God Of football - Chapter 596: Back With A Surprise. [GT ]

Chapter 596: Back With A Surprise. [GT Chapter]

The stadium was humming.

Fans poured through the gates, scarves held tight against the January chill, voices rising in unison.

Red and white banners fluttered as the Emirates filled to the brim.

Anticipation crackled in the air and Arsenal were moments away from a crucial Champions League clash against Dinamo Zagreb, and the energy was electric.

In the commentary box, Darren Fletcher leaned forward, voice even but energized,

“Welcome back, everyone. Six games down—this is game seven for Arsenal in the new format. They’ve been solid, but this match still matters. A win here seals direct passage to the Round of 16.”

Steve McManaman nodded, scanning the pitch where the pre-match activities fluttered.

“They know what’s at stake. Behind Liverpool and Barça on goal difference, Arsenal have a shot—but only if they do the job tonight. Zagreb have been tough, but at the Emirates… the pressure is squarely on the home side.”

In the locker room, the Arsenal squad huddled.

Arteta stood before them, face composed but focused.

“We’re on a path,” he said, voice steady.

“One more victory, and we take control. We stay direct to the Round of 16—no distractions. But make no mistake: nothing happens if we don’t deliver tonight. We just take the longer route. We’re expected to win. Let’s prove that’s not too much to ask.”

He scanned his players, eyes settling on Izan.

A silent acknowledgement passed between them before the squad broke, shoulders squared and nodding.

Moments later, the referees emerged.

Arsenal players followed—a line of focused determination against the white walls of the tunnel.

The Emirates roared its approval as the squad stepped onto the pitch.

Flags waved; chants swelled; the sound pressed against glass and steel.

Fletcher’s voice rose with the emotion, “And here they come—Havertz, Ødegaard, Saka, and of course, Izan Miura. The Emirates is fully alive tonight.”

“Look at those faces—calm but ready. The first TKO in the group is in sight. Just need to focus for ninety-plus tonight.” McManaman added, his tone crisp.

The teams took their final positions, the flags waved one last time, and the anthem faded into a charged brief silence.

Then— “C’mon you Gunners!”

The crowd’s roar was thunder.

“And we are underway! Arsenal kick from left to right. Immediate sense of purpose. They know exactly what tonight means and have everything to play for if not for themselves”

“It’s Arsenal facing Dinamo Zagreb”

The ball came zipping in from Havertz, a pass with pace, reaching Izan just inside the centre circle.

He let it roll under the arch of his boot, body half-turned as if waiting for either Ødegaard or Rice to offer themselves.

The press from Dinamo Zagreb snapped in—tight, frantic, committed.

Izan looked right.

Then left forcing the Dinamo players to stick to their craft.

But the ball didn’t move.

Instead, he dragged it back with the sole of his boot—just a subtle tug—and spun away from the first man like he’d walked through a door they hadn’t seen.

The Dinamo midfielders, mid-lunge and mid-run, froze in the space he left behind.

Now he was facing the Zagreb half, head up, no panic.

With a flick of the hip, a low shimmy—and suddenly the ball was cutting across the pitch, a diagonal slice into space on the far left.

Martinelli caught it on the run with the outside of his boot, streaking toward the box under a rising cheer.

“That’s how you break a press,” Fletcher muttered into the mic.

“Vision. Composure. And a pass that splits open the third line.”

Martinelli tried to make use of the moment, jabbing forward, dragging the left back wide, but the Dinamo man stuck close.

Touch for touch.

One move too many, and the lane vanished.

Martinelli squared up—then took the pragmatic choice.

Back across to Rice, who was sitting just outside the arc of the penalty area but Rice didn’t hesitate.

He swept it the first time into the box, a guided whip with sting and backspin.

And he was already moving, bursting past his marker into the area.

In the chaos of movement, the ball found Izan—his back to goal, two defenders collapsing on him.

He didn’t shield it long.

A clever chest down and a soft nudge with his right foot took the ball away from the crowd.

Not to himself.

To Rice.

And Rice—mid-stride—met it with a swing that brought the Emirates to its feet.

“Izan to Declan RICCCEEE–!”

The volley, smooth and perfectly thought, whipped the ball, leather smacking against laces with a purity that rang even through the noise, the ball slicing through the air and bulging the net just inside the left post before the keeper could even drop.

“OH YES!” McManaman shouted.

“Declan Rice—take a bow!”

Fletcher followed, his voice a little higher now.

“Worked. Measured. Brilliant. And who’s in the mix again? Izan—pulling defenders, creating space, making something out of nothing.”

Rice peeled away to the corner flag, fists pumping, a goal written across every part of him.

Izan stood back, smiling faintly—hands out, nodding to the crowd behind the goal like he already knew how this night would go.

The scoreboard flickered.

ARSENAL 1 – DINAMO ZAGREB 0

And inside the Emirates, a sense of rhythm began to settle.

….

“15 Minutes in now and it been all Arsenal here”

The rhythm was sharp now—Arsenal humming with confidence, each pass like a deliberate note in a song only they could hear.

The screen flickered for those watching from home:

POSSESSION — ARSENAL: 79%

“Dominance, Darren. Absolute dominance,” McManaman said, his voice undercut with admiration.

“They’ve barely let Dinamo breathe. And when you’ve got a front five this intelligent, this composed—it’s only a matter of time.”

Dinamo’s shape bent under the pressure.

Their midfield dropped deeper.

Their backline clung to the edge of the box.

But still—Arsenal moved the ball, always one touch ahead.

Izan dropped deep, almost into a false pivot role, slipping just behind Ødegaard.

A flick of the head, a glance over his shoulder—and then he turned, catching his marker flat-footed and leaving him lunging at air.

With space in front of him, he took three paces forward and then released Saka who had crept inside his man on the right.

Thı𝑠 ƈhⱥp𝐭𝙚r 𝘪𝙨 p𝑜𝖘𝓉ɛ𝑑 b𝕪 𝕂𝙞𝘵ꬲηο𝓋є𝙡

The winger returned the pass—quick, smooth—but Izan shifted it again, starting a fast one-two movement, carving an opening with surgical intent.

Only this time, the return didn’t come.

Saka kept it.

He saw the angle.

He saw the window and he went for it.

Outside the box, he shaped the shot and struck with conviction—a rising snap off the laces.

The keeper stretched, fully extended, but it beat him.

It didn’t beat the post though as the ball cannoned off the woodwork and fizzed across the face of the goal.

‘OHHHHSS’ rang the pitch but Martinelli was there—arriving on the opposite side like clockwork—and he didn’t hesitate.

But it whistled wide past the other post.

“Off the post—twice!” Fletcher gasped.

“Saka with a rocket, and Martinelli follows it up—but it’s just inches out!”

“Oh, it’s chaos!” McManaman added.

“Beautiful chaos! Arsenal are everywhere. Dinamo can’t get close.”

There was a moment of uncertainty on the pitch.

Dinamo’s defenders raised their arms for a goal kick.

ØDegaard turned to the ref with a questioning glance.

Then the official pointed to the corner flag.

Corner kick.

Rice was already nearby, jogging over, but paused to look across the box.

Izan—standing near the penalty arc, hands on hips—nodded.

A small gesture that meant he could Take it.

Rice adjusted his socks, scooped the ball from the turf, and walked over to place it down.

The Emirates crowd leaned in, sensing the weight of momentum.

They had smelt blood already.

Now, they could see it.

Rice adjusted the ball once more, brushing the snow-dusted top lightly with his fingers.

The Emirates murmured with anticipation—low, rumbling, ready.

A breath.

Then he whipped it, a ball bending inside at first before it began curling outward midway through its journey.

Gabriel jumped first, eyes locked on the ball—but he mistimed it, just brushing under it as the cross arced past him.

And behind him, out of nowhere—

Izan rose.

Rose.

Higher than any defender.

Higher than anyone expected.

His lift was sudden, explosive like a man pulled upward by some invisible string—arms balanced, eyes wide, neck taut.

He met it clean.

Thump.

The sound—dull, heavy—echoed across the pitch.

Then the net snapped.

“WHAT?!” McManaman’s voice cracked.

“No way! That’s—Iz– that’s Izan? Back to the UCL and back with a banger of a surprise. I never knew he had it in him” Fletcher nearly stumbled over the name.

“He’s climbed above everyone and buried that!”

“Are you seeing this?” McManaman cried again.

“This lad is the master of all trades at this point. What can he not do?”

Arteta’s reaction said it all.

He blinked, then stepped forward slowly, mouth parting—half in awe, half in disbelief.

He hadn’t trained this.

Izan didn’t celebrate like a boy who surprised himself.

He knew what he could do the moment Gabriel missed the ball.

He ran toward the East Stand—arms pumping, then raised two fingers to the side of his head and pulled them away in sync, miming a shot, making it clear he was still dangerous—even in the air.

“Rice delivered it,” Fletcher said, voice quieter now.

“But Izan finished it with a header even Ronaldo would be proud of.”

“That’s a goal none of us saw coming,” McManaman added. “And that includes Dinamo’s entire defence.”

The scoreboard blinked again.

ARSENAL 2 – DINAMO ZAGREB 0

It was just a mere formality at this point.

A/N: GT chapter. This is the first. Sorry for being a little late. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

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