God Of football - Chapter 618: Not Even Close

Chapter 618: Not Even Close

The whistle wasn’t even fully out of the referee’s lips before City started snapping passes.

With no signs of nervousness, they stepped into the match, stamping their authority in the midfield.

Kovacic, now wearing the responsibility Rodri usually shouldered, dropped into that deepest role.

He wasn’t looking all that comfortable, but he looked functional.

Gvardiol immediately stepped into midfield from left-back, giving City their usual numerical flood as Stones tucked beside him to form the 3-back for City’s backline.

De Bruyne found space between Rice and Odegaard like he had a map of their shadows while Matheus Nunes provided them with much needed with but, before Arsenal had even touched the ball, the first incision came.

Kovacic, Stones, De Bruyne.

The ginger pele ribboned a through ball that split Saliba and Gabriel just long enough to let Haaland lurch forward like a tank snapping to attention.

The crowd inhaled as they looked forward to the inevitable, but Haaland didn’t rush.

He let the ball roll in stride, shifted it to his left, and struck across goal, but that had given Raya enough time to come to terms with himself before committing to a fast drop onto the ground to save the ball, guiding it around the post.

“He’s awake, alright,” the lead commentator said, exhaling as the ball skidded behind.

“De Bruyne’s already writing the scripts—and Haaland nearly read the first line out loud.”

City jogged back into shape as Kovacic gestured toward Stones for the reset.

Gvardiol looked up—press coming from Saka now after Raya had launched the ball into the field but City found the outlet again.

De Bruyne, left alone inside and wide, but Izan was on him like a second skin.

Th𝚒𝐬 𝙘h𝙖pṯ𝓮r ɪʂ p𝘰ṡƚ𝓮Ԁ b𝕪 𝗞𝗶𝘵℮𝘯Օνℯ𝗅

He held onto De Bruyne, with the Belgian trying to move Izan aw, ay but the strength Izan had been using to hold off defenders wasn’t for show.

The ball finally dropped, mid-weight across the middle and before anyone, Rice was on it like a trigger, poking it free, spinning, and opening space for transition.

And then—there he was again.

Izan.

Rice didn’t even have to look and just fed it in his direction.

Izan took it on the inside and then, with a nudge, he moved the ball just past Kovacic’s toes—and suddenly, Izan was moving, like the pitch was sloping downhill in his favour.

He drove at City, inviting the press, but the City players knew better.

The dropped back, as Pep had ordered but a heavy touch from Izan tempted Gvardiol to step up and that was all Izan needed before he bent the ball across the floor.

The ball started centre, then pulled out, curving outward as if refusing to follow City’s logic.

And Saka was there.

He met it clean on the run.

But the finish didn’t match the delivery as the shot went across goal and fizzed just wide.

Saka turned immediately, hand raised toward Izan.

“My fault.”

Izan just nodded, already jogging back.

In the commentary box, the ex-pro broke first.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” he said, not as a performance, just as a man who had seen.

“That ball doesn’t exist in most people’s minds. Let alone their feet.”

“You think it’s talent? Or just instinct?”

The other paused.

“You think we’re underrating him because I think Izan is being given his due bouquet of flowers.”

“Well, then I’m telling you it’s not enough. Because we saw Messi and Ronaldo, we usually go, ’Oh, we’ve seen this movie before.’ But you haven’t.”

“At 15…”

“At 15, Messi was still in youth games. Ronaldo was nowhere near the sporting senior setup in Lisbon, but this kid? He was starting for Valencia in the league. And now? He’s seventeen. He’s already been on the Ballon d’Or shortlist. Already in the conversation, when people are talking about the best. Already folding elite midfields like he’s just warming up.”

The lead commentator gave a low chuckle.

“So what happens if he keeps this pace?”

The ex-pro didn’t answer immediately.

He watched as Izan tracked back, and then he said, simply:

“We’re talking about a Ballon d’Or era where we stop debating—and start just handing it over. If the journalists have any sense. I think the world has to get ready for an era we haven’t seen before in this sport.”

“You think I’d waste this voice box on a kid if he wasn’t terrifying?”

The first commentator started to reply but stopped mid-breath.

“Hold on—Arsenal again!” he said as Odegaard flicked a pass between the lines to Gabriel Jesus, who dropped deep, received it, and shoved it backwards into space.

Rice.

Then Izan.

Again.

The movement was cleaner this time.

Arsenal pushing higher now.

Trossard wider and Saka holding Gvardiol in place.

Izan accelerated through midfield, glancing up.

He didn’t release it this time.

The pitch tilted as Izan carried the ball with threat.

Every stride invited confusion, City’s shape bending subtly around him as Gvardiol tucked, Stones hesitated, and Kovacic shuffled between zones he didn’t own.

The ball came under his spell near the edge of the final third, but he didn’t shoot.

He slipped it to the right.

To Saka.

With a calm touch, the latter pushed it to Jesus, who stepped back, dragging Dias with him, body poised like he’d turn and lash it.

But he didn’t.

He let the ball run, pivoted slightly, and with the faintest touch off the sole of his boot, fed it back through the legs of Diaz and into the box.

Into the space and back to Izan.

“Oh, the loveliest of touches,” the commentator said as the Emirates leaned in.

Izan stepped onto it.

Right foot rising—like a hammer cocked, ready to flatten the silence further.

Gvardiol flinched.

Stones slid.

Ederson braced, hands spreading wide.

But the strike never came.

Izan didn’t shoot.

He paused—just long enough for City’s entire backline to overcommit.

Then, with a breath of balance, he shifted weight, leaned into his right, and let his boot wrap around the ball to shape it.

Trivela.

From the inside of the box.

Curving away from goal, before it twisted back.

It danced past Stones. Past Nunez and past Ederson’s outstretched left hand—fingers clawing at air like a man trying to hold a dream by the edges, before rippling the net and then sending a ripple through the stadium.

“Oh, wow,” the commentator gasped as the stadium cracked open.

“Oh, the sheer audacity,”the commentator choked.

“That’s filth with a poet’s foot! A back-to-front sequence finished with a trivela that defies the odds.”

The ex-pro co-commentator couldn’t contain himself.

“How do you defend that?”

“You don’t. You hope he retires early.”

While the replays looped, Izan jogged toward the corner.

Then—

He dropped.

Flat on his back.

Staring at the sky as Saka joined him seconds later, lying beside him like they were stargazing at some constellation only they could see.

“What are we looking at?” Saka asked between breaths, smiling.

“The gap between them and us,” Izan muttered, pointing upward.

Saka laughed.

“You are a villain.”

“You knew that when you passed.”

They lay there a second longer, boots touching, both pointing now as the away fans booed.

Arteta had barely moved on the touchline, but his eyes said everything.

On the other side, Guardiola scratched his head, turned to his staff, and mouthed, mouthed a few words, but even he wasn’t in it.

“Tell Gvardiol to just focus on defending,” he croaked to his assistant as he sat down in the seat.

Back on the field, Izan sat up slowly while Saka offered a ha, d—but he waved it off, rising on his own, brushing grass from his back like it had been waiting to be shaken off.

Then they trotted back together, side by side.

“You mad because I ruined your assist?” Saka joked.

“You missed one earlier,” Izan grinned. “This was payback.”

Saka bumped him lightly with a shoulder.

The ball returned to the centre circle as the City players drifted back into their half, slowly, not sluggish, just recalibrating.

Stones spoke with Kovacic. Walker pulled Gvardiol in tighter. De Bruyne gestured for Foden to hold width.

They were re-drawing their shape like men trying to trace old dominance on unfamiliar paper.

Around them, the Emirates pulsed.

“I-zan! I-zan!”

It wasn’t just noise—it was belief.

The chant carried a thump now as if each syllable had muscle behind it.

Up in the stands, just under the press box, a City fan leaned into his mate.

“Used to be one outcome,” he said, not bitter, just puzzled.

“We’d come here, boss it. Every time.”

His friend didn’t answer.

The fan nodded slowly toward the pitch, eyes settling on the boy in red and white boots, with hands on his hips.

“But now…” He exhaled. “He’s changed the script.”

A/N: This is the last of yesterday. Slept before I could finish, so here it is. Have fu reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the first Chapter of the new month. Thanks for the support, as always and thanks for reading. I hope we can all make it through this month unscathed.