God Of football

Arteta turned back to his players, voice rising just enough,

"First five minutes — we kill their momentum. They'll come flying. Let them. Make them run into a wall."

He clapped his hands, sharp and loud.

"Let's finish it."

"Yes Coach" the players roared as they surged to their feet, the energy rising, the rhythm of boots tapping against the floor syncing to the thundering pulse of the game calling them back out.

..............

The second half cracked open like a thunderclap.

From the moment Arsenal and Spurs emerged from the tunnel, it was clear: Tottenham had not come back out to play nice.

The home fans, restless during the break, exploded into fresh noise the instant the referee's whistle shrieked.

White shirts surged forward like a tidal wave.

Within moments, Dejan Kulusevski was twisting up the right flank, low center of gravity, dragging the ball along with him like it was tied to his boots.

He skipped past Rice with a dip of the shoulder, whipped in a cross — dangerous — and only a desperate sliding block from Saliba prevented the worst.

"It's a different Tottenham we are seeing out here after the break. Ange Postecoglou might have said something good to them," Peter Drury called from the commentary box, voice sharp with anticipation.

"Kulusevski is already asking questions. Arsenal need to settle, and settle quickly."

The camera panned across the sea of Spurs fans — arms waving, fists punching the air — the sound swelling and crashing against the walls of the stadium like a living thing.

On the next attack, it was Son.

A darting, knife-like run between Gabriel and Zinchenko, dragging the Arsenal line awkwardly toward their own goal.

The ball zipped to his feet inside the box, and for a heartbeat — a frozen sliver of fear — it seemed inevitable.

"Son! Still Son! Saved by Raaya!"

Peter Drury's voice rose as Raya threw himself full-stretch to his right, pawing the ball wide with a vital fingertip save.

Spurs fans groaned and screamed at once, clutching their heads, the stadium seething with denied hunger.

"Arsenal living dangerously," his co-commentator, Lee Dixon, added, his voice cutting through the noise.

"They look rattled. Son and Kulusevski — they've come out like men possessed."

Across the pitch, Arsenal players exchanged sharp, breathless shouts, trying to drag each other back into position, composure threatening to fray at the edges.

From the stands, chants rose, thunderous:

"COME ON YOU SPURS! COME ON YOU SPURS!"

And louder still, targeted and mocking, a chant from the South Stand:

"Where's your wonderkid? Where's your son? Izan's on the bench — 'cause he's Arteta's one!"

The cameras caught a flash of the Arsenal bench — Izan sitting still, calm despite the storm raging around him, simply watching.

Behind him, Carlos Cuesta was already speaking quietly into his earpiece, coordinating, timing.

Down the touchline, Kulusevski kept asking for the ball, stretching the play wide, pulling Arsenal's full-backs into no-man's land.

And still, Arsenal threatened in flashes — fast, brutal counters that snapped like whips but didn't quite cut deep enough.

Havertz rose for a corner and glanced a header wide.

Ødegaard, on the next attack, tried slipping Saka in, only for Van de Ven to come sweeping across with a tackle that drew a roar of approval from the home fans.

The game was teetering — balanced on the edge of a knife, and it looked all but settled from the way it was going.

Spurs pounded forward, wild but dangerous, while Arsenal countered with precision, but with less and less control.

"You can feel it, can't you, Peter?" Lee Dixon murmured in the commentary box, almost awed.

"This derby's sitting on a powder keg. One mistake...one moment..."

The camera cut again to the Arsenal technical area where Carlos Cuesta moved first, a sharp clap of his hands cutting through the tense air by the Arsenal bench.

He beckoned sharply toward the bench.

"Izan. Sterling. Fabio," he ordered, voice clipped and urgent.

"Warm up. Fast."

No hesitation.

Izan peeled off his training jacket with a flick of the wrist and trotted toward the touchline, falling into an easy rhythm, boots kissing the turf.

His face was calm, shoulders loose — but behind that quiet front, he was a blade unsheathed.

Around him, the noise of the stadium pressed tighter, growing denser with every passing second.

The game was tilting.

You could feel it.

Every pass now had a crackle to it — a sense of something about to give.

And it did.

Tottenham pressed high, forcing Arsenal into tight corners and squeezing the pitch into suffocation.

Saka tried to play out, a heavy touch betraying him under pressure.

Bentancur snapped at it — a tackle like a dagger — stabbing the ball away and instantly releasing Maddison down the left channel.

"Uh oh, what do we have here" Peter Drury muttered grimly from commentary, seeing it unfold in real-time.

Maddison — head up, always dangerous — drifted infield, teasing the Arsenal backline into retreat.

Saliba stepped up but hesitated, and Maddison punished the pause, slipping a wicked pass between two defenders.

The ball skidded low and fast across the damp turf toward Son Heung-Min, lurking between the lines like a ghost no one could catch.

Son didn't hesitate.

A flash of boot.

A whipcrack shot.

The ball flew — low and vicious, slicing past Raya's desperate lunge at the near post, and the roar behind him confirmed the Goal.

White shirts poured toward the corner flag in rapture, the roar splitting the London air like a hammer against glass.

"AND TOTTENHAM EQUALIZE!" Peter Drury bellowed over the noise, his voice almost drowned in the storm.

"SON HEUNG-MIN, THE MAN FOR THE BIG OCCASIONS, DRAGS SPURS LEVEL IN THE NORTH LONDON DERBY!"

On the touchline, Izan slowed his warm-up, watching it happen.

He grinned wryly at the Tottenham players who were celebrating a few meters away from him.

Behind him, the home fans exploded into songs and jeers:

"Who are ya?! Who are ya?!"

"North London is white!"

Their voices tore across the pitch like knives, targeting Izan, trying to stain the moment before he even entered it.

Carlos Cuesta clapped his hands again, harder this time.

"Izan — back here!"

Izan jogged briskly back toward the technical area, his stride smooth and controlled.

Not one glance at the jeering fans.

On the sidelines, Arteta was already there — hands on hips, brow furrowed — orchestrating with the cold precision of a general mid-battle.

He approached Arteta, who leaned in quickly, gripping his sleeve.

"Find the spaces. Attack their backline. No fear."

A short pause.

A small smirk twitched at the corner of Arteta's mouth — almost proud.

"You're ready."

No overcoaching. No speeches.

Izan nodded, sharp and brief.

The fourth official held up the substitution board:

#10 — IZAN HERNÁNDEZ, the announcer, roared through the sound systems in the stadium.

The crowd saw and heard it.

The Arsenal fans exploded into furious life, clapping, whistling, singing:

"IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!"

Spurs fans answered with an ugly wave of boos, stamping their feet, pounding on the barriers.

The noise crushed down on him, a wall of hatred and belief crashing together.

Izan didn't flinch.

The referee waved.

And then, finally, he stepped onto the battlefield.

"The boy wonder enters the fire," Peter Drury breathed into his mic, voice crackling with something close to awe.

"At just sixteen years old, Izan Hernández is about to taste his first North London Derby proper — and oh, what a time to be thrown into the storm."

The stadium seemed to close in around him, noise bending the very air — but for Izan, the pitch felt endless.

The noise was instant, an invisible force slamming against him — chants and jeers mixing into one swirling mass of sound.

Spurs players clocked him immediately, the fresh blood, the name they'd heard too much about all week.

The first ball came fast.

White shirt bearing down, no time, no space.

Izan didn't panic.

He checked his shoulder once, slid the ball inside to Declan Ricw with the lightest of touches, and spun away into new space like it was second nature.

A ripple ran through the Arsenal fans.

The little things they noticed — the sharpness, the calm under fire.

Almost immediately, Porro came crashing into him the next time the ball came near.

Shoulder to chest, a shove strong enough to floor a grown man.

Izan rode it, absorbed the impact, and bounced back to his feet without asking for anything from the referee.

No theatrics. No whining.

Arsenal played through him again.

A one-two with Ødegaard sent him down the left, eating up the ground with quick strides, testing the weight of the game.

Kulusevski tracked back hard, slamming a body in front of him — but Izan shifted his hips, fainted inside, and slipped the ball through the Swede's legs.

The away end erupted, a savage crackle of noise.

"He's not here to hide," Peter Drury muttered over commentary. "Not tonight, but it does not look like it is going to be easy. Izan will have to prove to these Tottenham fans why Arsenal spent that kind of money on him."

A/N: Okay, sleeping now. Have fun reading.