God Of football

Chapter 978: Can’t Comprehend!

"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.

Reijnders felt it first.

Not the movement, but the absence of it.

He turned his head sharply, already knowing something was wrong, eyes scanning the space where Izan had been boxed in just a heartbeat earlier.

Rodri too spun with him, boots scraping the turf as both men searched for a body that should still have been trapped between them.

What they saw after turning, though, made them frown.

Because just two steps back was Izan, perfectly balanced and came with the ball set in front of his left foot, his right leg drawn high, coiled in a way that made no sense from that distance.

And it didn’t look like an out for him.

Rodri’s mouth opened before his brain caught up.

"¿Qué coj—"[What the fu-]

He tried to say, but his words died halfway out.

Reijnders, on the other hand, also had his weight stuck between heels and toes, mind scrambling for a reason why Izan’s leg was up like that.

Why did he look so settled?

Why was he not rushing?

Why was he not looking for a pass?

Before any of them could realise, instinct took over where their thoughts failed, and both lunged towards Izan.

They didn’t know why, but one thing they knew was that if they allowed the ball to leave Izan’s feet, they might regret it.

And so they closed the space together, shoulders brushing as they hurled themselves forward, not caring about shape or structure now.

It was pure reaction, the kind drilled into players when something dangerous is about to happen, and you do not have time to understand it.

Like men throwing themselves onto a loose grenade, hoping their bodies might dull the blast.

But they were late.

And the sound they heard, felt so wrong, Rodri had to really glance around in that split second to realise that they were still on a pitch and not on a battlefield because the ball came like something being cracked open.

It left Izan’s foot as if it had been waiting for permission and flew straight, cutting through the air with a violence that had been amiss from football for a long time.

"Wait... why’s he hit that—

The ball travelled from deep and too fast for the commentary team to make anything coherent.

And it was far enough that every coaching manual ever written would have called it wasteful.

On the broadcast, the camera struggled to keep pace as it cut toward the goal, the flight of the shot demanding full attention.

Donnarumma saw it immediately.

He had faced Izan too many times not to be switched on in moments like this.

He took half a step but then stopped.

There was no dive.

No flailing reach.

Just a stillness that spread through his body as his eyes tracked the ball’s path.

He knew he wasn’t going to keep the ball out as it screamed past him and into the net with a very violent ripple.

The ball hit so hard it rebounded, still spinning, still angry, as if it had not finished saying what it came to say while the net struggled to hold it, cords straining, the ball pressing forward like it wanted to escape the proof of what it had just done.

Disbelief sucked the sound out of the air as the Emirates were caught out, late to the party, but then the roar came rumbling down.

A wall of noise crashed down, raw and unfiltered, a roar that felt less like celebration and more like release.

Then they all turned their attention towards the source of the monstrosity they had just seen, and Izan was already moving.

He turned and sprinted toward the corner flag, hair coming loose, and his calm finally breaking into a grin.

As he reached the corner, he slowed and raised one hand, palm up, not in demand but in invitation as if to say, "Come on. If you have something to give, give it now!"

And the response was immediate.

"He is the epitome! He is what we call the apex, and this is him at his youngest. Izan Hernandez makes us question reality again, and I cannot wipe the smirk off my face. ’Football is dying’ was what they said! Well, think again because it’s got a lifeline called Izan."

"Are we... are we allowed to see this?" the commentator asked, half laughing, half stunned. "It feels like we’re intruding on something. Like we’re watching a secret."

The camera panned towards the toucline where City’s bench stood frozen.

No one was seated and no one was speaking.

Assistants stared at the pitch with arms hanging uselessly at their sides while Pep’s mouth was slightly open, his hand still halfway to his chin, the gesture unfinished because the thought behind it had collapsed.

On the other side, Arsenal’s bench looked no less stunned.

Arteta had taken a step forward without realising it, as if his body had tried to follow the shot before his mind could catch up.

Players leaned on each other, eventually shaking their heads like they had just heard answers to questions they didn’t even ask.

Back on the pitch, Rodri stood still, hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the spot Izan had struck from, while Reijnders was bent forward slightly, palms on his knees, a laugh escaping him before he could stop it.

The crowd came back into focus, the camera sweeping across faces caught between joy and something darker.

Awe.

Unease.

The sense that they were witnessing a player who slipped through every category they tried to put him into.

There had been no reason to shoot from there.

None.

No pressure, forcing it.

No keeper off his line.

Just confidence so complete it bordered on arrogance, and execution so clean it made arrogance look justified.

Izan, on the flip side, turned slowly now, arms spreading as he faced the stands, which refused to stop the reverence.

A while later, Izan turned towards the pitch again, mainly because he hadn’t felt the hands of his mates on him in celebration, but all he saw were players that had been turned spectators, all watching in awe as they realised the capacity and the magnitude of the player they had been playing with all the while if they hadn’t already.

Eventually, Odegaard approached as Izan re-entered the pitch, poking Izan before shaking his head.

"Can you not shoot every time you feel like it. Not all of us have the mental capacity to comprehend what you do every time."

Izan, with a smirk, just shrugged.

"They’re gonna have to get used to it like you guys did, because I can’t help myself."

Odegaard, hearing that, just shook his head before shoving Izan slightly as they made their way back to their half for the second time in the span of a quarter of an hour, all because of one player.