God Of football - Chapter 540: Early Lead

Chapter 540: Early Lead

Laurent Virelli stood by the window, drink in hand, the lights of London sprawling out beneath him like a chessboard he wasn’t done playing with.

He stared for a long time, jaw flexing slightly as the silence settled thick around him.

“That’s the thing about kids,” he muttered, voice low but firm.

“They think it’s all about heart. About moments. They believe if they just play well enough, run hard enough, the world will hand them everything.”

He turned from the glass, pacing slowly, controlled—measured.

“They don’t understand the machine. That it’s not the boots or the stadiums. It’s the hands behind the curtain. The ones who know who to call before the questions are even asked. The ones who can bury a headline… or build one.”

He stopped at the bar and set his glass down gently.

“And this kid? He doesn’t get that. Not yet. He thinks talent is enough. That charm and highlight reels will protect him.”

He chuckled, but it was hollow.

“He laughed. Laughed in my face. And what, because he’s loyal? Because he thinks that agent of his has it all figured out?”

He shook his head.

“That’s not loyalty. That’s blindness dressed up as pride.”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the bar counter.

“I’ve seen players like him. Golden boys with a spotlight baked into their DNA. And I’ve seen what happens when that spotlight starts to shift. When the machine decides to turn… somewhere else.”

A long pause followed. One where the only sound in the room was the quiet clink of melting ice in his drink.

“I don’t have to touch him to ruin him. Just let time work. Let the calls dry up. Let the deals go quiet. Let the press start whispering instead of shouting.”

He looked back toward the window, calm now. The kind of calm that came just before something surgical.

“I’ll give him six months. Maybe less. One slump. One wrong quote. One little slip—and the world will start to wonder.”

Then, quietly, almost to himself:

“Let’s see how long he can float… when I stop holding up the tide.”

He picked up his glass again. Raised it in the direction of the dark city.

“Enjoy the top, kid. The view’s only good until the storm rolls in.”

…….

The wheels hit the runway with a heavy bounce as the Lisbon atmosphere started the seep in.

Just the low mechanical hum of flaps adjusting and the soft clatter of bags being unhooked from overhead bins.

Lisbon had welcomed them without a sound.

Izan sat upright, tugging the hood off his head as the “seatbelt” light dimmed.

Around him, the squad moved in quiet focus.

Little talk was made as they began gathering the things they had brought with them on the plane.

Sporting wasn’t a glamour tie.

But everyone had seen what they’d done to City in their last UCL match.

4–1.

Not scraped and not stolen but a hard-earned victory.

Arteta had replayed the goals and the movement the day before when they had their tactical session.

The tempo and the ruthless aggressiive press Sporting’s manager, Ruben Amorim had drilled in worked wonders against Pep’s City.

Now they were here to see if the same would happen or if they would overcome and as it always did on an important clash, the Arsenal crest on the tracksuit felt heavier.

Ben White cracked his neck as Ødegaard pulled on a cap low over his face while Rice yawned into the back of his hand but said nothing as he stood.

Izan grabbed his phone and a small notepad Olivia had slipped into his bag a few days ago.

He’d meant to leave it behind but the she had found out and forced him to take it with him.

The stairs clunked into place outside the aircraft.

A sharp, metallic clang.

Then the cabin door creaked open, and a slice of Portuguese sky poured in—overcast, pale blue, and wide.

The air was different.

Light and drier than London.

They filed out two by two, trainers clunking against the steps, breaths visible in the cooler coastal air.

A soft breeze moved across the runway.

Somewhere on the far side of the fence, a local kid held up a Sporting flag through the gaps.

No screams.

Just a wave.

It was almost… respectful.

Inside the terminal, the check-in was routine.

Quick scans.

Documents, faces, and half-hearted smiles from border agents who all knew what was coming.

It wasn’t a rockstar welcome.

It wasn’t supposed to be for their opponents.

This was Europe, approaching winter.

When they stepped out again, the bus was waiting at the curb.

Polished black.

No wrap.

No colors.

Only a single Arsenal emblem, matte against the glass by the front door.

A staffer with a headset gave a nod, confirming headcount, while another loaded bags with the calm of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

Izan climbed into the coach and dropped into a seat near the middle, by the aisle this time.

He didn’t usually sit here.

But today felt like a bit different. He was feeling clarity, like something had changed and it had.

Izan stared into space, almost nodding toward something imperceptibly.

Behind him, Saka was already half-laughing about something Gabriel had said.

Ahead of him, Ødegaard had headphones in and his eyes closed.

The doors hissed shut.

The city of Lisbon slid into view—bright walls, narrow turns, the occasional patch of laundry hanging across second-floor balconies.

Izan glanced down at his phone again.

Then out the window.

They weren’t here to respond to what Sporting had done to City.

They were here to leave no doubt that they weren’t City.

….

“Well, here we are,” one of the commentators said, voice steady, crisp.

“Two weeks on from one of the most unexpected results of the Champions League, league stage—Sporting 4, Manchester City 1—and here come the Portuguese side, strutting into this match with nothing short of belief against another English side.”

The lights inside Estádio José Alvalade were already blazing, white-hot, and cold at the same time, throwing shadows across a pitch that looked sharp enough to cut.

The players stepped out of the tunnel—two lines, heads down, shoulders squared, boots tapping against the concrete with every step.

The noise inside the stadium swelled, not deafening yet, but simmering, like it was waiting for the right spark.

The cameras picked up everything.

They always did.

From the booth, the broadcast cut to the commentators just as the players emerged.

“They’ll need more than belief tonight,” the co-commentator added.

“This is Arsenal. Premier League leaders. But they’re also coming off their first loss of the season—1–0 to Inter. The perfect run broke. And now they’ve flown into Lisbon with something to prove.”

“Let’s be honest,” the first commentator continued, “no one saw that Sporting result coming. Not the fans, not the analysts—not even City, clearly. But you score four goals against the former European champions? That’s not luck. That’s form. That’s hunger.”

“And that’s what Arsenal will be walking into,” he added.

“They’re not just facing a confident team—they’re facing a team that believes it can eat English giants for dinner. The question now is… are Arsenal just the next course?”

The camera cut briefly to Izan, walking second last from the end of the Arsenal line.

He didn’t look up.

Not at the crowd. Not at the cameras.

Just forward.

Boots steady.

Jaw set.

And as the anthem echoed across the stadium and the captains shook hands at midfield, the crowd roared to life—like Lisbon remembered exactly who they’d torn apart last time.

And were ready to try again.

…….

The pitch under Izan’s boots didn’t feel foreign.

Lisbon was loud, sure, but it wasn’t hostile. Not yet.

He could hear it all—boots shifting, studs grinding turf, the low rattle of home fans stomping in rhythm.

The whistle blew, and just like that, the match began.

ØDegaard tapped the ball back and Arsenal got to work.

It was one of those starts where everything felt like it moved half a second faster than training.

The passes weren’t rushed—they were alive.

Sharp and pulsing.

A test for nerves.

Rice slipped it to Merino, who let it run a bit before squaring it to Timber.

Izan dropped off the backline again—his role as False 9 wasn’t about waiting, it was about baiting.

The center-back closest to him followed.

Good.

With a soft check-in step, Izan pulled the ball in, turned with his body low, and sensed Ødegaard already scanning.

Izan took two touches and then flicked the ball in behind into the path of Saka he was gone.

Just like that.

Gone down the right.

Izan turned to watch it unfold like a conductor hearing the strings swell.

Saka collected it, shoulder dipped, touched the ball past the retreating left-back, and curled a low shot across goal with his weaker foot.

It skimmed the turf hard.

The Sporting keeper dove.

So close.

The fingertips barely caught it, sending it spinning inches wide of the far post.

The crowd buzzed, some gasping, others just exhaling.

“That’s warning one,” the commentators acknowledged as Saka jogged back.

Two minutes later, Izan saw his moment again.

Sporting’s left midfielder— Araujo —held the ball too long on the sideline, shielding it with a casualness that had no place in a Champions League match and Izan pounced.

He slid in with both boots tucked under—clean. Crisp.

He clipped the ball away just as the player tried to pivot.

Araujo toppled sideways into touch, and the ball stayed in by centimeters but Izan was up in one motion.

He felt the touchline under his feet, and saw Amorim, Sporting’s coach, gesturing furiously as he ran past.

Izan didn’t slow down.

He peeled in behind and laid it to Saka who stabbed it forward again—a slip between the right-back’s legs, and the pass was perfect.

Izan gathered it mid-stride and cut inside—first with his right, then with his left.

One defender lunged.

He paused and the former also froze in reaction

Then came the step-back cut—cleaner than it had felt in weeks.

A fake shot with the inside of his foot.

The defender bit and went sliding past.

Martinelli screamed behind but Izan had already seen him and backheeled the ball into open space and kept running toward the box, just in time to see Martinelli’s boot smash through it without breaking stride.

The net ballooned.

And the stadium shook.

Arsenal’s bench exploded to their feet.

Arteta didn’t move. He just clenched his fist.

“Stolen, danced, and delivered! Martinelli finishes it—but that’s all Izan and Sporting are stunned.”

A/n: Sorry guys for the late release. I wasn’t feeling well the whole day. His is the first of the day so I’ll do well to release the last and then follow up with the next before going to bed again. Thanks for reading.

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