God Of football - Chapter 573: Demolition Job

Chapter 573: Demolition Job

Van den Berg finally lost grip and stumbled backward, off balance, and out of the play, and Izan wasn’t going to stop to acknowledge it.

He stayed locked in, his boots kissing the turf with each stride, the ball gliding beside him as if it too knew better than to get in his way.

“And he’s still going—Brentford haven’t laid a finger on him that’s counted yet!”

The space opened—just enough.

The other half of the Brentford center-back pair, Nathan Collin, who was already coming to cover er was shifting weight, expecting Izan to go wide as it was the logical move.

Open grass to the left, space to cross, and teammates starting to make their runs.

But Izan didn’t take it.

He cut right instead, dragging the ball across his body and snapping it behind his plant foot in a motion too quick for most defenders to react to.

The center-back tried to recover, one foot tangling with the other, stumbling backward in a blur of red and white.

Another defender, the left back, Lewis Potter, stepped in late but physical.

He barged in with shoulder first, arms raised, trying to make it look clean, trying to make it messy.

Izan stumbled—finally.

The contact sent him tilting forward, legs unbalanced, one arm shooting out to brace himself.

His stride shortened, rhythm faltered, but he didn’t stop.

Not yet.

The ball bounced slightly off his knee, caught up under his boot, and he had to adjust on instinct.

There was no elegance in the recovery—just raw survival.

Momentum, muscle memory, the feel of the pitch under his studs.

He lifted his head.

Flekken was rushing out, body low, arms wide, ready to make himself as big as possible.

And Izan, with one half-stumble still trailing behind him and the ball barely stable in front, caressed the ball.

He chipped.

A delicate flick.

A weightless, audacious lift.

The ball floated just over Flekken’s shoulder as the keeper dove, and slipped beneath the bar like it had been dropped in slow motion.

The net rippled.

Izan’s boot touched the ground—

—And then he fell.

Flat, just past the penalty spot, knees hitting first, then palms, his chest heaving as he lay there for a second, face turned up to the sky.

No celebration.

Just breathe.

“Oh, my word…”

“That’s absurd composure. He’s barely upright, the keeper’s already collapsing on him, and he’s had the presence to clip that over Flekken like it was a training ground chip.”

“They tried everything—tugs, kicks, shoulder checks—and he still picks his moment. That’s the boy we’ve grown to like and adore. That’s some nerve.”

The camera cut briefly to Arteta on the touchline, jaw tight, arms crossed—but the faintest twitch of a smile creeping onto his lips.

“And it’s Arsenal who take the lead here—six minutes in—and of course, it’s him.”

“New Year’s Eve… and it’s New Year, New Izan.”

“You can talk all you want about stats and graphs and progression curves all you want, but that’s a player who understands the game in the moment. That chip doesn’t happen without vision and control, most players don’t unlock until they’re ten years deeper into their careers.”

Izan slowly rose to his feet, brushing off his forearms while Saka jogged over, patting his back with a grin and a shake of his head like even he didn’t know what to say.

ØDegaard followed a second later, arms out, laughing lightly as he muttered something only they could hear.

On the replay, the entire sequence was even more brutal.

The croqueta.

The shirt pull.

The stumble.

The chip.

Not stitched together like highlights, but unfolding like inevitability.

“It’s not just a great goal.”

“It’s a reminder.”

“This kid doesn’t just ride tackles—he rides expectation. And every time you think you’ve seen the ceiling, he brings a sledgehammer and raises it again.”

Back on the pitch, Izan walked back toward the halfway line, shirt slightly untucked, expression unreadable.

One-nil.

Six minutes in.

The first game of the year, and he was already on the scoreboard.

“That’s 21 goals in 18 for him. 31 goal contributions if we add his 11 assists, which is the most of any player in the league, same with his 21 goals, making him the leader in both charts. This is just a monstrosity of a player….”

……

The ball rolled back to the center circle, and the restart came quicker than most teams would’ve preferred after conceding so early.

Brentford players didn’t linger.

No protests, no stalling—just quiet urgency and darting glances between them as they lined up again.

Wissa clapped his hands, trying to lift the energy, while Captain Nørgaard shouted across the midfield line, calling for tighter spacing.

Even Flekken, from deep in his box, raised a fist and called out defensive cues like he could hold the game together through sheer volume alone.

They needed to settle.

To respond.

To breathe.

But Arsenal had already sensed the stagger.

The momentary lack of rhythm.

That hesitation in the spine of the Brentford midfield, where composure should’ve been.

ØDegaard adjusted his armband while Saka hovered near the right channel, hands open.

And Izan—now deeper, now measuring—didn’t speak a word.

The ball kicked off again, but the crowd hadn’t fully found its voice.

That early silence, the kind that came not from confusion but from anticipation, was spreading.

Brentford passed short to the right, looking to build through the flanks, but Rice stepped in almost too early, cutting off the outlet pass with the kind of timing that wasn’t reactive, but predictive.

He didn’t need to touch the ball more than once.

He cushioned it, then played it sideways to Ødegaard.

The captain didn’t rush.

He turned slowly.

Let Brentford drift toward him.

Then slid the ball backward toward Izan, who had dropped just past the halfway line into his own territory, almost level with Gabriel.

It looked like a recycling move.

A reset.

Until it wasn’t.

Izan’s first touch was soft but purposeful.

He didn’t pause, didn’t even glance up again.

Instead, he shifted his weight, pivoted slightly onto his left, and whipped a diagonal pass from deep.

It wasn’t a hopeful ball.

It was a code executed with angles, pace, and backspin that made it obey gravity like a veteran conductor waving in silence.

It hummed across the turf with impossible efficiency, cutting diagonally between two Brentford lines and dropping into that golden zone behind the left-back, and behind all that, was Saka, who was already sprinting to meet it.

“Oh, my… What a pass! From that deep?! From his own half! That’s not just vision—that’s clairvoyance!”

Saka met it in stride.

Didn’t have to adjust his body or touch.

He let the ball bounce once, then touched it forward with the inside of his right boot, sprinting now into Brentford’s collapsing final third.

Flekken came out fast, legs wide, arms raised, mouth open, shouting something to no one that could stop what was already happening.

Saka didn’t blink.

He rolled it calmly past the keeper—one touch, low and composed, into the inside panel of the near post.

Goal.

Two-nil.

Inside ten minutes.

“And there it is! Arsenal again! It’s so simple—but it’s surgical!”

“What do you even do with that? You lose the ball near midfield and within four touches, you’re two goals down.”

“And guess who started it? Guess who’s playing like he can see the match in advance?”

“That ball from Izan… It’s not just smart. It’s cruel. He’s baiting them into pressing high and punishing them from sixty yards away.”

The players didn’t over-celebrate.

There was no sliding, no badge-pointing.

Just smiles, nods, handshakes.

ØDegaard clapped Saka on the shoulder.

Rice jogged up with a grin, muttering something behind his teeth.

But the one they all turned to first—again—was still standing near the halfway line.

Izan.

He hadn’t moved.

He just watched it happen like he’d drawn it on a whiteboard before kickoff.

His chest rose slowly.

No grin.

No celebration.

Only a half-turn and a slow jog back into position, arms swinging lightly at his sides.

“They came into this match talking about whether Arsenal could keep the momentum going after the break.”

“Well—momentum’s one thing.”

“But this… this is ruthlessness at its peak.”

“New year. New match. Same Izan.”

“And somehow, still—better.”

………..

Thirty-five minutes later, the whistle blew sharp and final, and with it, a strange hush swept over the Brentford Community Stadium.

The home fans—those who hadn’t already slipped down into the concourse—sat slumped in silence or blinking in disbelief.

The scoreboard glared down without apology:

Brentford 0 – 4 Arsenal

Izan walked with Ødegaard and Martinelli beside him, expression steady, not smiling but clearly… in rhythm.

The fourth goal had sealed the weight of it but before that, it was Izan again—his second—collected near the edge of the box after Ødegaard and Zinchenko rotated the play right, waiting for Brentford to over-shift.

Izan stepped into the gap just outside the D, took one touch, and then rifled it into the top left corner with a strike so clean Flekken didn’t even dive.

The fans roared in celebration, but the players just turned toward him again, like it was obvious that he was going to score.

The Fourth, ironically, had been the messiest.

Saka had nearly buried a cross from Izan after another blind diagonal, but his shot pinged off the keeper’s glove, falling awkwardly off the post.

Martinelli—lurking just inside the six-yard box—didn’t waste it.

He swept it in on the bounce, shrugged, and jogged back with a grin.

The Arsenal bench had half-stood when it went in.

Arteta, on the touchline, just pumped his fist in the air as his team continued the demolition job.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit.

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