God Of football - Chapter 598: Dead ball Situations

Chapter 598: Dead ball Situations

Lorenzo stood there, shoulders tense, fists loose by his side.

The ball lay still at the edge of the box.

Waiting.

“Finish before you get a heatstroke. We wouldn’t want to see you out before you even get to face your biggest challenge yet,” Oryazabal called out from the front.

“Izan or Atletico Madrid,” Piatelli voiced loudly, referencing the match they had in a few days but Oryazabal didn’t respond and just walked away.

Piatelli, smiling wrly turned and shot the ball into the back of the net before walking off.

……[NOW….]

The Emirates glowed under the night lights as the players jogged out for the second half.

A sense of unfinished business hovered over the air.

Arsenal led, yes—but given the sheer volume of chances, the gulf in play, and the pace Izan had played the first 45 with, it could’ve easily been three or four.

Still, it wasn’t.

And that left Dinamo Zagreb believing, hopeful that they could claw their way back into the match should Arsenal falter even the slightest.

The scoreboard read 2–0.

But although it looked safe from how Dinamo Zagreb was playing, it didn’t feel safe.

Football was unpredictable and when a giant faces an ant, they tend to get complacent.

As the cameras returned, the commentary picked up again, voices sharpening like the tempo of the game itself.

“Back underway here at the Emirates,” Darren Fletcher called, his voice steady but taut with the kind of tension that lingered in matches that hadn’t been buried yet.

“Arsenal have dominated—total control—but they’ll want to finish this properly.”

“Absolutely,” McManaman added.

“They’ve got a bigger and somehow emotional fixture in the next game against Valencia in the last clash of the league Phase and you don’t want to leave doors open. You want to shut them. Lock them. Especially with the way Izan’s been flying tonight—it’s been relentless from him. But no third yet for Arsenal and personally, I think it could change in the next couple of minutes”

By the 56th minute, Arsenal had tightened their grip.

Rice had begun to step higher, closer to Ødegaard.

Havertz dropped between the lines.

But it was Rice who initiated what came next.

The ball found its way to his feet just past the centre circle.

He took one glance, held it a second longer, then turned—and drove.

His stride ate up grass as Zagreb’s midfield tried to swarm, but Rice pushed forward anyway, refusing to slow.

As he approached the edge of the arc, a Dinamo midfielder lunged in—sloppy, clumsy.

Rice went down, legs tangled and cleats catching shin.

The whistle went immediately.

“Foul. That’s a clear one. Arsenal with the freekick and—look at Rice—he’s already up!” Darren Fletcher said but before he could add to it, Rice was on his feet before anyone could blink, arm waving.

And then—he didn’t wait.

He spotted Izan hovering wide right—loose, unmarked for a second too long—and zipped the ball straight to him.

The pass curved out across the pitch, skipping slightly on the turf as it rolled to Izan’s feet.

And as always, the moment the ball touched his boot, the energy shifted again.

He was facing the touchline, but one glance behind told him the pressure was coming fast.

He adjusted quickly, dropping a shoulder as he angled to cut inside.

But Zagreb weren’t just watching anymore.

Their defensive midfielder came flying in from the blind side—cleats flashing low across the turf in a desperate slide.

Izan saw it and dragged the ball away with a sharp touch—his right sole smearing it back, escaping the full force of the tackle—but not all of it.

A solid clip to his standing leg sent him stumbling, then down.

The crowd gasped in unison as the contact rang out.

The ref’s whistle blew sharp, hand already up.

“That one’s nasty,” Fletcher said. “You could see what he was trying—but he’s caught him late and from the side. No intent, maybe, but that doesn’t matter.”

“It’s a foul. Has to be,” McManaman echoed.

“You can’t slide in like that when the ball’s already gone. Izan’s done so well to avoid the full weight of it. But still—he’s down.”

The camera zoomed in on Izan, now seated, adjusting his socks, teeth clenched as he tested his ankle with careful movement.

Rice and Ødegaard were already with the ref, making gestures.

ØDegaard in particular was stern, pointing at the spot of contact, motioning for consistency.

Behind them, Saka crouched beside Izan, offering him a hand.

He took it.

Not limping. Not quite grimacing but you could see it—the tension in his jaw.

The flicker of irritation that never quite surfaced into complaint.

The referee had already pulled the Zagreb player aside, card in hand and flashed the yellow after a word with the player.

Boos rumbled from the crowd—not enough.

Not for that.

But Izan waved it off. He didn’t look at the ref. He looked at the ball.

And then he nodded at Ødegaard.

He was staying on.

…….

The training grounds at Paterna was quiet but tight with anticipation.

All eyes were on the screen, sweat still clinging to their necks and brows from the ruckus they had caused during the half-time break.

Pietro leaned forward, elbows on knees, palms rubbing together like he was stoking fire.

“It’s coming,” he murmured, voice almost excited.

“He’s gonna hit it.”

In front of him, Gaya chuckled under his breath, arms crossed.

“Always the dramatics, eh?”

“You know it’s true,” Pietro shot back, his eyes not leaving the screen.

Further down the bench, Sosa shook his head once, then again—subtle disbelief rather than dismissal.

“If he hits this clean,” he muttered, “then there’s no wall in Europe that’ll matter.”

Back at the Emirates, the ball had already been placed—twenty-two yards from the top of the box, slightly off-centre, but perfect for a left-footer.

The wall was nearly formed.

The referee stood between the clusters of Zagreb players, arms out, instructing the line.

“One step back. Another. A bit more to the left. Hands down.” he barked at the wall as the players followed his words.

Izan stood off to the side, breathing slowly, body square to the ball.

He wasn’t eyeing the keeper.

Not the wall.

Just the ball itself.

The commentary dipped into a hush, the tension tightening like a drawstring pulled too fast.

“It’s been a while since he’s scored one from here,” Darren Fletcher said as if reminding the audience of something inevitable.

“It hasn’t been that long but when a player does it so often like Izan does, it makes us miss it but keep in mind, it only takes one for it to count,” Steve McManaman added, barely above a whisper.

“One clean hit. He doesn’t always go for curl. Sometimes, it’s the knuckleball and sometimes, it’s just…. fury. I think a curler is in line here but let’s see if Dinamo Zagreb’s keeper and wall are up for the challenge.”

The ref blew the whistle and Izan, sucking in breath through his teeth, began his runup.

No wind-up.

No hesitation.

Ding, [GOALSEEK LV4, Activated], the system sounded just as Izan instructed with a mental flex.

He struck it—laced and level.

The ball screamed through the air, slicing left on its early flight path before violently curling back inwards at the last moment.

It didn’t rise much.

It didn’t need to.

It just moved like it had a soul of its own.

It caught the inside of the post with a shuddering clang—rattling metal, sharp and immediate—before slamming into the back of the net with such speed that the mesh almost recoiled.

The Dinamo Keeper who had tensed for the save was left standing.

The Emirates erupted, not instantly, but all at once—as if the shock took a beat to land before the roar detonated.

Thḭṡ ₡h𝙖p𝕥𝓮r 𝗶𝗌 p0𝖘𝑡℮𝗱 b𝑦 𝓀𝑖𝗍𝑒Ƞ𝖔𝐯ɛ𝖑

And Izan?

He turned before the ball had even hit the net.

He just wheeled off, sprinting toward the corner flag with a pump of his fist, and then bowing towards the Emirates faithful as he got to them.

The camera panned behind him—capturing the net still swinging while the commentary followed like thunder rolling in after the lightning.

“That’s vintage! That’s violent! It’s been a while—yes—but Izan from the deadball… has arrived again!”

“You talk about power, you talk about command—and that is both! No bend. No deception. Just sheer, unstoppable violence.”

Back in Spain, Piatelli didn’t blink.

He just leaned forward, nodding once at the screen.

Even as the others reacted—Gaya whistling, Sosa shaking his head—he sat still.

Watching.

Learning.

Measuring the man and the task ahead.

“This won’t be easy” Baraja uttered as he stared at Izan, who on-screen, was returning to his half.

A/N: Finally caught up. Have fun reading and I’ll see you later in the day with the First of the day. Hold onto your Golden tickets if you have any idea of giving some because I might die trying to type another GT Chapter. Anyways bye and love Y’all and thanks for the support. Also, don’t forget that your reviews help this novel so don’t hesitate to leave another review even if you’ve already done one.

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