God Of football

Chapter 1003: Could Be Today!

Rain fell in a soft, stubborn curtain over North London.

Not the kind that frightened a stadium away or the kind that chased people indoors.

It was the kind that was just enough to bead along the steel edges of the Emirates and darken the grass until it looked almost painted.

But the floodlights burned through it all like white spears in the evening air.

And somewhere above it all, on the broadcast, the kind commentary voice stepped carefully into it.

”Three nights ago,” Peter Drury began, his words drifting through the broadcast like the opening note of a slow symphony, ”a young man in this city turned eighteen.”

In the commentary gantry, the rain thickened against the microphones, tapping softly against plastic and glass, but it did nothing to quiet him.

”Eighteen,” he repeated. ”A number that usually carries promise... rather than proof. A number where most are not even at this level and are just starting rving out, but he’s proved to be one of the only anomalies at this level.”

While the camera moved slowly across the stadium bowl, scarves lifted with faces glowing beneath floodlights, and banners fluttered against the night wind.

”Tonight,” Drury continued, ”the raging chaos and crimson flair of Bavaria have travelled west. From Munich... to North London.”

On the broadcast or for the millions watching behind their various screens, the camera lens found the tunnel, where the players gathered.

Bayern Munich stood in their unfamiliar black away kit, their expressions sharpened by familiarity with nights like this, while Arsenal, in their home colours, shoulders squared, boots already darkened by the rain.

”The great FC Bayern Munich,” Drury said softly, ”have come to test the newest thunder rolling through European football.”

His voice dropped for a moment, thoughtful.

”But let me take you on a journey before all this. A story, some fourteen years ago... when a man named Lionel Messi etched something extraordinary into the game’s memory.”

The screen flickered briefly with archival footage, showing Messi in Barcelona red and blue with his arms spread and the crowd behind him on their feet.

”Ninety-one goals,” Drury said reverently. ”In a single calendar year.”

He paused long enough for the number to breathe.

”At the time, it felt obscene.”

”Magnificent. Maddening. Almost impossible, but he did it.”

The rain glistened on the pitch as players began stepping out from the tunnel mouth.

”And the world spoke about it the way the world always does when confronted by something too large to fully grasp.”

Drury’s voice softened into something almost nostalgic.

”They said football was changing. Becoming faster. Harder. More rigid. More physical.”

He exhaled gently into the microphone.

”They said records like that... would never fall again. And in their own way, they were right.”

”But,” Drury continued, the word arriving with quiet gravity, ”they did not account... for the child who was five years old when Messi was doing it.”

”A five-year-old who was growing.”

”And learning.”

”And waiting.”

A moment stretched, and it stretched a bit thin before the Drury’s voice lowered.

”Today, he’s become something akin to a phenom. He’s become a wrecker of teams and the quiet decimator of hope. And if you are still wondering who that is, this sport might not be for you.”

”But for correction’s sake and the sake of those very few out there still not in the know, his name is Izan Hernández.”

And as if the stadium itself, oblivious, had been holding its breath waiting for that moment—

The noise exploded.

It didn’t rise gradually.

No. It detonated.

A roar so vast it sounded less like a celebration and more like something primal clawing its way out of the earth.

Tens of thousands of voices crashing together into a single sound that rolled around the Emirates like thunder trapped inside steel.

It was like a cry.

Better yet, a prayer.

And through the rain, through the floodlights, through the shaking broadcast microphones— the who the noise was directed at, Izan stepped onto the pitch.

The neon green captain’s armband burned against the white sleeve on his arm.

He walked at the front of the line, calm and unhurried, and that made the sound grow more unnerving for the few thousand Bayern fans that had come from Bavaria.

It wasn’t something they hadn’t seen before, but the noise in the Emirates at that moment was making the ’Yellow Wall’ of their arch rivals in Dortmund feel not enough.

”Look at how they call onto him...” Drury’s voice returned over it, softer now, almost astonished.

The camera lingered on the sea of faces rising to greet him.

”...like a god in his own right.”

Izan stopped just long enough to glance up toward the stands as the rain traced across his hair, held together by a silver-like sheen that the fans couldn’t quite see.

”Since the beginning of 2025,” Drury continued, voice lifting again, ”he has scored ninety goals.”

”Just one more to match Messi’s and 2 to break it. It won’t be an easy task since he’s playing against Bayern Munich, no less. A team he hasn’t played before.”

”But if anyone can do it, it’s him and tonight,” he said quietly, ”could be the night he breaks it.”

The rain kept falling as the pre-game pleasantries went on.

And after a while, Drury closed the moment with the kind of certainty that only football sometimes dares to offer.

”And he surely will.”

The Arsenal players drifted toward their half, while across the pitch, the Bayern players gathered in a tight circle.

The rain streaked down their backs, but no one moved away from the huddle.

At the centre of it stood Manuel Neuer with the captain’s armband bright against his sleeve.

He looked around the circle once, taking in each face before speaking.

”You hear that?” he said, nodding toward the stands.

”They want to make it feel like we’re far from home,” Neuer continued calmly. ”Like we’re already underneath them before the game even starts.”

A few players glanced up at the towering walls of noise surrounding them.

Neuer shook his head once.

”We know better than that.”

He planted his boots firmly into the turf.

”We make our home wherever we play.”

The words settled between them as the breath of the latter fogged faintly in the cold air between them.

Neuer leaned forward slightly, voice lowering.

”And that boy...”

”He shouldn’t use us to break that record.”

A few small smiles flickered around the huddle, showing their pride, not arrogance, because they all understood what it meant to play at their level, more so at a younger age, and also be the dominant figure in the sport.

”Maybe he will,” Neuer admitted, spreading his hands slightly. ”Football does not always ask for permission.”

”But if he does...”

”...we make sure it tastes something sour.”

Now the smiles faded into something else.

”If he breaks it tonight,” Neuer finished, ”then he does it in a loss.”

The Bayern players nodded almost in unison.

Then the circle broke apart.

At the centre of the pitch, the ball rested on the spot and on the other side, Viktor Gyökeres stood just behind it.

And behind him, a step further back, stood Izan, whose eyes were on the grass beneath his boots.

A moment later, Harry Kane stepped forward for Bayern and placed his foot beside the ball.

The referee lifted the whistle, blowing it the second the crowd went a bit quiet and then Kane nudged the ball forward to begin the night.