God Of football

Chapter 938: Doesn’t Matter.

The corner of the pitch was still shaking from the weight of the celebration when the cameras drifted away from Gyokeres and caught Izan jogging over to meet the others.

The red shirts gathered around the scorer near the flag, slapping Gyokeres on the back while he kept pointing across their shoulders at Izan.

It looked less like he was bragging and more like he wanted to make sure the entire stadium understood exactly where the move had begun while Drury’s voice rose over the replay that lit up the big screens on the broadcast.

"And that is why they always start looking for him when they get the ball at their feet. Look at the boy who drew three shirts, held his nerve, and still found space where there was none."

He paused as the replay slowed on Izan’s first touch.

"You see him. You see the move. You see the idea, and you wonder if he saw this whole thing three seconds before it happened."

Beglin let out a small laugh as the broadcast cut back to the pitch where the Arsenal players were peeling away from the corner, drifting back toward their half.

"With playing like this again, we’ll be kept guessing for the rest of the season like he had us do this past season."

Gyokeres was still shaking his head as he walked, smiling to himself, then jabbing a thumb in Izan’s direction like he was arguing with an invisible crowd.

Izan didn’t say anything back and just gave him a short nod before turning towards the centre of the pitch, where the Tottenham players were rallying themselves, trying to shake off the effect that goals like these brought on players.

Just across the line, Thomas Frank had his arms folded tight, his eyes fixed on the boy who had slipped through his midfield a moment earlier.

He didn’t wait long and just called out to his players on the pitch.

"Micky, here."

Van de Ven jogged over, wiping sweat from his temple as Frank leaned close, talking low enough not to be picked up by the nearest microphone.

"So we’ve gone down, but don’t mind. Stay tight on him. If he turns, you match the step. Don’t give him five yards. Not one."

Van de Ven nodded.

"Yeah. I saw it. I’ll stay on him."

"Use your pace. Don’t let him pull you into those little pockets," Frank said, followed by a nod from Van de Ven.

"Got it."

Pape Matar Sarr edged in beside them, studying Izan from across the pitch as Frank pointed toward the centre of Arsenal’s half.

"You too. Track him when he tries to get into the half spaces or plays in between the lines, and don’t switch off."

Sarr didn’t argue.

"Understood."

They broke away and jogged back into their shape just as the referee placed the ball on the centre spot.

The stadium lights washed across the pitch, turning every shadow crisp. Izan slid into position ahead of Rice and Zubimendi while Van de Ven’s gaze never left him.

Richarlison pushed the ball forward with his boot, waiting for the whistle.

He bounced lightly on his toes, jaw clenched, as if he wanted the restart to hurry so he could get his touch back on the ball and wipe that Arsenal celebration out of his mind.

The whistle finally came, and the ball rolled into motion.

The match restarted with both sides lunging for control, but ultimately weighing heavily on their options as neither of the two teams wanted to over-commit to anything and give the opponent a chance to play on that weakness.

The earlier goal had left Tottenham wary of pushing too many bodies forward, and Arsenal’s midfield had dropped into a shape that made it clear they weren’t interested in handing away cheap space.

Possession drifted from one half to the other without much urgency, passes traded more for stability than ambition.

Inside that lull, Bentancur finally took the initiative.

He received the ball on the turn near the centre circle, scanned ahead, but saw no way out, and so clipped a firm pass toward Van de Ven.

The Dutchman took it on the move.

And as soon as he saw the left channel open in front of him, his stride lengthened.

He didn’t need an invitation.

This was a pattern Tottenham leaned on.

When the space appeared, he simply surged into it.

Drury’s voice followed him as he advanced.

"Van de Ven, striding out of the back again. He has seen a gap, and he does not hesitate."

But before he could fully break into Arsenal’s half, Izan stepped in front of him with perfect timing.

It wasn’t a tackle.

It wasn’t even a challenge.

He just shifted across the lane, forcing Van de Ven to shorten his steps and abandon his run as the move stalled.

The crowd groaned, urging him to push, but the angle was gone.

He reset instead, sliding the ball out to Kudus waiting far out wide on the right.

Kudus killed the pass with a clean first touch that muffled the sound around him.

Lewis-Skelly squared up, shoulders tense, but Kudus didn’t hesitate.

He jabbed the ball inside first, then dragged it back out in one fluid motion, sending the young fullback stumbling a half step the wrong way.

Kudus’ movements were light and expertly executed as he kept Myles Lewis-skelly even struggling to look back, and then suddenly he had room to shape the cross.

The delivery arced beautifully into the box where Richarlison fought his way between the centre-backs and climbed above them with his header, smacking against the underside of the bar with a dull, violent thud.

The ball bounced straight down, then spun away as Arsenal scrambled to bundle it clear.

A wave of oohs rolled through the Tottenham section, a sound caught somewhere between frustration and awe as Beglin’s voice rose over the replay already being cued.

"That’s as close as you get without scoring. He meets that so well, and that was just a nice tip to the ball by Raya."

But the rest of the commentary didn’t have time to settle.

Izan had already chased the loose ball back toward his own byline.

He reached it just before it skipped out, planting a boot and sweeping it cleanly back into play.

His momentum carried him into a quick turn, and when he faced the pitch again, he didn’t hesitate.

He drew his leg back and sent a driven pass slicing across the field.

The ball skimmed over the grass, skipping between navy shirts and arrowing toward the right, where Saka caught it in stride with a soft cushion of his instep and immediately shifted his weight forward, spinning into the open space ahead of him.

Saka pushed forward with purpose, carrying the pass on his laces as if he’d been waiting for that exact release all night, and the commentary lifted with him, sensing a shift in the rhythm.

"Saka, driving again, but he’s outnumbered here. Tottenham have four back, Arsenal only two forward," Drury reminded on the broadcast, but Saka showed no signs of slowing down.

The space ahead of him wasn’t generous, but it was enough for him to keep running at full tilt.

Djed Spence, seeing another winnable duel up for grabs, stepped up, then checked his stride when Saka angled the ball just out of reach.

Palhinha tightened behind him as the back line slid into place almost instantly.

It looked like a dead end.

Then a roar rose from the Arsenal end, a low rumble that swelled as a blur of red emerged in the corner of the frame.

"And look who’s arriving. Look at the ground he’s covered!"

Izan had sprinted three-quarters of the pitch as he appeared on Saka’s right shoulder, matching his pace even though the ball hadn’t slowed.

Saka saw him the moment he arrived and didn’t overthink it.

He slipped the pass inside at the perfect moment as Izan let the ball roll across his body without rushing the touch.

Palhinha lunged, expecting him to take it square.

Instead, the ball filtered through the midfielder’s legs in a clean nutmeg that sent the crowd gasping in unison.

Jus then, Izan shifted his weight onto his left foot with a quiet confidence, as if this was exactly what he had planned from the start, while Drury’s voice cracked with the sudden escalation.

"Oh, Izan... oh, that is outrageous! Through Palhinha, and—"

The rest of the line vanished beneath the rising noise.

And then Izan drew back his leg, setting himself at the edge of a distant shooting lane.

His posture sharpened, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on the smallest pocket of space between the bodies crowding the box.

It didn’t matter how far out he was.

He hit through the ball with a clean, violent strike that snapped every sound in the stadium into one sharp intake of breath.

"He’s gone for it!"