance flew toward the edge of the box, and another followed, hurried and ugly, but then the whistle cut through the noise.

Every head snapped around, wondering what the whistle was about, and they found the referee, who was standing still with his finger pressed to his watch.

He looked up, calm, and pointed to the centre circle.

Goal.

A beat passed before it landed, and then the Emirates erupted.

”GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!”

”It’s given,” the commentary surged.

”The watch buzzed. The referee said the ball crossed the line and Arsenal are level in the seventy-sixth minute.”

Izan was already moving.

He stepped through a knot of Forest shirts near the centre, brushing past one before his hand reached down to claim the ball.

A player tried to block him, half-heartedly, muttering something under his breath.

”Come on,” Izan said, flat and impatient, tugging the ball free.

He tucked it under his arm and jogged toward the halfway line.

Behind him, the big screen lit up with the replay.

The crowd watched it together, the white outline of goal-line technology flashing up as the ball clearly crossed, clear daylight between line and leather.

”There’s no debate,” the gantry voice said as the image froze. ”It’s over the line, but for a second, Forest thought that they had gotten away with it.”

The feed cut back to the pitch where Izan had placed the ball on the centre spot himself, nudged it into place with his boot, then took a few steps back.

He bent forward, hands on knees, eyes fixed ahead.

”All square,” the commentator continued. ”Fourteen minutes of normal time left, plus whatever gets added on. And you get the sense this is no longer about whether Arsenal score again. It’s about whether Forest can hang on.”

Forest took their time gathering.

A few slow walks.

A word exchanged here, a hand on a shoulder there.

The referee watched, arms folded, waiting, before gesturing for them to hurry after seeing their intent.

Chris Wood eventually stepped up, rolled the ball under his sole, and glanced at the clock.