God Of football

Chapter 977: Joy Short Lived!

Pep let out a slow breath and rubbed a hand over his scalp, eyes still locked on the pitch.

”There goes trying to keep him from cutting inside,” he said quietly.

One of his assistants glanced at him, then back at the screen mounted near the bench, but Pep did not look away as the replay rolled again.

”We wanted him crossing,” Pep went on, more to himself now.

”Pin him there. Let him send balls in. He stays on the line instead. Keeps it. Keeps it. And then that.”

He shook his head once, sharp and quick.

”He stayed on the byline the whole way. Whole way,” he repeated, as if that detail annoyed him most.

”Impossible angle. And he still finds the roof.”

”Am I or is anyone at fault here?” he suddenly turned towards his assistant with the question, while the latter just stared at him, like he was looking at a different persona of Pep.

The latter then sighed before settling back into his seat.

He sat back for a second, eyes unfocused, thoughts racing.

Let him roam? Let him drift inside earlier, pick him up later, and hope numbers would deal with it?

No.

Pep straightened slightly, then dismissed the thought just as fast.

”No,” he muttered. ”Too much chaos. I can’t control that!”

Silence settled around him, and for a moment, the noise of the stadium felt distant, like it was happening in another stadium far away.

He watched City recycle possession after the restart, using short passes with no risk.

He watched Arsenal shuffle, patient but alert.

Then his brow lifted.

”Boring,” he said under his breath, almost smiling.

”We make it boring.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now.

”Slow it. Keep it. Make them wait for it and chase it,” he continued, words barely louder than a whisper.

”They run, they press, they get angry, but the ball stays with us. Then one moment comes.”

His fingers tapped together once.

”They will lapse. Or they get tired of not touching it.”

He stood, smoothing the front of his jumper as he did, and stepped up to the edge of the technical area.

”My players are conditioned for this,” he said to no one in particular.

”Passing all day. Playing through pressure. It’s hard, yes. But doable.”

He smiled again, as he had finally found something to hold onto again, before he folded his arms and waited for the game to give him a pause.

And it did.

City were stroking the ball around neatly now, drawing a low hum from the Emirates.

”Manchester City moving it beautifully here, probing, patient—” the analyst came through, but then, ”Sorry to cut you off here, Jim,” the commentator jumped in, voice sharper, ”but Timber has taken down Doku and City have a free kick in a very good area.”

Timber stood a few yards away from Doku, hands resting on his hips, face caught somewhere between frustration and acceptance.

The referee walked toward him, shaking his head as he came.

”Too late,” the official said calmly as Timber opened his mouth, closed it again, then tried once more.

”But he went down easy.”

The referee reached into his pocket anyway and pulled out a yellow card, flashing it to the Arsenal defender.

Timber exhaled through his nose and nodded once, as if filing it away for later.

Doku was still sat on the turf all while this was ongoing.

He pushed himself upright, only to freeze when his eyes met Pep’s.

Pep did not shout.

He did not wave.

He simply made a small downward motion with his palm.

Stay.

Doku hesitated, confused, then lowered himself back down, hand going to his shin.

It was not dramatic, but it did the job.

Izan and Ødegaard had drifted over, both talking at once now.

”That’s never a yellow,” Ødegaard said, palms open.

”He clips the ball first,” Izan added, behind, gesturing towards where he saw Timber meet Doku, but the referee held up a hand after a while, already done with the conversation.

Then he turned away and saw Doku back on the ground.

The referee, seeing that, raised a brow and then approached the Belgian winger as a murmur rippled through the stands.

”Well,” the commentator said, catching the moment, ”Doku was back on his feet, and now he’s back down again.”

The referee walked over, bent slightly at the waist.

”You need treatment?”

Doku nodded, a little too quickly, but the referee heeded, standing up from his bent position and then waving on the medics who already stood at the touchline.

That did it.

Booing rolled down from the stands, scattered at first, then unified.

Time-wasting.

It was early, but everyone knew what it was.

”The fans think Doku is time-wasting, but I’m not sure this benefits anyone,” the commentator added carefully, ”especially not in the first half.”

On the touchline, Pep stood still with his arms folded and a smirk on his face while he watched on as Doku was eventually helped up and guided toward the touchline.

As he walked, he glanced once toward the bench just before Pep gave him a small nod.

Behind the ball, Cherki hovered, hands on hips, while Bernardo Silva stood a few steps back, already eyeing his run-up.

The referee finally got into position before blowing his whistle.

Just as the whistle went, Bernardo struck it cleanly, bending the ball toward the far corner.

It looked like it might drift out, just a fraction too high, too wide.

But then Haaland adjusted on instinct.

He had missed the header window, the moment already gone, but his body found another solution.

He twisted, threw himself backwards, and swung.

”HAALAND—!” came the commentary as the bicycle kick connected sweetly. The sound alone pulled a gasp from the crowd.

The ball flew, skimming past the post by the narrowest margin as the away fans let their frustrations be known.

”So close,” came the follow-up, breathless. ”Erling Haaland almost made it level. He is so dangerous in cases like these.”

Haaland landed, rolled, then got to his feet, staring at the space the ball had passed through.

He stood there for a second, hands on his hips, jaw tight, then turned and jogged back toward halfway without a word.

Raya snapped out of his stillness, already barking for the ball.

A ball boy tossed one over.

Raya caught it, placed it quickly, and sent it long and sharp back into the middle of the pitch.

”Izan’s got on the end of it,” the commentary came as Izan took the ball in between his legs, before slipping past Cherki’s stuck-out fingers, which were trying to grab onto the hem of his jersey.

Just before he could get into stride, Rodri appeared in front of him again, showing him the way outward, but Izan, with no plans of following Rodri, slowed before pushing the ball to the left, forcing Rodri to chase instead.

While the Spaniard did so, Reijnders recovered, joining Rodri to double team as the duo boxed Izan in between them, giving him subtle nudges and kicks on the shin, but their joy was short-lived, because in the next second, Izan wasn’t there any more.