God Of football

Chapter 969: For A Second, Time!

Outside the Emirates, the night had its own rhythm.

Phones lit up in hands outside pubs, at bus stops, on street corners where people had given up on finding a ticket hours ago.

People refreshed their phones and then paused, taking a huge breath.

"Two-Two," someone muttered, tilting his screen so his mate could see.

"They’ve done it again."

A few groans followed as a man in a rival shirt shook his head slowly, lips pressed together.

"Course it’s him," he said. "Who else?"

Another glanced down, scrolled, then snorted.

"Izan again. This team’s got nine lives because of him, I swear. They are lucky as hell. I mean, people should have figured that out after the Champions League Final, where they always pulled into the game each time it looked like they were going out."

"They are just very lucky and in form," a fan said, but no one really believed the luck part.

Still, it felt better to say it out loud, because sure, they might be in form, but form cannot be kept over 2 seasons, and with how Arsenal were moving, it felt like one would have to sell their soul to stop them.

Back inside the stadium, the noise had not dipped since the restart.

The game had already passed the 80th minute, with Forest trying to gather themselves while the crowd stayed on edge.

"That’s his fourteenth Premier League goal in just four games," the commentator said, disbelief clear in his voice. "Fourteen. You almost have to say it twice."

The analyst chuckled as the match went on.

"Last season, by this point, he had around 7 goals, which is still something most footballers want to scratch, but he has just gone and doubled that."

"The funny but incredible thing is, the closest man to him in the charts is Erling Haaland," he continued. "And he has five goals in four games. A very good start by any standard, but look at the gap here."

The graphic flashed up on screen as Izan’s name sat alone at the top, the numbers stretching the scale.

"He’s operating on a different plane right now," the commentator added. "Nearly three times the tally of second place. And it could be fully three times if he finds another before the end. If anyone can do so, it is and will be him."

The analyst cut in, voice sharper, quicker.

"And as we speak, Izan is driving forward again."

On the pitch, Izan took the ball on the half-turn and saw Havertz immediately.

He moved left, slowly, to let Sangare, who had stuck his leg out to pass before slipping a pass to Havertz, and the latter returned it without breaking stride.

They moved together, instinctively.

Pass, return.

One-two.

Again and Again.

"The understanding between these two is exceptional," came the call as once again, Izan, together with Gyokeres’s replacement, moved in sync.

"They were the most productive duo in the league last season, and they’re picking it up like they never stopped."

Forest’s back line shuffled, stepped and hesitated.

That allowed Izan to slip it into Havertz again before he darted past his marker, asking for it back with his run.

Havertz returned it once more, and then Izan nudged it straight back into his path.

Another one-two.

At this point, the Forest players were being rubbed the wrong way because the two were almost playing alone, threading through shirts and forcing defenders to turn and chase.

Havertz took the ball once more near the edge of the box and laid it off again.

He looked up, maybe expecting Izan to shoot this time, but Izan once again left it for him in open space with just another Forest player to his side.

That caught him off guard, but he recovered quickly, opened his body and whipped a low curler toward the far corner.

The stadium rose with the strike.

"Oh," the commentator roared as the ball bent across the grass. "This could be it."

Matz Sels did not move.

He was rooted, eyes locked, beaten if it curled further, but the ball stopped curling at the last second and slid past the post, missing by the smallest margin, shaving the outside of the net before rolling away.

The sound collapsed into a collective groan as Havertz came to a stop, hands flying to his head.

He turned away, muttering under his breath in German, frustration spilling out in sharp, clipped words.

"Owww, so close," the commentator said, exhaling. "So close. And the clock keeps ticking."

The stadium screen flashed the time as it rolled over.

"Eighty-five minutes gone," came the reminder. "Forest are running out of room to defend here, and Arsenal are slowly running out of time."

Matz Sels walked to retrieve the ball, slower now, taking his time.

He placed it carefully on the grass, stepped back, and looked upfield before punting the ball back into play after it looked like the referee might card him if he waited a second longer.

Odegaard, and Sangare, went for the airball, with both players locking onto the ball, but when they came down, they both came clutching the side of their heads as the referee’s whistle sounded.

"Ow, that looked nasty," the commentary said as the replay came on the broadcast, showing the sides of both players’ heads, meeting in a collision that could be felt even without the sound.

The referee immediately waved the medics on.

Around them, the game loosened its grip, and players drifted closer, some with hands on their hips, others bending forward with their palms on their knees, sucking in air.

A few took the chance to grab bottles from the sidelines, splashing water over their faces and rinsing their mouths while resting their legs.

Izan stood a few steps back, watching, before grabbing a bottle from the hands of Havertz after the German offered, but most of the contents he took, he spat out again, not wanting to risk a tightness in his ribs when the game restarted because he drank too much water.

The Forest medics watched Sangaré, crouching beside him and speaking calmly, while flashing a small handheld torch in his eyes.

On the other side of things, the Arsenal’s physios knelt by Ødegaard, one hand steadying his head while the other tapped lightly on his cheek.

"Martin, stay with me," one of them said, firm but measured. "Can you hear me?"

Ødegaard nodded, slow at first.

He blinked hard, flexing his jaw and then pushed himself up onto an elbow.

The crowd responded with a swell of applause, part relief, part encouragement.

"Don’t rush it," the physio added, holding a hand up as Ødegaard tried to sit fully. "Take a second."

Sangaré was helped to his feet on the other side, a hand on his shoulder, another at his back.

He looked annoyed more than hurt, rolling his neck once, then giving a short nod to signal he was fine.

The pause dragged on just long enough for lungs to burn less, for legs to stop shaking.

When the Arsenal medics finally lifted Ødegaard upright, they did so carefully.

He stood, tested his balance, then glanced toward the touchline.

That was when the board went up.

There, in red, was his number, 8.

Then green was Nwaneri’s 22, as the latter stood on the touchline, leaning in so he could hear what Arteta was rumbling about.

The Emirates reacted instantly.

Applause rolled through the stands, rising into shouts of support and chants breaking out in pockets as people stood to their feet.

Ødegaard saw it and exhaled, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

He turned away from the bench and spotted Izan near the sideline, crouched beside the cooler, sliding an empty bottle back inside and then he approached.

"Looks like that’s me," Ødegaard said lightly, voice a little hoarse as Izan turned to face him.

Izan nodded once while pointing to his own head.

"You good?"

"Enough," Ødegaard replied.

Then he reached for his arm.

The captain’s armband came off slowly.

Izan watched as Ødegaard stepped closer and slipped it onto his arm himself, adjusting it so it sat right.

"Captain!" Ødegaard said, meeting his eyes.

Izan tugged the armband on to his liking, causing Odegaard to give him a brief smile.

The latter then squeezed his shoulder and turned toward the tunnel, one of the medics falling in beside him.

The applause followed him all the way.

As Izan looked down at the armband, the world narrowed for a moment.

A familiar sensation flickered at the edge of his awareness.

[Host has worn the Armband]

The air felt sharper, and the noise, much louder.

His heartbeat steadied instead of racing as his system notified again.

[Dying minutes detected. All abilities temporarily increased by 50%.]

A little smile tugged at his lips as the referee picked up the ball and called Havertz as well as Sangare, who had stayed on, before dropping the ball between the two, restarting the game.